Silence – she waited, motionless and listening. No warning of the door opening; but no sound of a more distant door, nor footsteps on the stairs. In spite of herself, her resolve not to care, her chest tightened.
She shifted onto her back, her head still heavy on the pillow, gaze on the ceiling. Somewhere outside her door, Ford said her name again. Was there anything he could say now that was not just rehashing the events of earlier? Would he attempt to apologise again, explain? Jemima couldn’t fathom anything he added would convince her to think differently, or make going on more bearable. Somehow, though, that helped: she wasn’t afraid of anything he wanted to say, then. Her mind was made up; this room, her heart, could be a fortress as well as a prison.
“Then talk,” Jemima said – the only concession she would make. She didn’t get up from her bed, did not open the door, did not turn her head. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”
She shifted onto her back, her head still heavy on the pillow, gaze on the ceiling. Somewhere outside her door, Ford said her name again. Was there anything he could say now that was not just rehashing the events of earlier? Would he attempt to apologise again, explain? Jemima couldn’t fathom anything he added would convince her to think differently, or make going on more bearable. Somehow, though, that helped: she wasn’t afraid of anything he wanted to say, then. Her mind was made up; this room, her heart, could be a fortress as well as a prison.
“Then talk,” Jemima said – the only concession she would make. She didn’t get up from her bed, did not open the door, did not turn her head. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”
