64
I returned to the hotel. Mrs Bailey, looking frail, almost delicate, was near swamped in paperwork. Though I wanted to be alone, to go into myself and basically sulk, I stopped, asked,
“Are you OK, Mrs B?”
She raised her head and it pained me to glimpse her skull through the thinning hair. That grieved me so. I noticed the profusion of liver spots on her hands and could only hazard a guess at her age. Someone had attempted to perm her hair and made a shocking mess, as if half way through they decided,
“f**k this, it’s a shambles.”
And it was.
She said,
“I don’t want to burden you, Mr Taylor, what with your recent loss.”
I wanted to agree, slip away to my room, but I stayed, asked,
“How about I buy you a drink, a big fat warm whiskey, with cloves, sugar … hell, we’ll shoot the w
