Chapter Two
Throughout the day, most of the writers came to me for help or inspiration. Some need a lot of my attention. Perhaps ‘demand’ would be a better word. However Clare is not one of them. She keeps to herself, hiding in her room I assume.
It is lunch before I see her again. The same scene from the breakfast table replays itself in perfect harmony. Clare cooks. Clare cleans up. Clare disappears again. My mind works overtime convincing me not to care.
When the supper hour finally arrives I pull myself away from Stuart’s analytical debate on the publishing world to find Clare slaving over the stove.
“You aren’t the hired help, you know.” I say, leaning over the island behind her.
She jumps at my voice and turns around to glare at me. “I am not aware of a procession of folks attempting to take my place.”
Clare’s attention is now focused on a slab of roast beef that she is carving - or butchering. Stepping around the island, I move to offer my help. Her back tenses.
“May I?” I offer my hand.
She looks from me to her massacred meat and surrenders. “I have never had the opportunity to do this type of slicing before.” She says as she backs away from the counter.
“Really?”
She doesn’t reply. Either she is unaware of my sarcastic attempt at humour or unmoved by it. After a moment of awkward silence I try a conversation again. “Did you get much writing done this afternoon?”
