Forty-Three
Memory 22
It was October. I’d wanted to meet Mr and Mrs MacDuff for … well, we’d been together since my birthday, just before Christmas. So I’d hoped to meet them for at least ten months.
Viggo always seemed to invite me over when they were out to dinner, or at work. Or on holidays in the Seychelles.
I’d asked, a couple of times, tentatively, if they might like to meet me. Viggo had blown me off. “Of course. But, you know, they’re busy …”
I’d let it drop. And months went by.
And then …
I don’t know what got into me. I knew that Viggo hated doing things he hadn’t planned. He had his schedule honed to perfection and he became intensely grouchy if it got out of whack.
But I was excited—the Bangarra bookshop had shelved their copies of a new political memoir Viggo was covet
