After a glorious week in Devon, Hector and I moved on to Penzance where we rented an imposing (but decrepid) Regency House which covered four floors and overlooked the wonderful Morab Gardens. It was the middle house of three and all three houses shared a large gravel drive and garden.
One morning (Thursday), whilst Hector was taking a leisurely shower, I lounged on one of the sofas by a huge picture window on the first floor. I was engrossed in a book, and was thus only vaguely aware of a telephone conversation that was taking place down below on the drive.
My ears pricked up sharpish however when I heard a male voice saying...
"I can stay with you Friday and Saturday night, but there won't be any sex, obviously."
There was a long pause (I imagined the sexually deprived one answering in shrill terms), then the male voice spoke again,
"No, I just did not want to raise your hopes that's all."
I dropped the book (Behind The Scenes At The Museum by Kate Atkinson) and rushed to the window to catch a glimpse of this startling Adonis who could scorn a woman (or a man?) in such a way.
He had gone.
Damn!
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