“I shall attend,” I said, inclining my head. “Here’s my card,” Laura said, passing one each to Raymond and to me.
It was black and glossy, embossed with gold leaf, and said Laura Marston- Smith, Esthetic Technician,
Hair Stylist, Image Consultant, with her contact details set out below.
“Seven o’clock on Saturday, yeah? Don’t bring anything, just yourselves.”
I tucked the card carefully into my purse. Raymond had thrust his into his back pocket.
He couldn’t take his eyes off Laura, I noticed, apparently hypnotized rather in the manner of a mongoose before a snake.
She was clearly aware of this. I suspected she was used to it, looking the way she did.
Blond hair and large breasts are so clichéd, so obvious. Men like Raymond, pedestrian dullards,
would always be distracted by women who looked like her, having neither the wit nor the sophistication to see beyond mammaries and peroxide.
Raymond tore his eyes away from Laura’s décolletage and looked at the wall clock, then, pointedly, at me.
“We shall depart,” I said, “and meet again on Saturday.” Once again, there was an overwhelming onslaught of salutations and handshakes.
Sammy, meanwhile, was rummaging in the bags we’d brought. He held up a packet of organic curly kale.
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