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“At eight o’clock, as the light deepened, Matty walked slowly down the stone steps to the terrace by the pool, concentrating on making an entrance. She was wearing the red silk dress, matching her lipstick, and she’d put her hair up in a thick and tangled mop of blonde. Charcoal smoke was blowing about in the evening breeze; she breathed in the sweet and pheremonal smell of lobster grilling on the barbecue, the scent of rosemary and wild thyme, of perfume and designer sun-block and, faintly, the odour of drains. There were a dozen people sitting at the long table under the arcade, all of them turning to watch her as she stepped down onto the terrace.”

From Flirting at the Funeral © Chris Keil 2012

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