I waited for her to go on, taking in her details as I did so. Green chiffon Donna Karan dress, pearls round the neck, and were those Blahniks on her slim, elegantly tapering feet? Probably. She was around thirty, maybe a year or two over, and pretty in a carefully put-together way that had taken a lot of time and effort to get right. Her makeup was designed to be worn nowhere but indoors, most likely in a controlled temperature, and her blond hair was styled in a way it would have cost someone like me a month’s pay to achieve, if I’d had a normal job. Which I didn’t. I let her twiddle her wedding band on her finger for ten more seconds. Then I said, ‘Mrs DeVane?’ ‘Yes?’ She looked up sharply, as if – forgive me if I sound crude, it’s just my style – as if someone in a distant room had farted. ‘You were saying you’re here about your husband?’ ‘Ah. Yes.’ She tried to meet my eyes, couldn’t, and dropped her gaze to the floor, her lashes batting furiously.
