We all have friends who are richer than ourselves and they, you may be sure, have richer friends of their own. We are most of us within spitting distance of millionaires.
Spit away - if that's what you feel like.
But, after the manner of these things, Elsa, who has not got a penny to her name (except the remnants of last week's pay packet), knows Victor, who is an antique dealer, who knows Hamish and Gemma, who are millionaires.
And Victor and Elsa, one Friday evening, cursed or lucky things, sit in Victor's big new light-blue Volvo at the gates of Ditton House, where Hamish and Gemma live, and wait for the great teak veneered doors to open and let them through.
Victor is forty-four. Elsa is nineteen, and his mistress. A year ago, when Victor was still a tax accountant, he fished Elsa out of his typist's pool. She flapped and wriggled a little, and then lay still, legs gently parted.
Friday, 18 June 2010
...and they, you may be sure, have richer friends of their own
At Barrow's Farmhouse, as per below, there was a library for guests. I idly picked up an old Fay Weldon book called Little Sisters. I'd never heard of it. I read most of the first page. I wrote the name of the book on my hand, and bought it as soon as I got home. This is why: