After Oz had stomped off to the guest room, Giles spent a restless night. Was he really being classist? Ungrateful?
He thought of Angie, and the way she’d smiled at the sight of him. Had there been a suspicion of a tear in her over-made-up eye?
“Mummy,” Giles said next morning, hovering by the Aga as his mother did something complicated with the pressure cooker, “am I a snob?” He’d made sure Oz was safely occupied with the PS3 and out of earshot.
His mother turned, a picture of elegance as always. He’d spent many happy hours, as a child, trying on her wardrobe of frothy chiffon dresses and crisp linen jackets. And the shoes… High ones, and low ones. Shoes of every style and hue, some of them custom-dyed to match particular outfits. Delicate strappy sandals, and cheeky little peep-toed c
