‘And the price is?’
‘That he’s impossible!’
‘You should work well together, then!’
‘John!’ Sam aimed a tea-cloth at his head which he caught perfectly. ‘I am not impossible!’
‘Of course not, Sam!’
She watched him begin to fill jugs with orange and lemon squash.
Dear John. He’d been her closest friend since she’d arrived in London, still smarting with hurt and trying to get used to the fact that she wasn’t going to be Bob’s bride after all, that Charlotte had stepped in and taken over that particular role.
Angry, confused and alone, she had met John at a bus-stop near the Albert Hall in the driving rain. They had both been to the same Schumann concert and they had shared their views on the pianist over a cup of coffee which had extended into a supper of pasta, eating in John’s book-filled but untidy flat.
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