‘I can’t believe that it’s officially autumn. It must be even hotter today than it was in July.’ Lazily, she raised the glass in salute. ‘God bless global warming and all the little holes in the ozone layer.’ ‘The end of September’s always the best time for a heatwave,’ Jasmine agreed. ‘Most of the tourists have gone, and the beach is practically deserted – not to mention the Crumpled Horn.’ Clara drained her glass, dropped her Raybans down over her eyes, and surrendered herself to the sun. Jasmine, having dared to bare her legs in a pair of cut-off jeans and most of her upper body in a vest, swigged the last drops from a bottle of Old Ampney ale, propped her feet up on the balustrade, and settled down into her canvas chair. September, as well as being warm enough to warrant It’s A Scorcha!’ headlines in the tabloids, had also, for Jasmine, been wondrously idle. True to form, Damon and his boys were running well behind on the refurbishment of the stadium, so she’d had little to do.
