She stood at the landing window in her underwear, regarding me evenly. Now there was no denying what Clive had been maintaining for some time. For reasons I couldn't fathom, she wanted me. Clive and I had visited 12 Palladian Road in February. The heavy front door opened “Nancy” she said with a saurian smile, extending her hand. “Minette” I must have said, taking it. The folio containing our best gardens lay unzipped on her lap, as she spoke animatedly. About what? I can't remember. We must have been charming; we usually were in the presence of a prospective client. It was second nature now, even though we were bone tired, working long hours, six days a week. We only stopped when thwarted by the weather, when I'd pace about gnawing my cuticles. The job physically tough, especially for a woman, and the sheer Herculean effort of cranking the handle of one's own business was taking its toll. She had an unplaceable accent and her hands plucked nervously at the loose stitchwork on the folio spine, wittering prettily, the rolling r’s and staccato delivery making her hard to follow.
