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I scrolled quickly through scads of are-you-OK emails from friends, relatives, past colleagues, and clients of my part-time translation business. One of my regular clients in Europe, with whom I had been working on a long-term project, and whom I had emailed explaining why I was temporarily unavailable, had taken the time and trouble to write back expressing concern at quite decent length, and I dashed off a quick reply in German. And then, quite suddenly, I felt my stomach tighten and my breath start to quicken. Facebook was telling me that I had a new message, from Fen Hazelhurst - Professor Fenella Hazelhurst, Docteur ès Lettres (Sorbonne), PhD (Berkeley), no less, Head of the School of Language and Culture of our old university. I sat back, my eyes closed, and carefully took a long, deep, slow breath. After releasing it gradually, I could feel that, although my breathing had steadied, my heart had taken on a more urgent pulsing and my stomach muscles were gently but firmly. I was determined not to look again, cursing myself for being so rude as to stare. However, human curiosity got the better of me and, when I was sure he wasn't looking, I allowed my eyes to wander in his direction. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw his attention had been diverted back to his newspaper. I continued to watch him, jumping and shifting my gaze whenever he so much as blinked in case he caught me, and I was somewhat fascinated by him. I couldn't explain it for the life of me, but there was some magnetism about this man that provoked me to carry on with my observation.Every few minutes, he would catch me ogling him and I would quickly pretend to be applying make-up or looking at something behind him. When I looked back at him, though, he stared straight back at me, sending shivers down my spine. Somehow, I knew that he knew I was watching him. And I also knew that he knew that I knew he knew I was watching him, if you can get your head around that one.I mentally shook.
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Although the snow had stopped, the sky looked grey and threatening. There was no chance of getting out of the inn and no sign of the road being cleared of the deep snow. At half past eight, Anne came round the rooms with trays of tea, arousing the sleeping guests. She was soberly dressed, in contrast to the previous evening. This would be the last time she expected to find the original partners in bed together for they would change each evening after the story telling session. Emma enjoyed a refreshing shower before joining Bill at breakfast. She found herself telling him the story of her life. For some reason she couldn’t quite fathom, she told Bill all about her parents, her upbringing, everything. She talked her head off! He was a good listener. ‘Robert told us of an eighteenth birthday party last night. Would you like to hear about mine?’ ‘Only if you want to tell me.’ ‘I do!’ And she told Bill all about the evening she discovered her parents sexual infidelities. ‘My mother.

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