LO-retta announced, dumping a couple of newspapers on the table in front of Bridget. “Wait a minute,” she added as Bridget read a headline and opened her mouth to exclaim. “First things first. Have you ordered?” “He’s bringing some mineral water. I don’t really feel like eating.” “I do.” Loretta, who was suddenly ravenous, picked up the menu and went to the bar. She nodded to the barman, whom she knew by sight, and ordered ham, eggs and chips, then turned over the menu to look at the list of beers: “And a Corona.” She returned to the table, pleased that she had suggested coming here instead of the more crowded Browns, and took off her jacket. The tables were large, easily accommodating six, and as often as not Loretta and Bridget had to share, usually with people who worked in the OUP building round the corner in Walton Street. Today, though, the bar was quiet. “This”—Bridget held up a paper as Loretta slid onto the seat beside her—“this is unbelievable.
