Some strange noise crept into her hearing, and something was softly poking her backside. In her 17.29% awake mind that added up to the cat demanding its breakfast. By the way, 1729 was her favourite number, obviously because of that anecdote about Srinivasa Ramanujan Aiyangar, the famous mathematician, praising it on his deathbed.
"Alright, alright, mawkin," she muttered. "Tar- What's it- Tar... tar?"
She couldn't quite recall the name - and then all the memories rushed in: the cat under the settee; the lush melodious Italian phrases pouring out of him; the first kiss on the floor; and then that part, already on her bed, when he picked up her legs, under her knees, and pushed them apart and-
Jackie gasped, and floundered, and sat up, clutching the duvet to her chest.
Alexander slept on his back, one hand tucked under his pillow. His other palm was open where her buttock had been resting just a second ago. It hadn't been the cat pawing her, she deduced, after watching his fingers twitch and curl up a couple of times. Also, the noise that had woken her up was a doorbell.
Another trill carried through the cottage; and Alexander groaned and scrunched his face. Jackie decided that each of the present conundrums in her life needed to be addressed separately, and she rolled off the bed. She rushed to the wardrobe; realised that she'd spent the night starkers, which might have been the first time in her adult life; and she grabbed her kimono robe; wrapped in it, tying the belt extra tightly; and tumbled down the stairs.
"Good morning, Ms. Burns," a pleasant grey-haired woman on the threshold greeted Jackie after she jerked the door open.
Jackie forced a polite smile onto her face and frantically tried to smooth down her hair.
"Oh please don't worry." The visitor gave out a lilting laugh. "I've been battling my own ginger curls every morning for many, many more years than you. More than I care to admit."
She elegantly swept her snow-white fringe off her forehead. Jackie didn't know what her hair looked like at the moment, but definitely not as stylish and deceivingly effortless as her guest's short asymmetric cut. All of the woman's appearance - her hair; her stylish outfit of a pair of linen trousers and an elegant short-sleeved turtleneck; the light make-up - made Jackie even more insecure about her dishevelled state.
"You look lovely, by the way," the older woman added. "You've got sort of a- How should I put it? Glow, perhaps?"
Jackie pulled the two sides of her robe's collar closer together. She could only hope that she'd managed to hide the bite mark on her shoulder before the other woman noticed it.
"Morning. May I help you?" she asked.
"Oh how rude of me. I'm Hazel Harewicke. I'm one of your cat's former humans." The woman smiled cheekily. "I'm Ephemia's Aunt."
"Jocelyn Burns," Jackie mumbled and stretched her hand to the woman. "Pleasure to meet you."
The woman's handshake was firm and confident - and then she flipped Jackie's hand and peered at her palm.
"Goodness, dear, this is the most gorgeous Aquarius hand I've seen in a while."
"I'm a Taurus," Jackie blurted out. "I mean, thank you."
Ms. Harewicke chortled. "Dearie, your closeted new-age nutter is showing. And an Aquarius hand is just a term for the shape: a square palm and long strong fingers of equal length."
"Oh I see."
"If you're interested in palmistry, it's my sister Thelma you should be talking to," the witch sing-songed. "I'm here to invite you to my yoga class." She handed Jackie a tastefully designed flyer. "It's held in the Frake's gym on Tuesdays and Fridays if you prefer more formal, modern surroundings; or we hold smaller, more intimate sessions by request. The class is for those identifying as female and-slash-or those in the second half of their bleeding age."
"Do you mean it's for menopausal women?" Jackie couldn't help but snort at the exceptionally PC wording. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't laugh. It's wonderful that you've adopted the terminology. I just-"
"That's quite alright, my dear," Ms. Harewicke reassured her. "I imagine, these days you're properly questioning your identity, as well as your attitudes towards and your relationship with your reproductive system, considering all the recent upheaval in your life. Trust the universe, everything will become clear very soon. I'd say-" She hummed pensively. "I want to say, about two months or so."
Jackie's head was starting to spin.
Meanwhile, the grey-haired woman continued, "And please remember the following: firstly, raspberry over lemon. Secondly, number eight. And last but not the least, going back over trying something new. Also, here are a few samples of our products." She handed Jackie a charming little basket. "I'm on my way to our darling Mrs. Svensson. She ordered some baby supplies, and I'm bringing her our famous calendula bum balm - for the baby obviously, not for herself or the Reverend. Talk of excellent bums." The witch snickered. "I've put a small tin of it into your basket as well. For future reference; but also, it works wonders on scraped knuckles, so you know."
She gave Jackie a cheery wink, then a wave, and confidently headed down the lane towards the vicar's cottage. Jackie slowly closed the door and stared at the assortment of tiny jars, baggies, and tins in her hands.
After gaining no clarity on what had just happened, she pushed the basket onto the kitchen table and went upstairs to deal with conundrum number two.
***
Alexander was now on his side, his hand clenched in a fist around a bunch of her duvet, a rather disgruntled frown on his face. Jackie gingerly approached the bed, stretched her hand to him - and froze staring at his bruised knuckles.
Everyone had different symptoms of stress, obviously. For Jackie, it was an almost stinging, sensitive blush on her neck and on the underside of her jaw. She inhaled with an open mouth and backed away.
She was splashing her face with cold water in the ensuite, when she heard him call her name. That was a painful déjà-vu. Jackie opened the door and stared at him, dressed solely in his pants just like the last time.
"Hiya." His voice was raspy. "May I?"
Jackie muttered some polite nonsense and dashed out of the bathroom. Just as on the morning after Eddie Sparrow's visit, the toilet flushed, the lid closed, and he washed his hands. There were some more noises, a cabinet door banged; more water ran; and he was out.
For some reason, Jackie had decided that the best manner to proceed would be to stand and wait for him in the middle of the room, throwing anxious glances at the disarrayed bed when they'd had sex three times and she'd gotten the best night sleep of her life, wrapped snuggly in his massive body.
"Morning," he said and studied her.
"Morning." Jackie pushed her hands into the pockets of her robe. "So, we need to decide what we're doing next. About us, I mean. Regarding the fact that we- So, yeah," she mumbled. "And of course, how- or if you're going to go home- You'd think there would be no one in the streets on Sunday morning, and yet- But also- Moving forward, I reckon-" It would've been easier if she herself knew what she was trying to say. "Well, you see, what worries me is that, even when we weren't- um, sleeping together, Stephen already suspected something. And just now, that Harewicke woman? She seemed to have guessed," Jackie said and threw him an uncertain glance. "She gave me some sort of ointment for your hands!"
Alexander looked down at his hands and lifted his eyes at her.
"Could I have breakfast first, please? My routine was thrown off," he said in a low voice.
"Oh," Jackie exhaled. "Yes, yes, of course."
Jackie spun and bolted into the kitchen. He lingered behind, probably, to get dressed. She turned on her coffee machine, started the kettle, and took out the ingredients for the porridge. All the frantic faffing about did nothing for her nerves.
He walked into the kitchen. She recognised the impenetrable dispassionate expression on his face. He looked around and silently started making porridge. Her Sage machine beeped, and he poured her coffee and put the mug in front of her, once again without a single word. She wrapped her fingers around the warmth and mournfully sighed.
"Do you want to stop?" he asked, his back to her, slowly stirring the pot.
Jackie stared at his shoulder blades.
"Pardon?"
"Do you want to stop seeing me?" he repeated. "I thought you enjoyed it."
"I did!" Jackie exclaimed. "Of course I did. And I- I don't know whether we should-" Her voice wavered. "Stop. If we should stop seeing each other. Or- Does it even count as stopping if we hadn't actually- I mean, it's only been one night! And-"
He suddenly picked up the pot and shoved it onto her merry Italian tile trivet on the counter. The porridge sloshed, and some of it splashed onto the quartz worktop. He still hadn't turned to her, and she saw his shoulders rise, tense and rounded.
"I think I should leave," he said, each word separate.
"What? Why?" Jackie cried out - and hissed, jerking her hand back. She'd just scalded the back of it with her coffee when she jolted the mug. She mewled a little whine. "Bugger..."
Alexander crossed her kitchen in one long stride and wrenched the tap, and water loudly poured into the sink.
"Stick it under before it bubbles," he barked at her.
Jackie pressed her head down into her shoulders and did as she was told.
"The water is- it's not that cold," she whispered meekly.
"You aren't supposed to ice a burn," he grumbled.
He shook his hand activating his athletic watch and noted the time. Jackie opened her mouth to ask how long she needed to hold her hand under the stream, when he gritted a swearing through his clenched teeth - and wrapped around her in a sharp tight hug.
"You're scaring me," he rasped. "I can't suss out what you're- Keep your hand under," he interrupted himself when she tried to return his embrace.
Jackie obeyed. Her cheek was pressed into his chest, and she shuddered from the intensity of the sensation of his hard, warm body against hers.
"That's why I said I should leave," he growled. "I get angry if a social situation is confusing. I don't understand what you want. And what I need to do for you." He shifted, and she guessed that he was checking the time. "I've learnt by now that, most likely, it's my fault," he continued. "When people do or say something like this. I just don't understand it. I get angry," he said again, more forcefully this time. "I work out and train a lot to control it. But I can't think straight with you."
That was when she realised that the agitated tremors she felt were his, not hers.
"Alexander," she said - and he instantly let her go and took a step back.
"Two more minutes."
He was hiding his eyes from her, and she grasped his sleeve.
"Alexander."
"You're doing it again," he said darkly. "You can't say 'no,' can you? You can't stand it when there's a row, or someone's upset with you." He glowered at her. "Is that why you shagged me last night?"
"No! No!" She caught his other hand with her wet one. "No, Alexander! I properly wanted it! And- Oh please believe me! It was wonderful, and I don't regret it!"
He pulled his hand out of her grip.
"Then what do you want?" he asked.
For a second she felt stunned by the understanding that she'd assumed that he would argue that it surely looked like she regretted it; and that she'd expected that he would tell her what she 'really' thought about it; and that he would even imply or plain accuse her of sugarcoating or simply lying. It took dealing with someone as literal and direct as Alexander to finally notice these thought patterns of hers, didn't it?
"I don't know," she answered in a lost tone. "I honestly don't know what to do."