There was one old lady who was busy talking to Marjorie’s baby-pink companion with the jutting teeth, and a florid-faced oil executive who was sitting with his head between his knees (he had brought his own hip-flask), but apart from those two, the old house was deserted. The guests had left nothing but tire tracks, empty sherry glasses, and dirty ashtrays. “I think I’m going to have a cup of tea,” said Marjorie, leading us to the drawing room. “Will you join me?” I shook my head. “I don’t drink tea. It’s bad for the stomach lining. You know, in China, they used to make eunuchs drink hundreds of cups of tea every day, then they cut them open and would use their stomachs for footballs.” Anna gave me a sharp nudge in the ribs. “I’m sorry,” I said. “That wasn’t in very good taste.” Marjorie sighed. “Don’t worry, Harry. The quicker I get back to normal, the better it will be. I feel I’ve been living apart from the world for years with Max. We were so isolated.
