There’s no “only” about it. Late is late, Tatiana. Who in their right mind sits down to tea at five past four?’Tatiana grinned. She was glad she’d come after all. Her godmother’s flat in Ashley Gardens was as familiar to her as her own body, and one of the few reminders of her childhood that made her wholly happy. She loved everything about it, from the sweet, musty smell that lingered in every room (part Garibaldi biscuit, part Gauloise tobacco smoke, part Chanel Number 5 and, Tati assumed, part mould) to the dust-covered ornaments along the mantelpiece, to the frayed Knole sofa still covered with its original William Morris fabric, now more hole than cloth. She loved Queen Bee’s face, a crumpled mishmash of folded, wrinkled skin, like crepe paper, but brought alive by the two twinkly, bright blue eyes, blazing with intelligence and wit and warmth amid the wreckage. She loved the fact that Bee had known her father, Rory, all of his life, and that she still dropped his name into conversation with Tatiana freely and easily.
