At 10.30 p.m. I gathered some cushions from the chairs and towels from the bathroom, rolled them up and placed them under the covers of the queen bed, arranging them to look like a person huddled under the covers.
It was woeful. It looked exactly what it was—a bunch of towels and cushions under the covers. Frida grimaced in mock exasperation, pulled out the towels and cushions and re-arranged them. When she'd finished, I could have sworn there was someone in the bed. She collected more cushions and towels and did the same with the single bed.
‘You do have artistic talent after all,’ I said.
‘Don't think there's much call for that sort of talent. What would you call it—bed sculpting?’
‘Whatever it's called, it's come in very handy.'
At 11 p.m. I turned off the TV and all the lights and
