Even if she didn’t get the job—it wasn’t likely, given her appearance, and general demeanor, given what she’d done—she must carry on as normal, and press on with what life had in store for her this month. The day dawned dry and calm. There wasn’t to be an excuse in the weather. She lay in bed feeling enormous and achy and she placed her hands on her waist and felt around her hips and thighs. It was all there already, all that meat and fat. Lynn, who managed the Bird Hotel on the outskirts of Farnham, was a large-breasted tall woman in navy sweatshirt, tailored trousers, and trainers. She had with her Steven, who’d worked before in video and visual communications in Farnham and held his hand out round a clipboard. They needed a team member, someone who would smile at the desk. “Not much of a commute then,” they said in unison, then beamed at each other and laughed. Lynn was probably in her early fifties too—but she was bouncy, and looked like the sort of woman who kept herself young by plugging in to a younger crowd.
