It had not gone unnoticed by the sponsors that John could generate a lot of public attention by his escapades with Anna and they were quick to smell money. He had suddenly become interesting. Since he did not return from the dressing rooms after his match, they approached Anna to gauge her about potential sponsor contracts, for fear of being beaten to it by their competitors. Poor Anna had no clue about sponsoring and she looked bewildered when the first one called her attention away from her notebook.

"We have a proposition for Mr. Seton, Madam," said a man. "May we speak to you about it?"

She nodded, having no idea what he could want.

"We're wondering if he would care to do business with us."

"What kind of business?"

"Axxion sportswear would like to sponsor him."

"Would you force him to always wear Axxion?" she asked. Why were they asking her? As if she knew anything about what he liked to wear. Had she been promoted to his manager? Would he like it at all now that they had had an argument? She could not take any decisions on his behalf, but she was curious as to what they wanted. She would hear the man out.

"That's the idea, Madam."

"But you don't just wear things just because of the brand name, do you?" Anna frowned. "What if it doesn't suit you and you prefer something else?"

The Axxion man was used to dealing with eager athletes who were in need of money and who did not fuss about such things. He hardly ever got such questions. Did she not know how sponsoring worked? "We are flexible when it comes to design and I assure you that Axxion has a broad range of products, so there should always be enough choice to satisfy everybody. And people get paid for wearing Axxion. It's not relevant whether it suits them or not."

"But what if you prefer an item from another brand?" she persisted.

"Well, the contract only applies to competitions and sports-related activities and situations, so the choice of for example formal shoes is entirely up to Mr. Seton himself."

"Oh, wonderful," said Anna. "He'll be so pleased. You won't stipulate that he has to get married in a tracksuit then?"

"Of course not," the sponsor hastened to say, wondering if she was making fun of him.

"And his wife?" she asked. "Does she have to stick to Axxion or is she allowed to wear Adidas?" She did not like Adidas, but that was beside the point. "If they appear together?"

"Well ideally…but we cannot force the wives of our athletes," he said as if he regretted that deeply. "I should advise against Adidas wear for the wife, though."

"And naturally the wife would obey, benefiting as much from the contract as your athlete. Financially, that is," Anna nodded. His wording rubbed her the wrong way a little. "But what if the wife has a contract of her own?"

"But they hardly ever do," the Axxion man protested uncertainly. "Or only for perfume or something like that. In the cases where the wife has a contract with the competitors, we either try to buy her, or we abandon the athlete so that Axxion will not get snowed under if the wife happens to be an attractive figure who will attract more attention than the athlete. If the wife is nothing special, we count on the athlete outshining her. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes, I think I do. Thank you for the proposition," she said politely, taking the card that he offered when he sensed she wanted to end the conversation. "I shall bring it up with him." If she would ever get the chance to exchange another word with him, she reflected with a heavy heart.

After the Axxion man, she was approached by the Mercedes man, who asked her if and what John drove. "I don't know what he drives," she told the man. "It's red."

"Red?" he asked with difficulty. He so hated to deal with women. "Which brand?"

She shrugged sweetly. "I know which ones it is not. It's not a Porsche, not a Ferrari, not a Lamborghini, not a Jaguar, not a Jeep, not a Range Rover, not a Mini, not a Fiat Uno, not a Trabant, not a Deux-Chevaux…it's something more general, probably."

"But would he be interested in driving a Mercedes?"

"Don't I have a Mercedes?" Anna asked innocently. "I think I have a contract with Mercedes…so I probably drive one. I haven't heard him complain about mine…only about the CDs…"

"So does that mean you can persuade him to take a Mercedes? I know your whole family drives Mercedes. He wouldn't want to be the odd one out, I suppose."

Anna thought that John might like just that. Again she thanked the man for his proposition and tucked away his card. Next! She was getting used to it now.

John was having the same sort of trouble in another part of the stadium, although it was not sponsors, but the media who wanted his attention. He was less graceful to them than Anna was to the sponsors and they only managed to undo the unwinding effect that playing had had on him. Now he was only feeling insecure, no longer angry. He had taken his time to get dressed, because he was not looking forward to a confrontation with Anna, but he knew he could not avoid it. What if she was still angry? Playing had calmed his nerves and he really did not want to continue the argument, although he did want to know what she was going to do. Had he understood her correctly?

"Hey, John!" called a reporter familiarly. "How is it to be with the Queen or did you break up already?"

"No comment," John grumbled. He would not even have been able to give a sensible answer to that if he had wanted to.

The Australian who had won the match in the smaller hall joined him when he made his way to the VIP lounge. "That was quick, mate."

"Had a fight with my girlfriend just before playing."

"Oh! I thought -- oh! Yes, I heard that the minute I finished."

"You heard too? Don't tell me everyone knows," John said dejectedly.

"Sorry, mate."

"Would you happen to know if she's still here?" John asked.

"I don't know, but point her out to me if she is. I'd like to see her. I'm really curious. Queens are old ladies in flowery dresses, I know and I know you're old, but I hadn't thought you'd be that old or doesn't age matter anymore above a certain age?" He pointed at an old lady in a flowery dress suggestively. "That one? Cute, John!"

"Give me a break!" John cried.

"Oh, but is she sweet, your girlfriend? If you say yes, I know enough," said the Australian, knowing about the difference between sweet babies and cute babies and that what a sweet baby! was merely an euphemism for gosh, what an ugly thing! "Sweetness is all that matters," he soothed.

"How can I call her sweet if we just had an argument?" John wondered.

A little girl of about three years old ran towards them. "Uncle John!"

"Hello Dionne," John answered and lifted her up. "How are you?"

"Is that her?" asked the Australian, who did not understand the language John spoke to the little girl. He had been speaking English to him. He watched John kiss the little girl. "She's wearing a flowery dress. I wasn't too far off. Only about the age, but I suppose they have to be drilled into wearing their flowery uniform from an early age."

"No, this is JP's daughter." JP was the tournament director. "She's my little friend."

"Daddy is busy and I want ice cream," said Dionne.

"JP!" John called. "Dionne wants ice cream."

JP waved. "You can give her some. She hasn't had any yet."

"Okay, Dionne. Just a minute, though." John and the Australian placed their bags in the rack at the entrance to the VIP lounge.

"Well?" the Australian asked in a low voice. "She's got to be in here if she's a queen. You know, I don't keep up with Europeans who don't play tennis or who aren't pop stars. That old lady is looking at you. Is that her?" He still could not dissociate queens from old ladies.

"No," John laughed in spite of himself. "That's my mother."

"You're kidding! She looks far too young to be your mother," said the Australian smoothly to make up for calling her an old lady.

"Oh, come off it, you old flatterer."

"Which one then? Okay, I'll check them all in turn. The one with the dress?"

"Sorry, chap. I do have taste," John shuddered. "I wouldn't fall for a woman wearing a curtain." He was reluctant to look around, but so far he had not seen Anna yet and he was very disappointed. Had she gone home? "And look, I had an argument with her so she probably went home because she doesn't want to see me ever again."

Poor bloke, the Australian reflected. "The lady at the bar?"

"She wouldn't be sitting at the bar," John replied, not bothering to look.

Well, it would not be unlikely for someone who had argued, if she was feeling as bad as John. The Australian figured the lady at the bar might very well be John's girl. Or queen. Or whatever. Other guys had supermodels. Their jobs did not surprise him anymore. But it was probably her. Which young woman would sit at a bar all alone unless she had had a row? She would be sort of unapproachable for other men, especially since they all knew. He would check it out. "Pity. She's under thirty, I daresay. And alone! I'll go and check her out. See ya, mate!"

The bar was not the most obvious place to look for Anna and it had simply not occurred to John to look in that direction. But it was her, sitting with her back to the room, and his heart leaped up briefly. She had not left! He swallowed and saw the Australian sit down next to her.

"Ice cream!" Dionne reminded him, but his parents approached him first to congratulate him. They stood talking for a while, although his eyes kept straying to the bar and he barely heard what they said to him.

"Listen," said the voice on the other side of the line. "Make sure you do the following or that secret you're desperately trying to keep will come out in the open."

"I don't have a secret," said the man.

"Then as of tomorrow 9am your life will be ruined," the voice said calmly. "One call from me to your employer will do the trick. Are you listening?"

"I am listening."

"Good…"

"He's a dangerous lunatic, that's what that Prime Minister says. The stability in his country -- one of our allies -- is being threatened by a queen who's dismissing him -- God! Who ever gave woman that power? -- because she's been brainwashed by a dangerous lunatic"

"Mr. President…"

"You don't agree?" the president asked. "The democratic values are at stake in that country, wherever it is. It's too small to see on the globe without my contacts." The president refused to wear glasses, because he was very conscious of his appearance and he was of the opinion that glasses made him look ugly. "We are committed to democratic values. It's our duty to defend them."

"Mr. President…"

"How would it look to our voters if I defended the democratic rights of the people of some medieval little country over there?" he asked. "The democratically chosen Prime Minister is being toppled by a representative of a completely undemocratic institution. I could say that it's one person overruling the wish of the whole population and wouldn't it be great if we came to the people's aid?"

"Mr. President…you could also contact the Queen and advise her against it."

"What? And let her decide? We cannot let all those little countries decide for themselves. Impossible! They are stuck in some medieval thought pattern while we are in the twentieth century."

"The twenty-first, sir."

"Even better. Didn't we already have some agents in place? What are they saying?"

"They haven't reported much, sir. Except that the Queen has returned. She had been kidnapped, do you remember?"

"Oh, vaguely, vaguely. Didn't that Prime Minister get her back?"

"Uhh, no sir."

"Huh? That's what he told me. Where did you get your information?"

"From our agents."

"Incompetent guys. Send in some new ones," the president ordered. He leant back and had a vision of his glorious role in the Restoration of the Democracy in that quaint little place in Europe. Perhaps they could give him a statue on the principal square in their capital village. He could just see the horse-drawn carts drive past on the cobbled stones, carts filled with hay and blonde girls in low-cut traditional dresses. "Have I been there?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. You had lunch there a year ago on your way from Brussels to Bonn."

He had not the faintest idea where Brussels or Bonn were. "I don't remember a thing."

"You made a short stop-over there so you could have lunch with the Queen." Because you had heard that she was young and single, the advisor added silently.

"Was she blonde?"

"No, sir."

"Wait, wait. I remember having lunch with a whole bunch of women who treated me like dirt and they had a butler who told me off for having bad table manners." The president had been holding his fork in his right hand with his left hand under the table. "Something to do with eating with my knife in my right hand."

"The butler told you off, sir?"

"He said the queens -- how come they have more than one? -- insisted on etiquette and would I please hold my cutlery correctly?"

John looked a little bewildered when an unknown man began to talk to him about sponsoring, saying that he had already discussed some of it with Anna and that she had his card. Anna had spoken to the man? Or rather, the man had addressed Anna? "What did she say then?" he was curious.

"She said she would not discuss athletic underwear with me and now that I catch you myself…"

"Could we discuss this another time?" John asked. He shifted Dionne onto his other arm and walked to the bar. Athletic underwear? Why would he ask Anna? He could not know about Anna's aerobics tops, could he?

Anna knew what could bring her out of this situation. Or rather, who. If he came to her and told her that he loved her, then it would be alright. No, only if he told her he loved her and he wanted to marry her. Love alone would not be enough. For a while she waited hopefully, having noticed that he had finished playing because everybody had returned, including his family. She had deliberately looked down when they had come back, so they would not address her. And they had not, which had both pleased her and not pleased her.

She had been curious if John had won, but she divined that he had. That was good. Maybe he was more disposed to forgive her for her stupidity if he was in a good mood. But he had not appeared and she grew worried. Maybe she had done some irreparable damage. Maybe he was completely sick of her now and glad to be rid of her.

Or maybe he was suffering in the same way as she was. Maybe he would not be the first to come, although that would be easiest for her. Maybe it would not be easiest for him. Anna pondered the thought. He had always managed to do that for her, but it was foolish to think that he might not need it to be done for himself for once. What if that was the case? Then they would both be pining forever and that was stupid. It was scary, but she mustered up enough courage to go to him. If he did not appreciate it, she would know soon enough. It would end her doubts. Before she could get up, someone sat down next to her.

"Hello! Mind if I join you?" the Australian asked her. He looked aside into a pair of very pretty brown eyes that looked a little sad. "Are you drowning your sorrow in orange juice?"

"Orange juice works," she replied.

"So you're no longer sad?"

Anna did not know about that. "The sponsors don't think so…they took me for John's manager."

So this was really John's girl. Interesting. With a charming continental accent, too. "Where's your flowery dress?" he asked, taking in the black trousers. "Isn't that a queen's uniform? I heard you were one."

"I'm off duty."

He looked over his shoulder and saw John come nearer. "Neat! I just came to see what you looked like. Bye!"

She stared at her glass for a while and froze when she saw John place a little girl's feet on the bar. Where did he get a little girl? "And what is the product you want John to wear?" she asked wearily.

"One ice cream," he said. Product? He did not look at Anna. Winning was all very nice, but if you thought that your girlfriend had just dumped you, not even winning could get you in a good mood. And she was still here. What for? To explain her reasons? To take back her words? He hoped so. He really did.

"I'm sorry. I thought you were another athletic underwear salesman." She stared at her glass desperately. He was not answering her. Why not? And who was the little girl?

John kept his eyes on Dionne and the ice cream, two things that were pretty dangerous when combined. He knew about the salesman, having just encountered him. He saw no reason to ask her about him, considering that she had told the man that she did not want to discuss underwear. Besides, he was feeling a bit tongue-tied now that she was talking to him as if nothing had happened. Was this her upbringing?

"I own Dynamic and Durable underwear, he said. I thought he was talking about what he was wearing," Anna shuddered. She wondered why she was rambling so nervously. "I told him I did not want to discuss it. I noted down the details of all the sponsors that came to talk to me," she sighed and pushed the sheets towards him.

John did not look right away, because Dionne was making a terrible mess of her ice cream and he did not want it on him as well. "Dionne…don't paint your face with it."

Anna observed his struggle for a while. He looked so endearing, trying very hard to avoid her little fingers which were covered in vanilla, but he did not have enough hands to hold her and prevent the ice cream from falling off the cone at the same time. She took a paper tissue to wipe Dionne's face and used her fingers to press the vanilla scoop firmer into the cone.

John looked at her over Dionne's head, but she was not looking at him. She was looking at Dionne with a concentrated expression. He swallowed and glanced at the sheets. The top one contained hastily scribbled notes, but the one underneath that was covered with more text. He wondered what it was. "Thank you," he said when she was finished. His voice sounded odd.

Anna sighed again. "Everyone seems to regard me as your extension. I might as well act like it."

She wanted to be his extension? Was that good or bad? He saw JP enter the room and set Dionne on the floor so they would perhaps have the chance to talk in private. "Go to Daddy."

"She wasn't yours?" Anna asked in relief.

"Annaaaaaa!" he said. What a ridiculous idea! He pushed the notes back to her. "I don't want to think of sponsors right now."

"No, read this," she blushed and gave him the bottom sheet, sliding off the barstool to go to the bathroom.

John found he could read her handwriting very well without his glasses. Only his own was so small that it could give him trouble. He began reading. The first paragraph made him so confused that he wondered if he could not reply to her sentence by sentence. Surprisingly enough, he could keep many of her thoughts intact as he copied them. She must have been just as confused when she had written this.

He was relieved at this bit. Very relieved. She had not meant it.

John paused. The next part was more difficult to reply to.

He would give her a hug. Or a kiss. Depending on how many people were around.

That last sentence puzzled him. What had his mother been up to now?

Anna laid a tentative hand on his shoulder and he looked up at her. He had seen her look like that before and the previous time she had told him she loved him. Would she say that again? Please, Anna!

"I'm sorry," she said.

John did not care if she was sorry. He needed an unprompted declaration of love.

"Are you alright?"

"I…" He nearly asked her for it, but that would not be the same. "Yes." He thought about it. "No."

Anna inhaled deeply. She remembered that they could end up as stupid as Marie-Celeste and Patrick if they did not talk about what they meant. "Just give me one last kiss if you don't want me," she sighed, unable to keep a hint of melodrama out of her voice. John winced as if he was in pain and she felt a stab in her heart. He was going to say that he did not want her.

He groaned and leant forward with his head in his hands. He had barely had the time to rejoice over her wanting him when she began to talk nonsense. "No!" He was not going to give her one last kiss. The absurdity!

Anna backed into a barstool and she jumped forward again hastily. "Then I suppose I should go," she mumbled. "It was fun while it lasted. I can't blame you. I don't. But if you'd ever reconsider…well, then I'm here -- there -- wherever I'll be. Alone. Because I don't think I could ever like someone else. Only you. Sorry. I won't be in pain. Oh, no. Not at all. I'm sure it will fade away after forty years. Nothing I can't handle. I'm a professional. You said so yourself. If you'd ever -- please?"

John stood up and she steadied herself by leaning against the bar. "You're raving!" he said.

"Not only is it a queen, but it's insane too! I understand you completely. If only I weren't so insane about you, then I might be able to accept that love is not enough, there's the practical side --"

"Anna…"

"I make you feel bad, don't I? It's not my intention," she said regretfully. "I'm really trying to make this as painless for you as possible. Do you want a hug? Please let me give you a hug."

John let himself be hugged. He marvelled that she did it in a public place, even if not many people were there at the moment. If only she would stop raving for a second, then he might be able to get a word or two in and tell her that he was crazy about her too, but even during the hug she kept on talking about how she had not watched his match. "Anna…" he tried again. She fell silent, but she tightened her hold on him. She was not going to let him go. "A little more confidence in your powers of seduction, if you please," he whispered in her ear. "I replied to your letter."

The assembled people tried not to stare. It was one thing to hear rumours about the couple, but to actually see them hug was an entirely different one. There was no more doubt that the rumours were true and that their Queen was made of flesh and blood. Some of them already knew, because they were either John's family or sponsors who had talked to Anna. It was mainly the others who had the greatest trouble not to stare.

Anna held him with one hand and the letter with the other, as if she was afraid that he would slip away if she let go of him. She still was not entirely sure what he meant with her powers of seduction. When she came to the part that gave her an answer, she nearly cried in relief, but blinked and read on. "It says here I have to see you for a direct reply."

John glanced around the VIP lounge. People seemed just a little too uninterested. It could not be true, but what did he care? Should he risk another misunderstanding with Anna just because people were watching? No. "It was a hug or kiss or whatever you'd like."

Anna kissed him. "That sounds just fine." She coughed when she continued. "The test is a pregnancy test."

He looked puzzled. "Oh? And what do our mothers have to do with that?"

"Oh, well," she said in embarrassment. "I warned my mother that there was a remote chance and my mother asked your mother to buy one. Don't reproach your mother for interfering. Come to think of it, I think she bought it at a perfect moment, before the bubble burst." There was still a little bit left to read. "Thank you for putting it in writing. I'm stupid, aren't I? And I've been standing here all this while -- no, I don't care," she decided. "I'm off duty."

"Right. You're just being an ultra-modern, trend-setting queen…"

"I hate it when people get sticky in public," she murmured. "But I can forgive myself this once."

"Come sit on the couch so we can discuss the contracts in peace. We're blocking the way to the bar." John pulled her off to a couch, where any sticky behaviour would be easier to hide.

"The contracts?" Anna asked

"Yes, notably the most important contract of all. This is a business meeting. You're about to contract me," he whispered.

"Oh, that's right." She sat down next to him.

He put his arm around her. "Is there anything the small sponsors can offer me that the big sponsor can't?" he asked, looking at her notes.

"The big one is going back to basics soon."

"Basics is all I need," he answered.

"It would probably mean a loss of the fringe benefits, such as the car and the breakfast service."

"I think I could live with that. I have my own car and I can make my own breakfast."

"However, the sponsor you're referring to doesn't deal in clothes and considers buying them a necessary evil, so I'm not sure that you don't need a clothing sponsor."

"Wait -- the sponsor is not going to buy them for me?"

"They don't mind giving you money if the financial aspect is what worries you, but if you want them to go shopping with you, you can forget it. Unless you enjoy an irritated companion."

"Pity. I was hoping they'd do it for me. I suppose I can buy my own clothes…I do that about once a year…" said John thoughtfully. "And no embroidered small gold emblems on my clothes?"

"Where did you get that idea?" Anna wondered. "Back to basics means that the sponsor is not prepared to hire people for any tasks that the sponsor herself cannot perform."

"Oh, she's going to learn to do it herself?" he teased.

"Maybe. If you want to look like an idiot, I'm sure someone would be willing to assist you. But about the clothing sponsors…do you already have one?"

"No and I don't want to become a walking advertising column either. And I don't think you should fall prey to commerce," John said seriously.

"My head is on every new coin, my dear. How commercial can one get?" she asked dryly. Her phone rang when John was studying to coins to see how good the resemblance was. It was Marie-Celeste.

Marie-Celeste was a bit agitated, so Anna held the phone a little away from her ear. "Yes, Cel! We argued, but we made up and everybody knows it now."

"How could I lose myself so?" Anna asked sarcastically.

John took over the phone. "How? Do you want to know how?" He looked around and saw Patrick. "Patrick!" he called with his hand over the phone. That would show Celeste how easy it was to lose herself. "Anna's grandma wants to talk to you." He smiled when he realised that Anna's grandma was the ex-Queen Celeste and her sister was the future Queen Celeste.

"What for?" Patrick asked suspiciously.

"I have no idea, but be polite to Queen Celeste," John warned.

Patrick had no reason to suspect him. He was generally polite to old ladies. "Good day, Madam."

I don't care if you're marrying Anna, but I wish you wouldn't be impertinent with me. Marie-Celeste thought he was John and she was not pleased that he had argued with Anna.

Patrick recognised her voice now. His eyes widened. "But I'm enormously civil, sweetheart. I have to thank you for not coming. I won."

I know, she said curtly.

Patrick smiled and took the phone out into the hall. He hoped Anna did not need it any time soon, so he could try to get some conversation with Marie-Celeste going. "Patrick won too."

"How long can you stay?" Anna asked John after they had finished laughing.

"Until I get hungry. But I don't want to leave this room. I don't want microphones under my nose."

"They're going to find out sooner or later," she said sensibly. "You don't have to say anything to the microphones. I'll go with you if you're hungry. I'm hungry too."

"Would you?"

She nodded. "Think: if we don't hide anything, they'll soon lose interest."

"Would they?"

"It's worth a try, but I'm sure that if we deny everything they will try to prove that we lied. Should you be coming home with me, I think there would be little point in leaving separately, for instance. They'd find out anyway."

"Am I coming home with you?" he asked interestedly.

Anna used his leg as an arm rest. "If you want to. I don't know if you could, being in a tournament and so on…I'll adapt myself to whatever you should and shouldn't do. But tomorrow I'm not off duty," she sighed. "I can't come to watch. I have to visit a school and we're leaving at eight."

"That's alright," he said. "I think you'd enjoy that. Children are honest. What time will you be back?"

"Five or six. It depends on if we get stuck in the rush hour or not. I have to some things to sign, but I'll do that in the car, so that when I get back, I can go swimming and then have dinner and then relax. Normally my days aren't that long, but the school is pretty far away and they have a very long programme. It's not very convenient now. But I suppose tomorrow is not our last day together."

Yes, I know that he won, Marie-Celeste said indifferently. His match was broadcast and so was the interview.

"Well, did you think I did well?" Patrick asked. "Because you're talking to that celebrity now." There was a long silence at the other end and he grinned.

"No, she sat at the bar," Patrick grinned in anticipation of her reaction. He was not disappointed.

I beg your pardon? Marie-Celeste cried.

"Forget about Anna. She had orange juice. How was your day?"

I beg your pardon? Marie-Celeste cried again.

"Did you do anything besides watching television?"

I watched only for a brief moment, she defended herself. I visited my grandmother and my aunts.

"Oh, wonderful," Patrick said dryly. "I'm sure that was loads of fun. What are you doing tonight?"

"That's not much."

What are you doing then? I suppose your social calendar is filled until June, Marie-Celeste said sarcastically.

"I'm not doing anything either. Well, I think I might clean up my flat," he said reflectively.

"If you go to hell it might freeze over," he replied cheerfully. "But at least I know why. You can't help but freeze with the sort of night gowns you're wearing."

"What's a hang-up?" Patrick asked and she ended the call. It was good that he had Anna's phone, so he called her back right away. "Alright, stupid of me, but there was no need to demonstrate it. Why do you think I disapprove of your night gown?" he asked curiously. "You look perfect in it, but perfect is a charged word, isn't it? How is your perception of yourself tonight, Cellie?

"John, remember that you have to go to the press room," the tournament director reminded him. "You know that you can get a fine if you don't. I understand why you wouldn't want to, but we can't make exceptions for you."

John groaned. "How much is the fine?"

Anna shook her head. "You don't have to say anything you don't want to. What's the point -- you play to win money and then you'd give it all up for a fine? You know what I said just now…"

"I know, but you don't have to sit there." He sighed and made his way to the pressroom. The Australian was still there and he was having a good time, by the sound of it. He stood leaning against the wall just outside the room for a while and listened. He wondered how much he could say and if he was able to evade too personal questions.

"…I met her. She's John's manager…"

John did not listen to the barrage of questions that followed this statement, but his mind began to consider how he could make use of it. He could say Anna was his advisor. Did anyone know how he had kissed her? Probably not. Was it so unusual to kiss an acquaintance on the cheek? Not at all. Was it so unusual to disagree about a piece of advice? No, because he was supposed to be a self-confident and experienced player.

"…Oh, I don't know. That's what she said," said the Australian. "She talks to his sponsors for him, you know."

John crossed his fingers and hoped that the Australian would not recall that he had called her his girlfriend, but the subject changed and soon the interviews were over and it was his turn. Fortunately there were not many journalists there, given that there were still matches being played.

The assembled journalists noticed that Seton had changed out of his tracksuit. His clothes did not have that expensive, refined flavour that one would expect of a man who mingled with the jet set. It was merely a black polo-necked sweater, jeans and black leather shoes. He was not relaxed, but he probably had some inkling of the kind of questions they wanted to put to him.

The tournaments press officer led the show, so it would all proceed decently and not end up in a shouting contest.

"What is the exact nature of your relationship with the Queen?" was the first question.

John shifted on his chair. They were more direct than he had expected, but it was not good to lose his composure so early on. "I thought you were all sports journalists and not writing for the gossip column," he said patiently. "I wonder if you could leave her alone. All that attention is not going to help her recovery."

"Her recovery?" someone asked.

"Well, discovering that someone has it in for you does leave its mark," John said sarcastically and it silenced them for a brief moment. "To call it a trauma would perhaps a little exaggerated, but to leave the Palace in any capacity, private or professional, is quite stressful for her and it would be better if you just ignored her. If there's anything she wants to let you know -- oh, yes, there was something," he remembered with a bitter smile. "Only she has a higher opinion of your decency than I do. She thinks that if she's open, you'll stop bothering her and I'm not so sure, so I'm not sure if I should say it." He paused and saw they were waiting breathlessly, waiting for the confession. "This is all I'm going to say about her. She advises me on some matters, notably on whether I should get a clothing sponsor or not and we haven't quite reached a decision, so we're going to continue that discussion over dinner tonight."

"Dinner! Where? At the Palace? Will you stay the night? Would you care to say more about that?" They seemed to accept Anna's advisory position, thanks to the Australian.

"I just said that that was all I was going to say. May we please stick to tennis now?" John asked politely. He refused to answer any more questions relating to Anna and the journalists soon switched to questions about his game, although sneakily trying to get him to confess that his game was influenced by Anna. However, John was good at evading questions and he did not refer to her at all anymore.

The woman stood out from other approaching women. It was mainly because she had come down the stairs that led to the VIP lounge and therefore she might be famous, but also because she was well dressed and pretty. The public stared with interest as she came closer. There was a younger girl with her and there were two men following closely behind, but the two girls did not pay any attention to them. The men looked like bodyguards. Bodyguards! It was her. The crowd did a double take and excited whispering erupted all around. Anna! And Alexandra! And Anna did not look sad at all, only a little uncomfortable, because she seemed to sense the attention. The news spread through the crowd like a fire and there were not many people in the restaurant who were not watching eagerly as they took a tray. The crowd was curious what she would eat and it looked like a sandwich. How interesting that she would eat a sandwich just like the rest of them. The people in the queue had a better view of it and they would be able to confirm that it was indeed a sandwich, or three, rather, and that she had asked for two without butter. It was a pity that they did not sit down to eat them there, but that they took them out again, back upstairs.

"We heard you have asked to hand out the prizes, in case Seton makes it to the final. Is that true?" someone asked Anna when she was about to ascend the stairs again. He was wearing a badge that indicated that he belonged to the TV station LTR and there was a cameraman with him too.

Anna looked at him and the camera in alarm. "N-N-No, I d-d-don't know anything about that," she stammered. She had figured that all the press attention would be focused on the press room and that it would be relatively safe to venture out to the restaurant to get John a sandwich, but here they were, appearing out of the blue so suddenly that it made her stammer. She was definitely not going to hand out the prizes, out on court, with hundreds of people looking on to see how she congratulated him.

"Did you enjoy yourself? Did you come especially for Seton, Madam?"

"Uhh…"

"Does this mean the end of his career?" the reporter asked her.

It stung Anna a little. Why should this have to be the end of his career? She would not force him to quit. Although he was forcing her to quit, more or less. Quite unfair, really, if you looked at it, but she did not care. She looked at the reporter in despair, hoping that someone would rescue her. Alexandra was no help, she had slid away unnoticed.

"Will he be naturalised so he can play Davis Cup tennis for us?"

Anna looked amazed. They had not thought about that yet at all. There were more important things to consider first. The conclusions the media jumped to were ridiculous.

"Come along, dear," said a voice behind her and Anna was grateful that Mrs. Seton pulled her away. "An interview with my daughter-in-law does not make for interesting television," Mrs. Seton told the TV man, who looked so baffled that Anna almost laughed. "Take someone talkative." She took Anna to the VIP lounge. "I hope you didn't mind my saying so. I didn't mean it in a bad way."

"Why would they want to talk to me?"

"Because they think it's exciting to get you to confess. I thought I'd spare them the trouble of talking to you and John at the same time to see if you ignore each other."

Alexandra had not been as inattentive as Anna and she had seen that Anna could not avoid walking straight into a camera, so she had run off and done the most logical thing: get Mrs. Seton.

"What is that about my handing out the prizes?" Anna asked the tournament director fearfully. She wanted to know if it was only a rumour.

"Oh, Jean-Paul!" Mrs. Seton exclaimed in dismay. "You're not seriously considering that thought, are you? I know that you think John will reach the final, but to have Anna hand out the prizes if he does…"

"Actually, if I really have to do that, I'd rather it was him," said Anna. "But I prefer not to do it at all."

John returned, obviously relieved that the ordeal was over, but a little worried about what Anna would think about what he had said. He found her rather agitated too, arguing some point with the tournament director. "Is anything the matter?" he asked.

"Some people think I want to hand out the prizes! And I don't!"

"You don't?" he laughed. "How odd."

"It's not amusing. What if you reach the final? I mean, that's what all this speculation is about. Half the people will be expecting me to kiss you and be shocked if I don't and the other half will be shocked if I do. I positively can't do it. There will be two players and I really don't feel like treating one better than the other and --"

Had somebody not once said that Anna thought too much? In some cases it was not a good thing, for herself, although for the rest it was rather funny, John thought as he imagined the scene. "Anna? Somebody else will do it. JP, if you cancel your original VIP, I'm never going to read Dionne a story again."

"I have somebody else who will be very offended if I cancel him," the tournament director reassured Anna. "But next year…?"

"No way," said Anna. She lowered her voice. "Because I fully intend to be married by then, you see, and I don't think it's proper if you have somebody's wife hand out the prizes."

When she left, she knew that Patrick still had her phone, but he was nowhere to be found and she could not reach him with John's phone, because Patrick was still calling someone. Her car came to collect her right in front of the gates and John did not go with her, because he had to walk to the station to get her other car. As he watched her leave, he was approached by a reporter again.

"I thought you were going to have dinner with her."

"I am, but didn't you see that the car was full?"

"We heard your mother call Anna her daughter-in-law," said the reporter.

"Did she?" John asked calmly. Inwardly he laughed. It was just like his mother to blurt out something like that. He was sure she would have liked to have a daughter.

"But is she?"

"She's not married to me, if that's what you mean."

"Well, it seems to have a positive effect on your game. Do you think that it's the reason why you're playing so well this week or is there something else?"

"It might be that."

"You're not denying it?" the interviewer asked excitedly.

"Never contradict your mother," John said solemnly. "But you're going to have to ask somebody else if you want details."

"Well, I happen to know that you aren't particularly talkative when it doesn't suit you and it seems a Herculean task to get anything out of Anna. Does she always stutter?"

"No, never. But then I don't know the public Anna."

"What is the private Anna like?" the interviewer asked curiously.

"It's not my place to reveal that," John said decidedly. "If you want to get to know her, be nice to her yourself and stop pursuing her."

When he had got Anna's phone back and there was no risk of being followed, he left, deciding he still had to stop by at his flat. It would not be very clever to reveal where he lived and everyone would be able to see it, since it was just across the street, but he could not really spend the night at Anna's and then leave there feeling like an unwashed scarecrow.

He walked towards the station. Some people walked in the same direction, but they were not following him. He threw his bag in the car and drove off. Perhaps he was not even allowed to drive this car with its special number-plates, but that was not really his problem if he did not get stopped.

John was expecting a quiet dinner together with Anna, but it was not to be the case. He was forced to suffer the inquisitions of the family, because Anna had to have dinner with all of them. Apparently they would all be deeply offended if she did not eat with them on Sunday evenings. They seemed to know about him, to some extent, which made it slightly easier, but not much. The table was long and the seating arrangements were obviously not influenced by any hierarchy, but everybody just sat down where it pleased them to sit. He had expected that they would all have their place, but that would ensure that guests would always be left stranded at the opposite end of the table. Anna had sat down in the middle and she had told him that it was best if he sat next to her. He did not know why, but he assumed that he would prefer that to being seated between two inquisitive old biddies. At first he wondered if Anna lived in a home for the elderly, because the average age of the diners seemed to be around eighty, but gradually the younger ones showed up as well. Apparently they preferred to come late.

"Are you a friend of Anna's?" Anna's grandmother asked him loudly, even if he had been introduced to her as such.

He knew who Queen Celeste was, naturally, but whether she had spoken so loudly because she was deaf or because she wanted everyone to hear her was something he did not know. "Yes, I am," he answered.

"Interesting. What does your father do?"

"He works in his garden."

"He's a gardener?" Grandma asked in a shocked tone.

"No, he's retired," John grinned. By the smirks on a few faces he knew that at least some knew what he meant, but Grandma did not. "My father used to be a teacher," he explained.

"That is much better," Grandma mused. "Because it would be very odd if Anna gave up the throne to marry the son of a gardener."

"Grandma!" Anna exclaimed in embarrassment.

"But still, can you claim to descend from a good family? Are there any titles in your family?"

"Yes, my mother used to be Professor Seton." John saw that Anna was threatening to either hide under the table or to run away in embarrassment because he was being cross-examined and he squeezed her hand. He would never blame her, whatever he thought of her relatives.

"I suppose Eliane doesn't care what her daughter has been up to," Grandma remarked. "She's so quiet."

Eliane returned her glance with a blank face. "Been…up…to?" she repeated tentatively. "Je ne comprends pas." She usually tried to avoid confrontations.

John kept his eyes on his soup. He was surprised. Anna's mother pretended not to understand, but he had heard her speak and he knew that she was quite fluent despite her accent. The ladies here did not all get along, apparently. No wonder Anna preferred to eat apart. What an atmosphere. He saw that it was easy to interpret Eliane's silence as indifference, but she had been far from indifferent so far. She had been with Anna at the hospital, not saying much, but still being there, and she had contacted his mother after Anna had told her that she might be pregnant. "Oh, she already knows everything," he said with a shrug and Eliane smiled.

The rest of dinner was more agreeable, because eventually the questions ceased and he could eat in peace. "I'm so sorry," Anna apologised afterwards. "But you had to meet them some time."

"It's alright."

"You have to forgive them for their curiosity. They have nothing better to do all day."

Eliane had to help Alexandra with her math homework and so there would be nobody they could offend with their absence in the common sitting room, so Anna took John to the private sitting room she shared with Marie-Celeste. Marie-Celeste had left a note that she had a charity event to go to and she was not there. They did not mind, although Anna frowned because she had not heard anything about this charity event before, and lay on the couch watching TV for a while.

Marie-Celeste checked her face in the mirror after she had parked the car. She told herself she was crazy, absolutely crazy. There absolutely no rational explanation for what she was about to do and the one that she clung to was ridiculous. She had not even wanted to admit the truth to Anna and she had left a vague note about going to a charity event, because that was what came closest, if one stayed rational. But it was an act of charity, in a way. She was going to help a human being in need and the need was high, very high. She knew she had the ability to do something about it and when he had remained helpless, she had sighed and offered her services. Just this once. She had left before dinner, because she did not want anyone to ask her what she was going to do, besides realising that the job would take time, lots of time. She would direct it, of course. She was good at that. She would tell him what he should do and how.

"Why do you look so surprised to see me?" Patrick asked when he opened the door.

"I forgot that you don't have servants and that you would answer the door by yourself."

"If I had servants, I shouldn't have to tidy my flat."

"You do realise what a terrible risk I'm taking by coming here?" Marie-Celeste asked, stepping past him into the warmth. She took in his appearance. He was wearing jeans, a crumpled light blue shirt and dark blue socks. No shoes. His hair looked uncombed and he looked as if had just rolled out of bed after having slept with his clothes on. How could she ever have thought that he was well dressed? Had that day been an exception?

He took her long woollen coat and her gloves and hung them on a hook. "Come on, there aren't that many bacteria in my kitchen. Just some mould varieties that I'm studying and you can't get infected from those." He studied her looks as well. She was coming to help him clean and she was wearing a cream-coloured skirt and jacket. That probably meant that she was going to let him do all the work.

"Can I still leave?" she asked with a disgusted expression.

"Of course," Patrick answered and took her coat off the hook again. He held it out to her, but she did not take it. He hung it back up.

Marie-Celeste rubbed her hands and assumed an even more business-like attitude than usual. "I suggest that you start with your sitting room, since that is the place where you receive guests."

"Well, I generally take my guests directly to the bedroom," Patrick replied.

Marie-Celeste was disgusted, but there was no room for disgust when there was business to be done, besides, she did not know if she believed him. She would have to see the bedroom first before she could think whether he had been speaking the truth. "Very good. Then we shall start there." She pushed open the door and looked about the room. "First I suggest you turn off both your stereo and your television set. Neither is contributing anything to order." It was not likely that he received his guests here. There was barely space on the bed for one, let alone for two, what with clothes, books, newspapers and several tennis balls.

Patrick obeyed and stood waiting.

"Are those clothes clean or dirty?"

"If they don't smell, they're probably clean."

"Put all of them in the laundry," she waved. "You pig."

"They are," he said and did not move. "Once in a while I gather up a pile from there and wash it."

Marie-Celeste shuddered. She peered into a small bathroom and discovered the laundry basket, but it was functioning as a container for random objects. She dragged it into the bedroom and overturned it. "In here," she gestured and Patrick dutifully filled it with dirty clothes. "Have you got a washing machine?" she asked when there were more clothes than could fit into the basket.

"Yes, in the cellar."

"I think it's time to use it," Marie-Celeste decided. "Take the basket to the cellar." She followed him and they got rid of a good deal of the dirty clothes.

Now that the room was rid of the clothes, it already looked a lot better. Half an hour later, Patrick had turned the room into a very tidy bedroom under Marie-Celeste's directions, but he wondered if it could not go faster if she helped him physically and not just verbally. He was getting a red face from working while she was still the same. He looked in his closet and handed her jogging trousers, a shirt and socks. "Here, put these on so your lovely suit won't get dirty. I'll go and fix something to eat." He would have something delivered, because he did not trust his cooking skills enough to want to make something for her.

"You're mistaken," she began. "I didn't come here to --"

"It would go faster if you helped."

He had a point, she knew, but did she really want to help? "I'm not used to manual labour."

"You'd be surprised at how many things you do with your hands." He placed the clothes in her arms. "It would be a good workout too. Get changed."

Marie-Celeste was a little incensed, but she changed anyway. There was no mirror in the room -- incredible -- and she wondered if she looked terribly awful or dreadfully awful. The jogging suit was far too big and so were the shirt and the socks. She must look a fright, although it was not uncomfortable. She went to look for Patrick, who had very decently left her alone, and found him piling old newspapers in the box they had begun to fill with papers from his bedroom.

"Gorgeous," he said and laughed when she pulled a face at him. "Dinner will be delivered in fifteen minutes."

"Delivered?"

"I don't want you to think you'll die of food poisoning if I prepare you something myself," he answered. "Or of starvation because you refuse to eat anything I make. Are you anorexic, by the way?"

Marie-Celeste coloured indignantly. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're a bit on the bony side."

"On the bony side!" she exclaimed.

"May I?" he asked and tapped her hip. "Is that bony or not? I noticed that when I…er…happened to struggle with you. You know, with a few kilos more it wouldn't feel as fragile."

She blushed deeply in embarrassment and stepped backwards, fending off his hand. "I don't know what business you could have to think about my body."

"Sorry, a body is all I look at," he said regretfully. "I suppose that it's not the case for you, so you wouldn't mind if I took off my shirt." He took off his shirt and continued his work.

Marie-Celeste closed her eyes and shook her head. She should leave, but it was snowing very heavily. It would not be so very clever to drive. She stared out of the window doubtfully. After all, it was him and not her who looked at bodies.

The doorbell rang and Patrick went to answer it, pulling on his shirt again. He returned with a white plastic bag. "Our dinner," he said cheerfully, wiping the table clean and getting them spoons and forks. "I ordered some pasta."

He had ordered for her too and it would be impolite to refuse, so she sat down reluctantly and ate. It tasted well and she had been a little hungry, but she did not want to stay here any longer than necessary. She had thought he had improved, but it turned out that he was still as bad as before and his opinion of her was so low that he had merely invited her to make fun of her.

Patrick observed her in silence. He had a feeling that he had overstepped his boundaries again. He wondered how he managed to do that all the time. "You're great at telling people what to do," he said encouragingly when she seemed a bit morose. She raised her eyes slowly and then cast them down again. "It's a compliment."

"I'm sure it is," she murmured. "Coming from you."

"Really. You don't trust me, do you?"

"Oh, I trust you. I trust you to make fun of me at every opportunity."

"Then why did you come?" he asked.

"I honestly don't know. You're always trying to discomfit me."

"Yes," he agreed. "I can't help it. The fun is short-lived, but the regret lasts longer."

"I didn't know you could feel regret."

"Well, now you'd expect me to deny it or say something to discomfit you even more, but night is falling and I'm a kind of vampire."

Marie-Celeste looked at him quizzically. "You're what?"

"I behave during the night. Oh, there are so many lecherous comments I could make," he said regretfully. "But I won't make them. This time between six and twelve is always the hardest, because I'm sort of in the shady area between being nice and being wicked. It's pure torment."

"If by that you mean you invite me to stay the night so I can see your nice side, you can forget it," she said decidedly.

He raised his eyebrows. "After six o'clock your tongue becomes pretty wicked and your mind is in the gutter. That other time when you made fun of my boxers was during the night as well."

"I would have made fun of your boxers at any time of the day, but I was spared the sight of them."

"If I had known you wanted to see my boxer shorts…"

"Please, I'm eating." Marie-Celeste looked disgusted.

"No, you've finished," Patrick replied, looking at the empty container.

"It's not been digested enough to prevent it from coming out again," she warned him.

"You're really my opposite," he said in astonishment.

"I don't know what you mean," she said and looked around the sitting room for a place to start. "I suggest you work here while I inspect the kitchen. You probably go about cleaning plates just like those two fellows in the noodles commercial, but you know how to do a room now. Come and help me when you're finished."

She expected that he would be done in about half an hour, but an hour later he had still not shown his face in the kitchen, which was in a positively pitiful state. Although she had heard he was busy with things, she had not looked, for fear of betraying that she had no clue how to tackle a dirty kitchen and that she was continually disgusted by every new plate with the caked-on remains of a dinner. Since she had never set food in student accommodations which only housed boys, she did not know that it could be far worse and that Patrick had only become sloppy last week. An hour was all that was necessary to return the kitchen to a state of normality and she went to the bathroom. Now that the laundry basket had been restored to its proper function there was not much to do there, except rearrange the items on the shelf. It all seemed relatively clean and Marie-Celeste told herself that she had only come to tidy and not to clean.

When she went to the sitting room again, she found Patrick amid piles of things. She did not know why he gave her such an odd look, but she had not seen that her cheeks were flushed from working. "How are you progressing?"

"Very well, thank you," he said and threw a whole armful of objects into a bin bag. "Almost done."

Marie-Celeste looked out of the window. To her great alarm she noticed that it had snowed steadily and that driving would be out of the question until the roads had been sprinkled. "How am I going to get home?" she cried.

"Seems that won't be possible," he replied calmly. "But I had nothing to do with it."

She groaned. "This cannot be happening. When will they start sprinkling?"

"Tomorrow morning?" Patrick cleared up the last bit of the room and looked around with satisfaction. It looked enormously tidy now. "But staying here isn't as bad as that anymore now that it's tidy."

"That's not the point."

"Oh, I'm the point," he nodded. "I see. But I'll be in my bed and you may have the couch."

"Why me?"

"Because you're shorter."

"I won't have the couch if you have the bed."

"Share my bed. That's okay too."

"Never." She turned around and peered out at the street again anxiously, to see if there was any sign of sprinkling yet, but so far there were not even cars.

"You want us to go camping in the sitting room?" Patrick looked enlightened.

"I'll drive home."

"Sorry, Cellie," he jumped to his feet and stood beside her. "I'm not going to let you. It's dangerous to drive now."

"You can't stop me."

"Yes, I can." He put his arms around her from behind and gripped her wrists. "See if you can move now."

"Patrick, don't be so annoying. Let me go." Marie-Celeste struggled to break free.

"Sweetheart, don't do the lambada in front of a lit window. It might be misinterpreted," he said in amusement. "Promise me that you'll stay here and I'll promise you that I'll behave."

Marie-Celeste stared at their reflection in the window while she thought that over. People would think that he was embracing her lovingly, but they would not feel the vice-like grip he had on her wrists.

"Well, don't we look cute?" he asked, leaning his chin on her head.

"Patrick, if you continue to take liberties with me, I'm going to accuse you of harassment," she hissed.

He let her go immediately and walked away.

Marie-Celeste was free now, but why did she not like the feeling it gave her? She remained standing there for a while, not looking over her shoulder. It had been mean of her to say that, since she rather liked it. What? She fell down on the couch miserably and hid her head under a pillow so nobody would see how bright red she looked, not that there was anybody around, because Patrick had disappeared. She rather liked it when he did such things. She was so childish to enjoy wrestling. Maybe she had to catch up on something because she had had no brothers.

Patrick was having the same thoughts, but then about himself. He should never have invited her. Why had he? It was not as if he could not clean his flat himself if he wanted to. He just never wanted to. He hoped she did not genuinely feel harassed, because that had never been his intention. If he had done that to one of his brothers, it would never have been misinterpreted. He was only playing around. And why had she ordered to have the tennis balls removed from the room now that he was in need of one to bounce against the wall? He pushed himself off the bed and tried to remember where they had put them. From the hall he glanced into the sitting room and saw that she was in a rather curious position on the couch, under a pillow. Maybe she regretted her words and she would accept his apology. He walked over hesitantly and stood looking down on her for a few minutes. Just when he wondered if she had suffocated herself with the pillow because she did not move and he stretched out a hand to feel if she was still alive, he remembered that he should not touch her and he pulled his hand back. He cleared his throat.

Marie-Celeste slowly removed her head from under the pillow and looked up at him, her face all warm and flushed and with red imprints from the couch on it.

"I'm sorry," Patrick apologised.

"No," she scrambled up. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I -- I don't mind if you do that. I swear. Let me show you." She stood on the couch and hugged him, so was not so much shorter than he was. "I don't mind, see?"

Patrick was quite stunned, although her hug was not unwelcome. "Ahh…uhh…"

"It's only a little wrestling between friends…as long as you don't hurt me, you may hold me upside down for all I care."

"You sure?" he said hesitantly.

"Yes."

"About the friends bit?"

"Oh. That slipped out…" she realised. It must be true then. She generally did not flatter people she disliked by calling them friends.

"Yeah, right. Alright, friend," Patrick still had to get himself back in order. "Are you going to stay here then?"

"Yes, you said it would be too dangerous to drive."

He set her down on the ground. "Wait a minute." He disappeared and returned with a mattress and a minute later with another one.

Marie-Celeste observed it all with curiosity. When he had brought the first one in, she had still had her reservations, especially since it was a mattress from a double bed. But now that there were two of them, she saw that they would each have their own. "Are there two mattresses on your bed?"

"Yes, don't ask me why, but it's useful now."

Half an hour later she was safely rolled into a sleeping bag, wearing one of Patrick's t-shirts for pyjamas and watching something on television. "Don't you have pyjamas?" she asked when he appeared in shorts.

"You're wearing the other half," he grinned. "But if you want me to wear them, give them back then." He made a move towards her and she shrieked and disappeared inside the sleeping bag. He lifted up the sleeping bag by its open side and groaned. "You're very heavy for someone so thin."

"Ouch," cried Marie-Celeste when he dropped the sleeping bag ungracefully.

Patrick made himself comfortable under his covers and stole the remote control while she was still trying to emerge from the sleeping bag looking decent. "It just occurred to me that you could also have slept in John's bed, since I don't think he's home."

"Where does he live then?" she asked curiously.

Patrick pointed at the ceiling. "I have the key and he's out, but he didn't know if he'd back. It had something to do with Anna having to get up at seven."

Marie-Celeste yawned. "Well, I wouldn't want to be sleeping in his bed when he comes home."

"If he comes home. I don't think he will, because he's got the same problem you do -- the snow -- and even if he didn't, he'd still stay because he's in love with your sister, which means he's probably out of the tournament tomorrow because there are certain activities that one should avoid the night before a match."

"Oh, and you think he doesn't know that?"

"He knows, but what if Anna drags him into bed?"

"I doubt that he needs to be dragged," Marie-Celeste said sarcastically. "And Anna would know it too, so don't blame her. Why did you snatch the remote control?"

"It's mine."

"But I was using it."

"No, you weren't."

She yawned again and hid herself in the sleeping bag. "There wasn't anything on anyway. I think I'll go to sleep so I can wake up early tomorrow morning and go home. You are so lucky that I don't have any engagements."

"Don't you mean that you are lucky?" he asked. "I don't see how it affects me, unless you volunteer to go to the baker's and get fresh bread in the morning."

"Hmph!" it sounded from inside the sleeping bag.

Back

Next

Back To Novel Idea