“The place was clean, quiet, the tables covered with white-and-red checked plastic cloths. The smile the waitress flashed was also plastic but she didn’t look anywhere near as fresh as the tablecloths. The coffee wasn’t warm mud but it wanted to be. The street was thronged but I’d have spotted Helen Conway with one eye tied behind my back. She emerged from the office with Frank in tow, disappeared around the corner. I left the waitress a tip – don’t get married ‘til you’re thirty-five – and disa...ppeared after them. They crossed the street, turned another corner onto the old bridge, tripped up the steps of the Connaught Arms Hotel. I gave them a minute to get comfortable and then I tripped up the steps of the Connaught Arms Hotel too. The foyer was warm and humid, sultry as Faulkner’s socks. The gold lamé decoration tacked up over the reception desk bore the legend ‘Happy Xmas’. Silver disco balls were suspended from the dusty light-shades, each one boasting a sprig of mistletoe.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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