CHAPTER 7
GABE MAY HAVE been able to distract me yesterday while I was awake, but his touch didn’t extend to my sleeping hours. Or rather, my tossing, turning, getting up and down and pacing around the room hours.
In the end, I resorted to watching BBC World until a documentary about the trials and tribulations of Mongolian basket weavers sent me off. Unfortunately, the tale of colourful woven wares and cheerful peasants worked a little too well, and I didn’t wake up until eight thirty the next day.
Eating breakfast was clearly an impossibility, but could I get away without a shower? I sniffed my armpits. They’d do. And I could put my hair up into a ponytail. It was only going to get wet anyway.
I threw on an old T-shirt and a ratty pair of shorts. Gabe had seen me at my worst already,
