She looked particularly dour as she stared out the window. James closed the door and took a seat at the desk next to hers and turned it so that it faced her. That didn’t help because Becky wouldn’t turn her face away from the window. ‘Becky, you missed your second tutoring session in a row yesterday,’ James began. ‘I waited an extra fifteen minutes, but you didn’t show.’ Becky shrugged her shoulders—not the response that James was hoping for. He decided to press on. ‘Why didn’t you show up?’ James thought that it had to do with her father’s thinly-veiled attacks on him. He’d been wondering if Becky realized that he was his target. He understood that she might be embarrassed. If she would give him a chance, he would tell her that he wouldn’t hold her father’s actions against her. He tried to find a way to break through. ‘Becky, this conversation is going in only one direction.’ ‘What does it matter?’ she mused, still not turning to face him. ‘What does it matter?’ James asked back. In the house she went to the kitchen and despite the fact that she still didn’t feel particularly hungry she made a sandwich and pouring herself a glass of red wine sat down to consume and meditate. This always seemed to be worst part of the day. It was okay during the working part of the day, people coming and going, animals to be seen and put right, it was the nights that were so often lonely. She decided on an early night and a read in bed. The house had two stories, the only house in Queens Bend that boasted such lavishness. She made her way upstairs and after a shower clambered naked into her lonely bed. She was reading for about the third time ‘Wuthering Heights’ by Emily Bronte, with its wild landscape and brooding if often veiled sexual hunger. It was possibly not the best read on this particular day. Heathcliff’s cry of desolation, ‘Cathy…Cathy…’ dragged an echo from Prue, ‘Jerry….Jerry.’ She let the book fall and reached into the drawer beside the bed, and taking out her.
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