It is an old fashioned lock and key, making an audible rattle and click that Camille finds reassuring; the apartment coming alive with the noisy pronouncement that she is again home.
The sound of the key brings Dumas, the cat, brushing against her leg then slinking off to observe and lurk in shadows, emerging for stroking and treats.
Untying and shaking out her long blonde hair, Camille sorts through the mail—nothing of interest—on the way to the kitchen to check the terrace garden, bright from an afternoon rain. Mulching and weeding can wait until Wednesday. No blinking red light at the phone.
Switching on the music system to soft Fleetwood Mac classic rock she selects a pinot noir from the wine rack and heads for a shower, tossing sweater, bra and skirt into the bedroom without spilling a drop of wine.
The bathroom tiles are cool to tired feet as Camille raises the shade, opens the window. Steam seeps from the shower as she steps out of blue transparent underwear one leg at a time, with Dumas nearby. Night falls.