My room has ornate carvings above its door
and beige velvet walls, soft like a kittenbelly. Not only are the doors about
nine feet tall, but there are two sets, like an airlock. I think the wood is
old beech. If it weren’t for the radiators and the flat screen telly, I’d feel
like I should be able to hear a Bach sonata (probably played by a gaggle of
musicians around the corner – and yes, this room has bits round corners).
Jack has spent the afternoon faking being
sick in his mouth in response to things I say. In Eurostar. First Class. I’m a
grown-up now and this is my life. I love it.
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