Her blond hair was—I grappled for the correct terms—both tall and fat, and tumbled well past her shoulders in glossy waves.
Even Bobbi Brown might have thought the amount of makeup she was wearing de trop.
Raymond’s mouth hung slightly open, just wide enough to post a letter through, and he seemed somewhat dazed.
Laura appeared entirely indifferent to his response. “Raymond! Eleanor!” Sammy shouted, waving from deep within an enormous velvet armchair.
“Laura, get them both a drink, would you? We’re on the Prosecco,” he said, confidentially.
“No more for you, Dad,” his elder son said. “Not with those painkillers.”
“Och, come on, son—you only live once!” Sammy said brightly. “After all, there’s worse ways to go, eh, Eleanor?”
I nodded. He was, of course, absolutely right. I should know.
Laura appeared with two flutes of urine-colored fizzy liquid—much to my surprise, I drank mine down in three gulps.
It was dry and biscuity, and extremely delicious. I wondered if it was expensive,
and whether it might in due course come to replace vodka as my beverage of choice.
Laura noticed, and topped up my glass. “You’re like me—I only drink bubbles,” she said approvingly.
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