Trembling with fear and defiance, she walked up to a clerk at his desk, slappedfifty warm dollars in front of him and said, ‘I want to start a bank account,all right?’ She left five minutes later with a shiny account book and thedelightful recollection that a posh-looking man at a posh-looking desk in aposh-looking building had called her madam, and enjoyed the sensation until itran into the reality that madam had better roll up her sleeves and get to work.

There was a lot to do. She made pies at least a day ahead so that they couldmature, and Mister Nutt’s appetite last night had put quite a large dent in herpantry. But at least there wouldn’t be much demand for pies tomorrow night.Even the wizards didn’t call for a pie after a banquet.

Ah, yes, the banquet, she thought, as the rain started to soak into her coat.The banquet. She would have to see about the banquet. Sometimes if you wantedto go to the ball you had to be your own fairy godmother.

There were several obstacles requiring the touch of a magic wand: Mrs Whitlowdid indeed operate a certain kind of apartheid between the Night and DayKitchens, as if one flight of stairs actually changed who you were. The nextdifficulty was that Glenda did not have, according to the traditions of theuniversity, the right kind of figure to serve at table, at least when therewere visitors, and, lastly, Glenda did not have the temperament for serving attable. It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to smile; she was quite capable ofsmiling, if you gave her enough warning, but she positively hated having tosmile at people who actually merited, instead, a flick around the earhole witha napkin. She hated taking away plates of unfinished food. She always had tosuppress a tendency to say things like ‘Why did you put it on your plate if youdidn’t intend to finish it?’ and ‘Look, you’ve left more than half of it and itcost a dollar a pound,’ and ‘Of course it’s cold, but that’s because you’vebeen playing footsie with the young lady opposite and haven’t beenconcentrating on your dinner,’ and when all else failed ‘There’s littlechildren in Klatch you know… ’–it was a phrase of her mother’s, but she’dobviously missed some significant part of it.

She hated waste, she thought to herself as she walked along the stone corridortowards the Night Kitchen. There never needed to be any if you knew your wayaround a kitchen and if your diners had the decency to take your foodseriously. She was rambling to herself. She knew that. Occasionally she wouldpull the front page of the Times out of her bag and take a look at it again. Ithad all really happened and there was the proof. But, it was a funny thing:every day something happened that was important enough to be on the front pageof the newspaper. She’d never bought it and seen a little sign that said ‘Notmuch happened yesterday, sorry about that’. And tomorrow, wonderful though thatpicture was, it would be wrapping up fish and chips and everyone would haveforgotten about it. That would be a load off her mind.

There was a polite cough. She recognized it as belonging to Nutt, who had thepolitest cough there could possibly be. ‘Yes, Mister Nutt?’

‘Mister Trev has sent me with this letter for Miss Juliet, Miss Glenda,’ saidNutt, who had apparently been waiting by the steps. He held it out as if itwere some double-edged sword.

‘She’s not come in yet, I’m afraid,’ said Glenda as Nutt followed her up thesteps, ‘but I’ll put it on the shelf over here where she’ll be bound to seeit.’ She looked at Nutt and saw his eyes firmly fixed on the pie racks. ‘Oh,and I do seem to have made one apple pie more than called for. I wonder if youcould assist me by removing it from the premises?’

He gave her a grateful smile, took the pie and hurried away.

Alone again, Glenda looked at the envelope. It was the cheapest sort, the kindthat looked as if it had been made from recycled lavatory paper. And somehow,it seemed to have got a bit bigger.

Inexplicably, she found herself recalling that the gum on those envelopes wasso bad that when it came to sealing them it was probably better to just have avery bad cold. Anyone could simply open it up, see what it said, dig out a bitof earwax and no one would be any the wiser.

But that would have been a very bad thing to do.

Glenda thought that same thought fifteen times before Juliet walked into theNight Kitchen, hung up her coat on the hook and put on her apron. ‘There was aman on the bus readin’ the paper and it had a picture of me on the front,’ shesaid excitedly.

Glenda nodded and handed over her own paper.

‘Well, I suppose it’s me,’ said Juliet, with her head on one side. ‘What shallwe do now?’

‘Open the damn letter!’ shouted Glenda.

‘What?’ said Juliet.

‘Er, oh, Trev sent you a letter,’ said Glenda. She snatched it from the shelfand held it out. ‘Why don’t you read it right now?’

‘He’s probably just mucking about.’

‘No! Why don’t you just read it right now? I haven’t tried to open it!’

Juliet took the envelope. It opened more or less to a touch. Glenda’s evil sidethought, hardly any gum at all! I could have just flicked it open!

‘I can’t read with you standin’ so close,’ said Juliet. After some time movingher lips she went on, ‘I don’t get it. It’s all kinda long words. Lovely curlywriting, though. There’s a bit here saying that I look like a summer’s day.What’s that all about, then?’ She pressed it into Glenda’s hand. ‘Can you readit for me, Glendy? You know I’m not good at complicated words.’

‘Well, I’m a bit busy,’ said Glenda, ‘but since you ask.’

‘First time I’ve ever had a letter that’s not all in capitals,’ said Juliet.

Glenda sat down and started to read. A lifetime of what even she would call badromantic novels suddenly bore fruit. It read as though someone had turned onthe poetry tap and then absent-mindedly gone on holiday. But they werewonderful words, nevertheless. There was the word swain, for example, which wasa definite marker, and quite a lot about flowers and quite a lot of what lookedlike pleading, wrapped up in fancy letters, and after a while she took out herhandkerchief and fanned the air around her face.

‘So, what’s it all about?’ said Juliet.

Glenda sighed. How to begin? How did you talk to Juliet about similes andmetaphors and poetic licence all wrapped up in wonderful curly writing?

She did her best. ‘Weeell, basically he’s saying that he really fancies you,thinks you’re really fit, how about a date, no hanky panky, he promises. Andthere’s three little x’s underneath.’

Juliet started to cry. ‘That’s loverlee. Fancy ’im sitting down and writing allthose words just for me. Real poetry just for me. I’m gonna sleep with it undermy pillow.’

‘Yes, I suspect that he had something like that in mind,’ said Glenda andthought, Trev Likely a poet? Not likely at all.

There was a dreadful load on Pepe’s bladder, and he was stuck between a rockand a hard place, if that wasn’t too offensive a description of lying betweenMadame and a wall. She was still asleep. She snored magnificently, using thetraditional multi-part snore, known to those who are fortunate enough to haveto listen to it every night as the ‘errgh, errgh, errghh, blorrrt!’ symphony.And she was lying on his leg. And the room was pitch dark. He managed toretrieve his leg, half of which had gone to sleep, and set out on thewell-known search for porcelain, which began by him putting his foot down on anempty champagne bottle, which skittered away and left him flat on his back. Inthe gloom he groped for it, found it, tested it for true emptiness, because younever knew your luck, and, as it were, filled it again, putting it down on whatwas probably a table, but in his mind and the darkness could just as well havebeen an armadillo.