An Image Of You

‘Oh, I’ve always known the difference, dear boy.’ He came towards George and held out a hand in welcome. ‘Take no notice of Lukas. I believe he practises being horrible in front of a mirror.’

A striking brunette, who had looked up at George’s arrival, looked away again. ‘I think I’m up. Four kings and a run of hearts.’ She laid some cards out in front of her.

George felt a pulse beating in her neck. There had been a casual insolence, a dismissal of something without interest, about the girl’s attitude. She made a very special effort to focus her mind on why she was here, in this Place of Dread, fixing her thoughts on the youngsters living in cardboard boxes and how much they would love to feel this sun, how lucky they would think her. She allowed her face to relax into a smile and stepped into the shade of the tent. ‘It seems there has been a bit of a mix-up. I’m Georgette Bainbridge. Everybody calls me George.’

‘Are you related to Sir Charles?’

‘She’s his daughter, Walter.’ And George sensed rather than saw the look that passed between them. ‘Is there anything to drink? What would you like, George?’

‘Mineral water?’ she asked, and was promptly handed a glass of ice-cold water.

‘Thank you.’ She drank it down in thirsty gulps and almost felt the steam rising. ‘I’ll get my things from the jeep, if someone will show me where to put them.’