The Shared Week

The kettle had just boiled and Yasmin was pouring it over the tea leaves when the kitchen door opened. She was not surprised. She had been told the farmhouse had two guest rooms, and she had been told a key to the second room would be on the hook by the hall, and she had been told, by the woman who had booked it, that she would be alone. She had also, in thirty years of travel, learned that none of those things was a guarantee.

The man who came through the door was taller than she had expected and had a key in his hand. The key was on a black ribbon, and the ribbon was knotted, and she recognised the ribbon from the hook in the hall, which meant the key was hers, which meant he was not.

'I am Tomas,' he said. 'I was told this room was taken.'