She glanced at the telephone, wondering if she should try Richie’s office again. She checked her watch and realised that it was nearly seven-thirty. Far too late.
She unpacked, hanging her clothes neatly in the closet. The bed had been made, presumably by Harriet; it took a real effort of will to drag herself away from the temptation of the turned-back cover and white linen sheets and to go and run a bath.
The bathroom wasn’t up to the marble magnificence of the cloakroom in the house, but the water was hot and there were expensive bath salts and a pile of fresh towels just like the ones in the cloakroom. Too much of this, she thought as she sank beneath the water, and she’d be spoilt rotten.
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