Some might make something of that. There isn’t anything to make of it. I recognise her because she hasn’t changed. Inevitably, there are a few more lines around her eyes, the skin underneath her jaw has slackened a fraction and she is perhaps three or four pounds heavier – she carries it all on her stomach. But on the plus side, her clothes are even posher than they were – and they were always refined, a cut above. She’s wearing white linen trousers and a thin woollen navy top, probably cashmere, I’d guess. The top wafts gently around her as she walks towards me, caressing her shoulders, hips, breasts. Her hair is a little longer than I remember, softer, feathered. She used to wear it in the Purdey style, inspired by The New Avengers; she had the cheekbones and the endless legs to carry it off. There were a lot of Joanna Lumley wannabes back then. Clara was one of the few who was convincing. Yes, not bad at all. She has that air. The air of a woman who was once something in the seventies; awake and aware, desirable when we really knew how to desire.
