“Waiters brought the crinkly courgette flowers fried in batter, and a plate of a rustic ham approved by Alain was set on the table—but I couldn’t honestly say that I ate anything at all. It was more as if the whole world was suddenly determined to eat me. Here was Stefan, pointing across the road: ‘The office of Crookstons is bang opposite us, Scarlett!’ (Everyone was using my name now, too. I’m used to being a no-name: it’s part of being invisible, the fate of all the billions of us over-age wo...men on the planet. We should all be called Pluto, the planet demoted, for its lack of size and importance, to the status of a minor star.) ‘I know Martin Crookston very well’, Stefan continued, while Alain picked at his prosciutto (even I can recognise that—they sell it in Tesco—but this one is undoubtedly from Castel del Sangri or wherever the head waiter murmured deferentially to Alain). ‘We can go and see Martin, and on the way to your house we’ll visit the riad’, says Stefan, who must have picked up my infatuation—if that is what it is; Molly says it must be the HRT pills which somehow got stuck in my system since I stopped taking them two years back.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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