Control returned early to the flat, draped his jacket on the usual chair and walked into the bathroom where a bare glass shelf mocked him. His eyes expanded and his mouth opened. He rushed into the bedroom and opened ‘her’ wardrobe. It smelled emptily of a delicate perfume. Returning to the living room he saw the key lying where the opening door had pushed it.
A sense of shocked desolation was quickly replaced by anger. He crossed the room and studied his face in a mirror.
“Bitch,” he said to his reflection, “cow,” and feeling that he should do something dramatic, he punched into the air, caught sight of himself in the mirror, and swung theatrically once more. Taking a deep breath he squared shoulders, marched into the kitchen, and made coffee on his cafetiere.
He hastened to become a pragmatist and evaluate his situation, suddenly feeling oddly strong, then methodically inventoried the flat. Nothing of his was missing, everything of hers had gone.
He should have seen it coming. But the hell with her, she was a temp and good riddance, he consoled himself, expensive make-up on high heels. A distraction, nothing more.
“I was going to buy you a proper Rolex, or an Omega,” he said loudly to a lamp shade in the incurious room, “drape you in diamonds and pearls.”
Any residual anger vanished. He pointed the remote control and switched on his flatscreen. Forget the bitch. Catch the news. There could be a first report of events in Lochaber. He settled nervously on his sofa. It was six o’clock in the evening. To mixed reactions of disappointment and relief, there was no mention of forest fire in any news bulletin.
Control retired four hours later to an unmade but delightfully empty bed. He was soon soundly asleep.