The furniture was a smart mix of new contemporary pieces and several threadbare, worn-from-love side chairs. The painting over the fireplace looked like a Sonia Delaunay. The evening sun in London seemed to stay out forever. The rays stretched in long golden strands through the double French doors and across the blond wood floors. “What a great room, Willa!” “I know! I mean, thank you, because the rest of the flat is sort of naff, but this room is stupendous, right? The view from here out to the private garden in the back, the light streaming in. It’s all a bit of all right.” Bronte smiled at the familiar phrase, now happily devoid of her own negative memories, and encouraged Willa to continue. “The bedrooms might as well be mole holes, but who needs light for anything back there, anyway, eh?” “Cheers!” Bronte raised her glass to Willa’s, then took a welcome sip of the delicious, cool vodka.
