was in the “underweight” category but only by a kilo. She’d always been lean. Zoe sometimes accused Heather of having an eating disorder, just because she was kind of picky about when and what she ate. She didn’t put just anything in her mouth—unlike Napoleon, who ate like a vacuum cleaner, hoovering up whatever was around him.
Napoleon stood. He lifted his suitcase onto the bed, unzipped it, and removed a beautifully folded T-shirt, a pair of shorts, and some underpants. He packed like a soldier whose kit bag would be inspected. He took off his dressing gown and stood in all his skinny white hairy naked magnificence.
His uncharacteristic silence made him suddenly a stranger.
The muscles on his back moved in unison like an exquisitely engineered machine as he pulled on his T-shirt. Napoleon’s height and nerdy demeanor disguised his sexiness.
The first time they had sex, all those years ago, Heather kept thinking to herself, “Well, this is a surprise,” because who knew that a guy like Napoleon would have the moves? She’d liked him well enough, he was sweet and funny and attentive, but she’d kind of thought sleeping with him would be like doing community service. It was meant to be polite, friendly “thanks so much for dinner and the Kevin Costner movie” sex, not mind-blowing sex. She knew Napoleon’s memory of their first date was different from hers. His memory was wholesome and sweet and correct, the way the memory of a first date between a future husband and wife should be.
Napoleon zipped up his shorts and buckled his belt. He slid the brown leather through the silver metal clasp with irritatingly quick, efficient moves. He must have felt her eyes upon him, but he didn’t look at her; he was so determined to follow these silly rules, no matter what. He was such a good man, so fucking perfect in every fucking way.
The rage hit her with the power and momentum of a contraction during active labor. There was no escaping it. She saw herself punching his face with a closed fist, crunching his cheekbone, the diamond cluster of her engagement ring breaking his skin, over and over and over and over, blood dripping. The rage wrapped itself around her body, almost lifted her off her feet. She had to grip her toes to the floor to stop herself lunging at Napoleon as he zipped the bag back up and placed it on the floor in the corner of the room where nobody could trip over it.
She focused on a point on the wall where there was a small island-shaped scratch in the wallpaper and used the variable breathing method she taught mothers to use during the transition phase of labor: pant, pant, blow, hee-hee-hoo, pant, pant, blow.
Napoleon walked across the room and stepped out onto the balcony. He stood with his legs apart and his hands clenching the railing as if he were on the deck of a lurching ship.
The rage eased, receded, vanished.
Done. She’d got through it again. The oblivious object of her rage bowed his head, exposing his defenseless white neck. He would never know. He’d be horrified and so deeply wounded if he ever knew the violence of her secret thoughts.
Heather felt shaky. Her mouth tasted of bile. It was as though she’d just vomited.
She opened her own suitcase and found shorts and a tank top. Later this afternoon, after the “meditation,” she would need to run. She wouldn’t be relaxed after sitting and focusing on her breathing for an hour; she’d be on the verge of madness.
Coming here was a mistake. An expensive mistake. They should have gone to a big anonymous hotel.
She tied the laces on her sneakers with vicious tugs and opened her mouth to speak. She was definitely going to speak. This silence was unnecessary. They wouldn’t speak in the presence of the other guests, but there was no need to maintain this awkward, weird, and unhealthy silence in the privacy of their own room.
And what about poor Zoe, alone and silent in the room next door? Heather and Napoleon both panicked if she was alone in her bedroom at home for too long, which was hard because she was twenty years old and needed to study. If there had been no sound for a while one of them would make an excuse to go and check on her. She never complained and she never closed her door. But there were no family suites at Tranquillum House. They’d had