The nails looked bruised, as if someone had stepped on her foot. The infuriating thing was she’d known all along she wouldn’t like it, but had given in. Now she’d have to go back tomorrow and have them re-varnished her usual pillar-box red. Then she sighed. Was this what her life had come to? When the colour of her nail polish constituted a crisis? It wasn’t as if another trip to the salon was even an inconvenience. She genuinely didn’t have anything better to do. And when had she lost the ability to paint her own toenails? When had the prospect of lifting a finger to do anything herself become inconceivable? From an outsider’s point of view, she had little to complain about. The twenty-metre pool rippled in front of her, blue and inviting. The gardens were lush and well kept, the stone of the terrace glowed warm in the afternoon sun. The nearby poolhouse provided a wet room, a huge fridge stocked with beers, wines, and soft drinks, and a stack of fluffy towels that was replenished daily by the maids.
