Janey looked slyly at the others, thinking that I hadn’t seen her. I saw her eyes flick up to my scars, as they often did.
“Let’s ask Harry Potter over there,” she said, not quite sotto voce, and then turned to address me.
“Eleanor! Hey, Eleanor! You’re a bit of a girl about town, aren’t you?
What do you reckon: where should we go for the office Christmas lunch this year?”
I looked pointedly at the office wall calendar, which, this month, displayed a photograph of a green articulated lorry.
“It’s the middle of summer,” I said. “I can’t say I’ve really given it any thought.”
“Yeah,” she said, “but we’ve got to get something booked up now, otherwise all the good places get taken
and you get left with, like, Wetherspoons or a rubbish Italian.”
“It’s a matter of supreme indifference to me,” I said. “I shan’t be going anyway.”
I rubbed at the cracked skin between my fingersit was healing, but the process was painfully slow.
“Oh, that’s right,” she said, “you never go, do you? I’d forgotten about that.
You don’t do the Secret Santa either. Eleanor the Grinch, that’s what we ought to call you.”
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