Rose had everything she could possibly need in her bungalow, with glasses for every type of drink and a crocheted coaster to go under each one. Olives, peanuts, cocktail sausages and homemade crisps were piled high in cut-glass dishes. The hostess twirled around the table in a flimsy lilac chiffon negligee like a moth dancing in the light of the scented anti-mosquito lamp. She had a kind word for everyone, especially Violette, whose cheek she stroked each time she went past. Simon and Fiona were on the pastis, Rose on beer, Bernard on mint cordial and Violette on her bottle, staring up at Venus in the night sky. Unlike her neighbours, Rose had personalised her bungalow, decorating it with fairy lights, frilly curtains and pots of brightly coloured geraniums. ‘It’s another place to call my own. I’ve been coming here for so long, the same weeks every year. Francis, the manager, gets everything ready for me before I arrive. It’s like having a second home, I suppose.
