They alighted at the restaurant, and stood for a moment in the passage looking into the crowded room. ‘Poor Hilary. “Cheer up, Annabel. “Be careful,” Lucy cautioned Michelle as she sidestepped a two by four studded with upturned nails. Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. Her eyes were lit with smouldering passion. .
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