Toni Prescott knew exactly why she liked to sing that silly song. Her mum had hated it.
Stop singing that stupid song. Do you hear me? You have no voice, anyway.
“Yes, Mother.” And Toni would sing it again and again, under her breath.
That had been long ago, but the memory of defying her mother still gave her a glow.
Toni Prescott hated working at Global Computer Graphics. She was twenty-two years old, impish, vivacious, and daring.
She was half smoldering, half firecracker. Her face was puckishly heart shaped, her eyes were a mischievous brown, her figure alluring.
She had been born in London and she spoke with a delightful British accent.
She was athletic and loved sports, particularly winter sports: skiing and bobsledding and ice-skating.
Going to college in London, Toni had dressed conservatively during the day,
but at night, she had donned miniskirts and disco gear and made the swinging rounds.
She had spent her evenings and nights at the Electric Ballroom on Camden High Street,
and at Subterania and the Leopard Lounge, mixing with the trendy West End crowd.
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