“A Sunday. Nothing had arrived in the post. Not a card, not a letter. Hetty unlocked the postbox and cleared out the plain envelopes with their window labels. Nothing handwritten. She opened them over a meagre breakfast and coffee: two offers to lend her up to £15,000, the information that her name was in a draw for a car provided she attended a presentation on time-share in Sicily, and a coding notice from the Inland Revenue. There was no reason to expect any cards. Al, who might have b...een idiotic enough to send one, did not have her address: the liaison had never progressed that far. James Dolland probably didn’t have it either. Once, a person’s phone number had been regarded as private information; now it was the first detail anyone expected, while an address had receded to a hinterland of greater intimacy. In any case, all James wanted was to make contact. A Valentine would have been inappropriate. Next year? Maybe. Last year had been different.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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