Even in September the central heating was on, and with the curtains half pulled to keep the sun out the effect was of entering a seraglio. George, who had taken to driving Mrs Jacobs home from the shop, was pleased with what he saw although he knew it to be in faintly bad taste; this, if anything, increased his pleasure. He particularly delighted in a coffee table covered with a sheet of mirror glass, and when he went into the bathroom to wash his hands he admired the initialled pale green guest towels matching the tooth mugs in plastic opaline. Through the bedroom door he caught a glimpse of a counterpane heavily swagged and pleated in blue-grey satin and a kidney shaped dressing table. The kitchen was immaculate, every surface swept clean of evidence. It looked as if nothing had ever been cooked there, but the battery of mixers, choppers, blenders, and freezers was impressive. ‘I make everything myself,’ said Mrs Jacobs. ‘My ice cream is particularly good. Would you like to try some?’ She gave him a generous helping in a fluted octagonal glass dish which his mother would have relegated to the kitchen, if she had allowed it into the house at all.
