‘There’s only one Tessa Panther in the UK,’ she said for the umpteenth time. I couldn’t help thinking that there is also only one “Cruella de Vil”.
‘So,’ I asked quickly, ‘If I sent a letter to Tessa Panther, UK – you’d get it?’
No; it went straight over her head. She was examining me strangely; her eyes opened wider almost filling with resentment. For Tessa, there was nothing strange about this look; this was her in her natural state. Fairly certain, I knew she would deliberately change the subject, something she is good at, compensating for her inability to engage in casual banter. Sometimes it was good just to sit back and observe. Not that she’d grant me the time; Oh God, too late; what was she saying now? I knew I had better tune back in. She seemed to be still looking at me.
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