Under His Black Umbrella

Clara stood with one shoe off.

Julian's blue slippers sat beneath the bench. The pink pair had been beside them when she last came. She had bought them together, laughing at herself for liking something so obviously domestic.

"Come in," his mother said. "You must be freezing."

Clara put her shoe back on.

"Hello, Mrs. Ashford."

"This is Celia."

The girl rose with a pleasant smile. Her hair fell in glossy waves over a white sweater, and a small quilted bag rested against her hip.

"It's lovely to meet you."

"You too."

Clara set down her handbag.

She wanted to ask why Celia was wearing her slippers. Instead, she walked to the kitchen and filled the kettle.

The action steadied her.

She knew where every cup was. She had measured the shelves before ordering the cabinet inserts. The little lamp over the island was one Julian had said was unnecessary, then admitted he liked.

"Tea?"

"No, thank you," Celia said.

Mrs. Ashford looked at the folder on the coffee table.

"Sit down, Clara."

She left the kettle where it was.

There were three chairs. Two women occupied the sofa. Clara took the armchair opposite, placing her hands on her knees.

She had sat like this for scholarship interviews, meetings about unpaid fees, conversations with relatives who said they wanted what was best for her.

Mrs. Ashford opened the folder.

"This has become very difficult."

Clara waited.

"Your aunt came to my office."

"I'm sorry."

"In front of staff. Clients. She asked for money. Quite a considerable amount."

"I didn't send her."

"I'm aware of that."

The kindness in her voice made it worse.

"But you understand our position. Julian has responsibilities. He can't marry an entire family's financial problems."

"I wouldn't ask him to."

"You wouldn't have to ask. They're already asking for you."

Celia looked down at her phone.

Clara couldn't decide whether that was mercy or boredom.

Mrs. Ashford slid a document across the table.

"The apartment was arranged through the family company. We'd like to settle the paperwork. The car as well."

Clara read the heading.

A release. A transfer. Acknowledgment that she retained no interest in certain property and arrangements made in anticipation of marriage.

She had never understood why Julian needed so many signatures when he was giving her something.

Now she understood what the signatures were for.

"Does he know you're doing this?"

Mrs. Ashford folded her hands.

"Julian is abroad. He's very busy."

That wasn't an answer.

Clara looked at the pen laid neatly beside the folder.

She could call him. She could refuse. She could make them wait while she found a lawyer she couldn't afford.

Instead she saw, with painful clarity, the years ahead: explaining, defending, proving she wasn't greedy whenever she wanted something, proving she was grateful whenever she accepted it.

She picked up the pen.

"The money left from the renovation—"

"Keep it," Mrs. Ashford said. "You worked hard. Think of it as payment for your time."

Payment.

Clara's hand stopped.

Then she signed.

She put the bank card beside the documents anyway. The car key followed, then the apartment key.

"My books are in the study. A few clothes upstairs."

"We can arrange collection."

"Thank you."

She stood and went to get her handbag.

Celia leaned toward Mrs. Ashford.

"Do you think he'll be back in time for dinner?"

Clara didn't wait for the answer.

Her coat hung inside the bedroom closet.

Julian had chosen it. He had said the color suited her.

She left it there.

***

Snow melted when it touched the sidewalk.

Clara walked until her feet went numb, then kept walking because stopping meant deciding where to go.

Westbridge was full of people going home.

They came out of offices in wool coats, carrying shopping bags and takeaway cups. A child in a red hat dragged a man toward a bakery window. Two women argued cheerfully over whose turn it was to cook.

She passed a shop selling lamps.

Inside, a yellow light fell across a table set for two.

She looked away.

Her phone vibrated. A promotional message from a store. Then a reminder that her bank payment was due.

She put it back in her bag.

At a crossing, a loose paving stone tipped beneath her foot. Dirty water splashed into her shoe.

That was what finally did it.

She sat on the low step outside a closed building and looked at the water darkening her stockings.

Not the apartment. Not the papers. A wet shoe.

She laughed once, a sound so ugly she covered her mouth.

A car door slammed somewhere nearby.

"Clara."

She didn't look up.

Leather shoes stopped in front of her.

Then the snow stopped landing on her hair.

A black umbrella filled the space above her.

Damian crouched, one knee touching the wet pavement.

"Where's your coat?"

She stared at his tie.

Black, tonight. Not silver.

"Clara. Look at me."

She did.

He opened his overcoat and drew her toward him. She was too cold to argue and too tired to pretend she didn't want it.

His chest was warm. His hand covered the back of her head.

When he tipped her face toward him, she caught his collar and held on. His mouth touched hers, warm against her cold lips, so briefly she might have imagined it if he hadn't stayed close afterward.

She should have asked what he thought he was doing. Instead, she pressed her face into his coat.

"Come on," he said.

"I can't."

"Then I'll carry you."

He did.

She pressed her face into his neck before anybody could see.

***

The hotel room had a bed so large it looked unreasonable.

Clara sat in the middle of it beneath a duvet, holding hot water in both hands. Damian knelt by the fireplace, trying to work out the unfamiliar controls.

"This thing cost more than my first truck," he muttered. "You'd think it could start a fire."

A flame came on.

He looked pleased with himself.

"There. Civilization."

Clara watched him stand.

"Why are you here?"

He took off his coat.

"Business."

"On the pavement where I happened to be sitting?"

He looked at her, then gave up.

"I had somebody keeping an eye on you."

Her fingers tightened around the cup.

"Since when?"

"After the mess with the Reeds."

"Did you know Lorraine went to Julian's mother?"

"Yes."

She absorbed that.

"And you let her."

"Your aunt isn't somebody I control."

"You could have warned me."

"Would you have listened?"

She wanted to say yes. She couldn't.

He came to the foot of the bed.

"I didn't make him leave you sitting there."

"I know."

"I didn't make her ask for your keys."

"I know that too."

His expression changed.

Clara looked into her cup.

"You've been waiting for this, haven't you?"

He didn't insult her by pretending not to understand.

"Yes."

She should have been angry.

There was comfort in the plainness of the answer.

"Why?"

He loosened his tie.

"I'd like to steal you for myself."

She threw a pillow at him.

He caught it and smiled for the first time since finding her.

"There you are."

A knock brought room service: flowers, wine, steak beneath a silver lid, small dishes of potatoes and vegetables, mushroom soup, two desserts.

Clara looked at the table.

"You ordered all this?"

"No. They assumed I needed feeding."

"You're impossible."

"You're hungry."

"I'm heartbroken."

"You can be both."

She pulled the duvet over her head.

After a minute, the mattress dipped.

"Come out."

"No."

"Your soup's getting cold."

"Let it."

"Clara."

"I should suffer a little. Otherwise it feels rude to a relationship that lasted years."

There was a silence.

Then she heard him laugh, quietly and helplessly.

"Come suffer at the table."

She emerged just enough to glare at him.

He held out a spoon.

The soup smelled wonderful.

It seemed an appalling thing to admit, but she was starving.

She ate.

He took away the wine when she reached for it and put water beside her instead. Later, he found that she was running a fever and called the hotel doctor without asking whether she considered that another invasion of her rights.

She was too tired to object.

When she came out of the bathroom in a borrowed robe, he had turned down the bed.

"You can go now."

"Can I?"

"Yes."

He looked at the armchair, then at the snow beyond the window.

"I'm staying until the fever settles."

She wanted to argue. Her whole body ached.

"The chair," she said.

He raised an eyebrow.

"I mean it."

"I heard you."

She climbed into bed and fell asleep before she could think of another precaution.

Her phone rang near midnight.

Damian looked at the screen.

Julian Ashford.

He answered quietly.

"Clara?" the man said. "Where are you?"

Damian watched her turn toward the warm side of the pillow.

"She's sleeping."

A pause.

"Who is this?"

"You'll find out."

He ended the call, set the phone faceup on the table, and went back to the chair beside her bed.