‘This flat suits you, Mirabelle,’ Vesta announced the following morning . She had never slept anywhere so swanky – it was a far cry from the sparse bedsit she rented on the top floor of a shop along from the People’s Picture Palace on Lewes Road. She’d known, of course, that Mirabelle had some money – you could tell by her clothes – but she hadn’t expected the high-ceilinged apartment, the brand new kitchen and the expensive furnishings including an ornate pair of solid silver candlesticks perched on the alabaster fireplace. That said, the flat was a tip – there were newspapers everywhere for a start. Neither of the women had slept well, and now Vesta was concerned she wasn’t going to eat well either. Having skipped dinner she found herself, unsurprisingly, searching in vain through Mirabelle’s kitchen cupboards for something worth the effort of breakfast. It appeared that Mirabelle subsisted on tinned soup and sandwich paste. There was nothing else in the pantry.
