Deleted scenes from the cutting room floor: from Sisterwives
Meet me in the glasshouse, he said. In the evening; not the middle of the day.
When I arrive the windows are still open against the heat and I wonder if Ciaras will come to close them, on his daily round. The vines are his crop, and people love him for the care he pours into growing the grapes, the peppers, the cucumbers and tomatoes. I wonder, too, about Tobias’s choice of the glasshouse. Here, there’s no privacy and too much light.
A sound behind me. I want to hide but when I turn, there he is, Tobias, still in his work shirt and boots. There’s a grey black mark across his cheek, charcoal or smut. I move to wipe it off but he catches my hand. His grip is firm; his fingers warm against my flesh. No time to waste, he says. And there isn’t any time; no time to say the words that were forming in my mouth – protests that we shouldn’t be here, questions as to what happens if we’re seen or if Rebecca finds out. Just his mouth on mine, the flame in my belly and loins, and outside, the soft sound of wood pigeons marking time at the end of the day.
