Just like grief, waiting had stages. And by two o’clock, Judy Novak was well and truly in the anger phase.
Thirty years old! And still bloody selfish. Well, whose fault is that?
The Mutineers’ Lodge cabins had been renovated for high season. Marine-blue carpet. Brochures swimming under coffee-table glass. Drapes so red they hurt her eyes. ‘You have to stay at Mutes’!’ Paulina had insisted, months back. ‘I’ll make your bed and serve you breakfast!’
So proud of the fact that she could finally make a bed. Making an appointment — not so much.
Two hours late! Island time be damned. It’s selfish, bloody selfish. Judy had called — how many times? Enough. She’d call again. Just once. On the bedside phone, so plasticky-new it looked like a toy…









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