Friday night we wash our hair
‘Do you have that – a place of your own?’
‘I,’ she said, striking a histrionic attitude, ‘live with a friend in West Chelsea. Fulham, that is. Walk up three flights, and there we are. Two rooms, kitchenette, share the bathroom. Her name is Sylvia Farley, and she works for a firm that sells diamonds. Alas, no samples. We have a gas cooker, a transistor radio, a rented TV, and we share a cat along with the bathroom. All the amenities. Friday nights, we wash our hair.’
‘All the amenities? That includes a telephone, I take it.’
She looked at him, biting her lip. ‘So happens, yes. A pretty little pink one. Costs shared, but it’s my name in the book. Blackstone, Diana, Finsborough 1236. One plus two plus three equals six. Everyone says it’s an easy number to remember.’
He heard footsteps approaching from the salon, and recognised them as Elizabeth’s. He permitted himself a faint smile before turning round to greet her.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I rather think it is.’