eighteen
The Monday morning tube ride to the East End was the worst travel nightmare that Elizabeth had ever experienced. She alighted at her destination a frazzled bag of nerves. Blinking in the sunlight like an unearthed mole, Elizabeth followed Harry’s instructions which were scribbled on a scrap of paper. It seemed to take forever just to cross the busy road, then she had to walk up a steep incline and through a park full of boisterous teenagers. Finally she arrived at the tapas café, which was charmingly called A Taste of Spain. Metal shutters covered the front of the premises; Elizabeth checked her watch and was surprised to find that she was twenty minutes early. She wondered if she had the right place, yet the email she’d received last night from Carolyn, specifically stated to me
