“I’m Kylie Kendall." I thrust out my hand. "And I reckon you’re Ariana Creeling." The woman seated behind the broad, black desk had pale blond hair, pulled back from her still, cool face. I immediately wished I had eyes like hers—icy blue. Mine are boring brown. She repeated, "Kylie Kendall?" as if I’d unexpectedly popped out of a hole in the ground and she had no idea what to do with me. Then she got up and came round to shake my hand with a fast, hard pressure. "I’m Ariana Creeling. Again,... may I say how sorry I am about your father." I’d spoken to her once before, on the phone when she’d rung from Los Angeles two months ago to say my dad had suddenly died. I’d been shell-shocked by the news, but still could remember how I liked her American voice. Now that we were face-to-face, her accent didn’t seem quite so strong. She was older than me, almost as tall, and she needed to put on some weight. Of course, black’s slimming, like my mum always tells me, so the fact Ariana Creeling was wearing black from head to foot—black top, black pants, black high-heeled boots—probably made her look thinner than she really was.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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