The young man with
short blond hair stepped gingerly into the Cheapside flat. Or rather a tall
stack of round cardboard boxes wobbled its way into the flat, an anxious face
peeping around the column as it progressed across the carpet.
Sowerbutt looked up from his Daily
Mirror in which he had been reading about the stalemate with the
Eyeties around Sadi Barrani in the Western Desert. “I might stick
my foot out, Tipper.”
The stack of boxes wobbled
precariously.
“Leave the boy alone, James,
you big bully,” Polly snapped from the doorway. “June will never forgive
you if any of these hats are damaged. My brilliant designer has been slaving
over her latest creations for days. Put the boxes on the table, Tipper, and get
rid of all those papers. We’ve got work to do.”
The papers were Madame
Komarovski’s meticulously kept accounts which Sowerbutt had been checking
before deciding on a corona and a glance through the paper.
No comments:
Post a Comment