“Ah, right—lunch,” she said, looking happier, for some reason. “Well, like I said, got to run. Nice seeing you, Eleanor!”
I raised my hand and bade her farewell. It was incredible how she managed to run so nimbly in those heels.
I feared for her ankles. Fortunately, they were rather on the chunky side.
Maria Temple was wearing yellow tights today, teamed with purple ankle boots. Yellow tights did not, I noticed, flatter a sporty calf.
“I wonder if we might revisit the subject of your mother, Eleanor? Is that perhaps something we could—” “No,” I said.
More silence. “Fine, fine, no problem. Could you tell me a bit about your father, then?
You haven’t really mentioned him so far.” “I don’t have a father,” I said.
More of that awful silence. It was so annoying, but in the end, it actually worked, her refusal to speak.
The quiet went on for eons, and in the end I simply couldn’t bear it any longer. “Mummy told me she was...
I assumed she was... well, she didn’t tell me directly when I was a child, but as an adult,
I’ve come to understand that she was the victim of a... sexual assault,” I said, somewhat inelegantly.
No response. “I don’t know his name and I never met him,” I said. She was writing in her notebook, and looked up.
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