Jane looked down at the black and yellow tights. “No, seriously, though, you have some proper vintage gear in there. Biba, DVF. That purple Chanel-type thing. Do you know what this stuff is worth?”
“Get them off.”
Perhaps registering my sudden rigidity, Trog began to propel me forward. “Look, why don’t we go through to the living room and—”
“I’m not moving until she takes those tights off.”
Jane pulled a face. “Jesus. No need to have a baby about it.”
I watched, vibrating with anger, as Jane began to peel down my bumblebee tights, kicking at them when they wouldn’t slide off her feet.
“Don’t rip them!”
“They’re just a pair of tights.”
“They are not just a pair of tights. They were . . . a gift.”
“Still a pair of tights,” she muttered.
She finally got them off, leaving them in a b
