The Cilla Rose Affair by Winona Kent

Author:Winona Kent [Kent, Winona]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
ISBN: 9781626818873
Publisher: Diversion Books
Published: 2015-07-06T22:00:00+00:00

It was odd, Sara thought, that she should find herself so peculiarly attracted to a knee. It was a perfectly plain body part, clothed, in this case, in much-washed blue jean material, the fabric wearing thin in all of the expected places. The knee in question was bent at a 45 degree angle, its cap of bone and muscle an intriguing detail beneath the faded denim.

She caught herself staring, but instead of looking away, followed the straight line of the leg down, to the ankle, and the foot, which, bereft of shoe and sock, was nested in a clump of grass punctuated with tiny white daisies.

The ankle was slender, the foot long and narrow and chiselled with ridges of bone and blood vessel. A meadow of hairs, red-gold, had been scattered across the instep; and the toes were what her mother, the psychologist, would call prehensile: curious, independent, capable of interesting exploratory excursions.

She’d sworn off men. She’d made a pact with herself, after Jon, that there would be no more relationships.

Dear Jon—who was still capable of overwhelming her, on those brave occasions when she dared test the waters, allowing him back into her mind from his distant banishment.

Jon, with whom she had lived in a houseboat in the nether regions of Putney, who had been fond of white, fisherman-knit pullovers from Ireland and songs by Kate Bush. Jon, who was now somewhere in Scotland, pitching concerts for the preservation of the rain forests.

Jon, who had driven her to distraction with his untruths—she knew he was lying but had no proof—who claimed, in the end—after a friend of a friend had rung her in an alcoholic haze at two o’clock in the morning (more out of malice towards the friend than any genuine concern for Sara)—that he’d only told untruths to prevent her feelings from being hurt.

Dear Jon.

She’d sworn off men, and now, here she was, teetering hopelessly on the brink of involvement again.

The owner of the knee, having finished his sandwich and carton of milk, stretched his arms above his head, and watched, idly, as the last of the lunchtime joggers made their way back through the park, towards their towers and turrets in nearby Whitehall.

“By and large,” Sara said, watching a second group of office-dressed men and women, “we’re quite a shabby lot—don’t you think? Our men always seem to look a bit rumpled. And our architecture’s absolutely hideous—everything’s a hodge-podge of styles and tastes, all thrown in beside one another, nothing unifying, no themes, no schemes—Prince Charles was quite right, you know, when he called it a national disgrace.”

She went back to her investigation of Robin’s knapsack.

“I think London’s tried to become very American very quickly—but the trouble is, we seem to have adopted the worst of everything instead of the best. What on earth have you got in here?”

“Nothing much,” Robin said, distantly, exploring the hem of her skirt with his toe.

“Nothing much.” She took his toe prisoner in her fist. “Citizenship card, birth certificate—Santa Monica, September

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