With a little remodeling here and there, the building would be a fantastic place to live -or even work- in. The structure was in perfect condition; the windows were wide as blackboards; it received plenty of light; the sight was not bad; each flat had two-hundred square meters, which could be kept that way or they could be divided into two separate apartments.

She flipped through the blueprints and tried to imagine herself walking around a three-dimensional room, as she always did. Like in a dream, she always saw herself smaller than she really was – either that, or every one of those places always had amazingly tall doorknobs, like in that Hitchcock movie, Rebecca.

But the important thing was the space, the big picture. Yes, it had potential. Would she be able to sell the idea to Alistair? That was another question entirely, one which had more to do with the prick’s mood changes, but it was worth the try. Shaking her head, Cat leaned back on the chair and placed her hands around the warm porcelain cup. Work-related worries were almost welcome now; they distracted her mind from those other thoughts, the other worries.

As much as she had tried to fight it, she had finally relinquished and gone to see Frankie the previous night. The night of Tess’s debut had been almost too much; just the fact of knowing that the blonde woman was there, less than two meters away, had been enough to put her on edge. All the time she had felt like a charged battery, and her heart had started pounding uncontrollably with Tess’s final words. Frankie had been looking at her, she had felt it, and confirmed it with her own eyes. Then, Sam, who had been holding her hand, had whispered: “Are you okay?” What, had she felt it in her hand, that disloyal heartbeat of hers? Frankie had found that same hand outside, after the play, sending several electric currents straight to her groin.

Cat uncrossed her legs, not wanting the extra pressure in that particular area. She stood up, went to the kitchen sink and poured the remaining tea from her cup. A real drink was in order, even if she knew that this was not the way of solving anything; this was just remorse and self-compassion, which she had no right to feel, since this was all her fault. Nevertheless, the bottle of wine in the pantry kept calling her name.