Come in.’ Elizabeth Jennings stood back to let Carly through the door. She’d left an invitation for afternoon tea in Carly’s letterbox two days ago. The eggshell blue stationery and formal wording had made Carly smile, then spend an hour drafting a reply that didn’t sound like an RSVP from a Jane Austen novel. Carly followed Elizabeth into the apartment, awed again by the shelves and their contents. ‘So many beautiful things.’ They faced the wall together as though they were admiring a mural. ‘Entirely self-indulgent, of course,’ Elizabeth said. ‘But it’s my home and while I still can, I want to remember everything.’ It wasn’t a vanity wall, there were no awards or brag photos. But there were photographs – some of people, others of exotic settings. And books, carved pieces, a tiny painting, three rocks, a bronzed shoe. ‘You must have done a lot.’ ‘It’s been a full life.’ ‘May I?’ Carly asked, not wanting to assume that because they were on display they were open for close inspection.
