Like a disappointing conjuring trick, the chocolates had transformed into a book. She stared at it as he adjusted his spectacles.
‘I thought you would like this: it’s just been published, the latest edition.’
She took it from him; it seemed unfinished, without a spine or hard covers.
‘It’s the first publication in paperback,’ he said gleefully.
She thanked him and held it close. They said their goodbyes and he slipped away, waving back to her along the diminishing corridor: she knew she would never see him again. She crossed the plush carpet and lay down on the bed, bolstered slightly by the crisp, white pillows, her thoughts soft-edged and reminiscent.
The dove had won over the raven, at least up to the very last days. She had fought hard and dogmatically for its victory. His cruelty had been painful to her, but nothing like the carrion bird that had continually stabbed at his own heart. Now she would banish that and only see him as she wanted to: mimicking music hall stars, or playing Max Kinder’s hopeless decadent fop, seated at the piano again, his fingers skipping across the keys, his warbling voice dimming into a plaintive hum.
The book was in English; its titles sounded more emphatic that way. Impressions of Africa – he would have liked that. She imagined him reading it out, in the mock British accent he so enjoyed. She smiled, closed her eyes and put the book aside. She would never read it, not in English. She had never read it in French.
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Copyright
Honest Publishing
All Rights Reserved
© Copyright 2007, 2012 B. Catling
ISBN 978-0-9571427-3-2
Manufactured in the United Kingdom