Clare Chambers Author Small Pleasures Novelas e Histórias

he said. The morning passed in the clean rhythm of numbers. Clara lost herself in columns and notes. Precision made her feel safe. At eleven thirty she carried the summaries downstairs. Dominic skimmed them, marked two dates, and nodded approval. He did not praise her aloud. The nod felt like a coin dropped in her pocket anyway. The shelves took longer. Dust rose in lazy spirals. Old leather and paper made the air smell like a library that remembered every hand it had met. She moved carefully around the desk. She thought of the top drawer the way a mountain thinks of snow. Quiet. Powerful. Waiting.

"But. I guess I could use a break. Thanks for the food. She stepped into the room with confident grace, with soft clicking heels on the floor. Clara placed the bag at the table, deliberate in the action, showing what enticement lay within: not complicated but all of him. She could see there had been thought in it — everything he liked, yet nothing too complicated, just that little gesture to show how much she cared. "Meant it should just be kind of casual to get lunch," she had said, the curves of his mouth twitching to bring into play his smile. "No business discussion. Not pressured. Two friends seeing two for lunch."

I take off my shoes at the entrance, leaving them lying there, then walk slowly to the balcony, my briefcase hanging loosely over my shoulder. Clara sat in a wicker chair, her bare legs folded comfortably over the seat. A half-empty glass of lemon tea perched in her left hand. She wore a loose, oversized white T-shirt, her hair in an original braid and hanging to one side. She turned her head when she heard my footsteps approaching, her smile slow and relaxed, as if the afternoon were hers alone. "You're home," she said. I pulled out a chair from a nearby round table and sat down slowly. My shoulders were still stiff from too much weight bearing, and the chair was like a soft trap that made

The uneasy feeling in my stomach refused to disappear. Everything looked perfect. Almost…Too perfect. Lunch began peacefully. For the first time since arriving at the mansion, no one argued. No one exchanged sarcastic remarks and , no one insulted anyone. It felt almost unreal. Halfway through the meal, Pamela gently placed her fork down. “Clare.” I looked up. “Yes?” She smiled a soft…Almost nervous smile. “I’ve been thinking. I owe you an apology.” My eyes widened. “What?” She nodded. “I’ve been rather unpleasant.”

A heavy gush of mixed cum his friends’ loads and his own pre-cum poured from my gaping pussy and ran down my thighs onto the carpet. He stood up, towering over me sprawled, trembling form. I stayed on the floor, panting, legs still spread, too exhausted to move. I watched through half-lidded eyes as he walked casually to the small mini-fridge in the corner of the room. The sound of the door opening filled the quiet space. Marcus rummaged for a second, then pulled out a thick, long cucumber—one of the big ones I had bought for snacks earlier in the week. It was easily ten inches long and quite girthy, smooth, cool, and rigid. He held it up, turning it in his hand with a wicked grin.

The small notebooks Clara has filled since she was eight, arranged on her own shelf. The smooth ceiling. She sits at the desk. Takes out the sixteenth notebook. Writes: August, fifty-three. The apartment alone for a week. Walking through it. Thirty-three years of the second life accumulated in these rooms. The ceiling smooth. The city outside unchanged in the essential ways and changed in every specific. The bowls on the shelf. The notebooks. The photograph from Lily.

I looked at the garden through my window and felt the warmth in my chest do something it had been doing with increasing frequency since Las Cruces, a kind of expanding, the sensation of something that had been compressed for a long time being given room. Yes, I said. Spring works. Thursday Clara appeared at the house with no announcement at ten in the morning, which was standard Clara behaviour, and sat in the kitchen and demanded to know everything that had happened since our return in the precise sequential detail that she processed significant events, not the outline but the actual texture of each day. I told her about the library conversations with Adrian. She listened without expression

Clara leaned against the doorway, smirking like a queen whose throne had been polished. “She’s just bitter,” Clara said sweetly, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “Not everyone is lucky enough to have someone like Dickens. You should have seen the new necklace he bought me yesterday. Real diamonds.” She touched her neck dramatically, as if she were on a stage. I kept my gaze down, fixing my collar. “Good for you,” I murmured. Clara’s smirk widened. “Oh, it is. He said he’s planning a trip for us. Somewhere expensive. He says I deserve it, unlike some people who waste their lives waiting tables.”

“Ah, well, remember—we’re not going to the usual hotel vacation. This one’s different. It’s just for a little while.” She unlocked the door, ushering Amelia inside. The room was small, barely big enough for the bed, a chipped dresser, and a single chair. The wallpaper peeled at the corners, and the air smelled faintly of mildew. Amelia looked around, her lips tugging downward. “Mommy… this room is so small.” Clara set down the luggage, keeping her voice light. “It’s fine, baby. It’s comfortable enough for the two of us, right?”

Days later, Madame Clara had left for a weekend trip, off to some fancy spa with her rich friends and her absence was a rare chance. Ava was in the master bedroom, busy dusting the huge four-poster bed where Clara and Rex slept. The room was all luxury with silk sheets, gold-trimmed mirrors, a chandelier sparkling above. Her dressed pulled tight as she bent to fluff the pillows and she immediately felt eyes on her, causing her turn, and there Rex was, standing in the doorway, his frame filling the space.