Free Thin Air by Storm Constantine

at your own pace,’
Steve answered, graciously.
    She knew she’d find it hard to
keep up with him. Her nerves were still jangling from last night.
She tried to concentrate on Steve’s conversation about his triumphs
down at the gym, but her mind kept drifting back to the wind and
the darkness. If Steve sensed she was preoccupied, he didn’t reveal
it. They went into Samantha’s dance studio, and soon the music was
pounding, their bodies flexing, stretching, reaching. Samantha felt
as if someone she didn’t know was standing at the edge of the room
behind her, watching her perform. It wasn’t a person, exactly, but
something else, she couldn’t say what. It was as if some terrible
event was looming, something she had known would happen, but had
forgotten about. The last time she’d felt like this was just before
Rhys’s daughter, Lacey, had run off. She shuddered, hoping her
feelings would pass. She didn’t like anything interfering with her
routines.
    After the work-out, when Steve
had left, she took a shower and dressed herself in her favourite
soft leather suit with the fringes, beads and diamond studs. She
only wore the palest shades of khaki and cream. In her
dressing-room, she re-fluffed her hair, and touched up the curling
finger-nails, which were a testament to the results of never having
to do her own washing-up. She felt a bit better now. The exercise
had helped.
    In the kitchen, her
house-keeper, Mrs Moran, massaged cleaning fluid into the work
surfaces. ‘Morning, Betty,’ trilled Samantha. ‘Kettle on?’ Her
voice was high-pitched, still coloured by an East End twang.
    The older woman smiled and
flicked a switch. ‘Mugs are laid out,’ she said. This was a morning
ritual between them.
    Samantha sat down at the kitchen
table. Sighing, she reached for the daily papers - they only took
the ones that Rhys owned. She looked at the astrology columns in
each one. If only astrologers could talk a bit of sense. Half the
time she hadn’t a clue what they were on about. ‘What’s this
supposed to mean?’ she said to Mrs Moran, who was now busy fussing
with the tea-pot. ‘The easiest choices are sometimes the most
difficult to make.’ She frowned.
    ‘Rubbish,’ announced Mrs Moran,
then added, ‘perhaps it means getting some new curtains or
something.’
    ‘Yeah.’ Samantha tapped her
talons on the table-top. ‘Do you ever get funny days, Betty?’
    ‘Funny days?’ Mrs Moran frowned.
‘What d’you mean, love?’
    ‘Well, you know, when you feel a
bit out of sorts for no reason.’
    ‘Oh, we all get those days,
love.’
    Samantha smiled, reassured, and
licked her fingers, before flicking through one of the papers. ‘Oh,
that’s all right, then. Must have got out of the wrong side of the
bed.’ She giggled, unaware of the rather searching glance Mrs Moran
directed at her behind her back.
    ‘Rhys’s up in London today,’
Samantha said. ‘Won’t be back for dinner.’ Restlessly, she got to
her feet and went to the kitchen window. The garden looked so
different now; the lawn was a brilliant patchwork of fallen leaves.
It looked beautiful. Pity that the gardener would soon sweep them
all up. Samantha sighed. She wished Rhys liked animals. Today was
just the right kind to go romping through the leaves with a
dog.
    None of the local women were
very friendly - thought too much of themselves - so Samantha often
felt lonely, although she’d never admit this to herself. Betty
Moran was her only local friend. In the evenings, when Rhys wasn’t
home, she had the telly. She still had friends who had been in
modelling with her - Cherry and Lyndee in particular - but they
lived in London. Perhaps she could call Cherry and Lyndee today,
and if they weren’t busy, get them both up for the weekend. They’d
have cosy evenings curled up on the sofas in front of the fire in
the big lounge. They’d drink gin and tonics and reminisce,
listening to old CDs. Both of her friends were divorced and