Naomi was dusting – very gently, as if tending a delicate baby – the tops of the three Oliver Stonebridge paintings that hung there. ‘You’ll want to hurry up and get it redirected or it’ll be coming here till next year. You know what they’re like. Red tape and bureaucrats.’ She spat the last words with the kind of much-relished disgust that she also kept for the local council’s ever-changing rules on recycling, adults who ride bikes on pavements and the ineptitude of every farmer in The Archers. ‘You’re right. I’ll sort that in the morning,’ Viola promised. ‘And, Mum? Are you really sure you’ll be all right here on your own again? Maybe Miles has got a point. Perhaps …’ ‘No!’ Naomi almost roared at her and raised her lime-green feather duster as if she intended to shove it down Viola’s throat. ‘You and Rachel, GO! Shoo! I’m more than happy with my own company and when I decide I’m not then I’ll get someone into the flat; maybe one of Kate’s boys would like it if they get a job that needs an easy commute into town.
