Chapter One

Monday, March

Patricia only caught the last words of what Daniel said. "…circumstances, touch it."

He normally left for work when she was still asleep and never cared to kiss her goodbye. She opened her eyes to a slit and found he looked absolutely edible in a blue suit and a fresh white shirt. She stretched out a hand and drowsily ran it over his stomach.

He whacked her hand away. "Trish, did you hear what I said?"

"Something about touching you."

"Not me. The telescope."

She blinked.

"Air humidity was high last night. When I came home, the telescope was misted up. I couldn't store it away. It's in the living room and-"

"When it was misted up, why didn't you just wipe it dry?"

"Trish," he said with forced forbearance.

Years ago, on a starlit night, when he had impressed her by identifying every visible object in the sky, she had pointed out she didn't like to be called Trish because it rhymed with fish and squish.

"And Patty rhymes with fatty and tatty," he had remarked dryly and had continued to outline stellar constellations-and to call her Trish.

"You can't wipe a telescope. The coating of the optics would… Look, I have no time for explanations. It has to dry and acclimatize slowly and you will not, under any circumstances, touch it. Give it a wide berth. And don't turn up the heating too high."

"What if I play the piano? Could the resonance break the optic?"

Irony was lost on him. "I don't think so. Promise not to go near it."

The door fell to with a soft click. As on so many previous occasions, Danny had run roughshod over her affection.

Don't touch the telescope. That was the clincher. Patty jammed her feet into the carpet, tugged at her pajama top and trudged into the living room.

Their two-bedroom apartment was above a vegetarian restaurant in a quiet corner of London. Patty used the second bedroom as her study. It was a bright room, decorated in a light color scheme, furnished with a yellow pullout sofa, a pine bookshelf and bureau, and a white piano.

The living room was Danny's realm. The wallpaper disappeared under blow-ups of stars, galaxies and nebulae. The coffee table was laden with astronomic magazines. The shelves sagged under volumes of reference books. And now the not-to-be-touched telescope stood there, too, drying after a clear but humid night, mounted on a tripod-a black tube, almost as wide as a drum but twice as high, black as the nights when Danny packed it into the boot of his car, drove twenty miles to the north and spent hour after hour taking pictures-the same hours Patty spent alone in bed longing for a loving touch.

"Now it's just you and me," she said to the black monstrosity that towered between Danny's desk and the kitchen door. "It's your fault I have to wither away in a sterile marriage, where sexual satisfaction exhausts itself in fantasies about versatile lovers who can't tell a supernova from lightning. In short, this house ain't big enough for the two of us."

Ye Gods, if Danny could see her now, muttering empty threats at his defenseless telescope. Defiantly, she stubbed the tube with a fingertip and turned towards the kitchen to switch on the coffee machine.

Suddenly, there was a sharp pain in her right foot. Shrieking, she pulled it back. Her heel got caught under one of the legs of the tripod. Patty lost her balance, reached out for support and found herself holding onto the very object that had toppled her. There was a moment of suspended gravity, then the telescope banged against the desk and Patty hit her head on the metal fork that held the tube. Cursing and trembling, she struggled back to her feet. She just couldn't believe what had happened.

Don't touch the telescope. Not only had she touched it, she had crashed into it. Would Danny believe it had been an accident, that she hadn't done it on purpose?

After the initial moment of shock, the stinging pain in her right foot returned with a vengeance. She lifted it and winced when she saw a glass splinter sticking out between her toes. With a determined tug, she removed it and limped into the kitchen to fix a Band-Aid over the bleeding cut.

Patty returned to the living room and inspected the mess with a thumping heart. She didn't want to cause any further damage. Gingerly, she tried to put the object of Danny's devotion back in an upright position. It was heavier than she had expected. "God, you must weigh a ton." With her feet, she secured the legs of the tripod so they wouldn't fold up, and pulled at the fork.

Finally it was back where it belonged, standing securely and looking all right. But what did she know about its inner life, the little motors, mirrors and lenses? If anything was broken, Danny would be inconsolable. He had a mellow temperament. He wouldn't get abusive, but would drift into a sullen state of silent suffering.

There was an easy way out-not to tell him about her mishap. It would be days, maybe weeks, before he left on an excursion again, depending on the weather. When he found something was wrong, he would most likely attribute it to a bump in the road or material fatigue.

Patty pressed a palm against the throbbing bruise on her temple. Shirking was cowardly and unfair towards Danny. There was no choice. She would have to face the music.

Alison Dale-Frost was the last person Shirley Ryan was keen to see on a Monday morning. Or on any other day, come to that. Clad in a leather jacket, a sleazy black mini dress and plateau boots, Alison barged into the anteroom of Dr. Canova's office.

"I've gotta see Canova."

Disapprovingly, Shirley eyed the girl, whom she had found obnoxious from the day when she had come for her first appointment. As if a dubious character wasn't enough, she insulted everyone with her looks-hair dyed Technicolor, nose studded, eyebrows pierced and a skull tattooed on her left cheekbone. Why did she have phobia treatment anyway? It was those who had to endure her presence who needed therapy.

"Dr. Canova," Shirley answered pointedly, "will be in at nine. If you have an urgent reason to see her, she'll have a minute to spare for you."

"You don't twig it, eh? This is a matter of life 'n death."

Shirley was staggered. "Wait over there," she said in a peremptory tone.

The girl flipped through the magazines and catalogues Shirley fanned out lovingly on the smoked glass table every morning. When she had created a mess, her defiance returned and she stared at Shirley, who found it increasingly difficult to pretend she wasn't noticing, especially when Alison produced a package of gum, put a piece into her mouth and chewed provocatively.

"Ah, damn it all to hell. I've gotta talk to her now. If I snuff it, you're to blame because you wouldn't let me see her. I got this nasty letter." She took a manila envelope from her tattered tote bag and flapped it like a one-winged bird.

Copyright © 2003 Christine Spindler