Chapter 3: When in Rome

I knew Mel was all talk when she said she could easily leave Edwin in Caroline’s care. But I didn’t blame her. I just sat on the couch, next to Peter Fox, in Caroline’s luxurious apartment on the corner of Hyde Park, just over the Aston Martin dealership. He lived there now, on a trial basis.

“It’s a much shorter commute,” was all he said about that. I knew his home. The man liked marble statues, preferably with a penis or at least a six-pack. (No replicas of David, then.) He liked Persian rugs, Espresso machines that were only slightly more expensive than just buying a branch of Costa Coffee and that took three quarters of an hour to polish after brewing just one cup. And he had plenty of stuff like that in his manor house, where Mel and I had gotten married after a disastrous attempt somewhere in London. Have I told you about that? No?! Must be because I only ever tell that story to loyal friends. Passersby who just want a quick story out of me without reciprocating can make do with the CliffsNotes. Here they are: ‘I married Mel, after a day of mayhem.’ Never mind, let’s just move on. Peter and I listened to Mel and Caroline having a discussion in the nursery next door. A nursery that hadn’t been there two weeks before.

“So when he goes wha-whaaa-WHA, that’s usually when he’s tired, but not hungry. Or he’s missing a sock. He’s always missing socks.”

“I see...” said Caroline, trying very hard to keep her patience.

“More tea?” asked Peter, with a goofy smile.

“Yeah, we’ll be here for a while...” I sighed. I had another look around me. Caroline’s personal decorating style, at least in this apartment, had been: ‘understated quality’. There wasn’t much furniture, but what little she had costs more than most of the cars in the showroom downstairs. A Japanese lacquer cabinet, the mere possession of which was almost certainly a war crime in itself, stood in the corner and held a B&O flatscreen TV. B&O, the brand that has made me wonder how they haven’t gone bankrupt yet at least once a year since at least 1980. Vastly overpriced, technically outdated and ridiculously fragile and impractical gear, sold in shops that see less foot traffic than The Museum Of Prolapsed Sphincters. I guess selling Caroline Keller a telly once every five years was what kept them afloat. Their slogan, ‘Ærlig musikgengivelse’, must be Danish for: ‘Sold to the idiot with the platinum credit card!’

I’m pretty sure the sofa we were sitting on was the most expensive treat my buttocks ever had, too. But other than that it was just a lamp, a small side table and not much else, at least last time I came to visit her. Cream carpetting, obviously. Replaced bi-annually, or whenever someone spilled a glass of red.

Today it was different. Seeing the six foot teddybear presently lurking in the corner like a fluffy serial killer coming out of the lift had actually caused a neighbour to tut! Caroline had braved actual, out-loud tutting from a fellow resident! The next day people had observed deliverymen from Petit Bateau and similarly outrageously priced purveyors of baby accoutrements. Not that anyone here even blinked when the Harrods truck stood idling in the forecourt, but cardboard boxes for cots and bottle warmers were seen in the communal recycling bin and inquiries had been made to make sure ‘no unacceptable infant noise’ would be forthcoming from apartment 3c. Rich people ... the salt of the earth. And what happens when you salt the earth? Yes, everything withers and dies.

Still, the residents’ association would have no ground for complaints, because the nursery had been soundproofed. It also looked like the sales floor at Harrods, with many toys that Edwin wouldn’t be able to play with for at least two to three years and brand new furniture. Peter told me Caroline had spent in the area of twenty-thousand pounds to prepare the apartment for Edwin’s arrival. Which I will be the first to admit is obscene, except for her it just meant buying a few less pairs of shoes and frocks this week.

Look, I love my pet dragon. I really do. And I see all her eccentricities, trust me, but I also see what her world is like and how she goes out of her way to make it better for others. She’s earned all the money she spends, she really has. And so it is hers to dispose of as she sees fit.

Another snippet of Mel’s good advice drifted into the room while Peter was brewing more tea.

“So just use your wrist to gauge the temperature. Like this. Couple of drops.”

I guess Mel was telling Caroline how to check the temperature of the milk.

“Well, I was actually going to use this three hundred pound infrared bottle heater. See, it has a thermal imaging camera. If it’s orange, it’s supposed to be fine,” answered Caroline. I just toppled over and tried to smother my laughter in a six hundred pound throw pillow, but I was a bit too late.

“Something funny, Martin?” asked Mel, sounding annoyed.

“Yes! You two! Mel, let’s leave these people alone. Edwin needs to start his afternoon nap and he couldn’t be in better hands. You know I like to take my time getting to the airport.”

“I could always arrange the jet,” said Caroline, as they both appeared in the living room.

“Leave the jet where it is. We’ve got first class tickets to Rome and our suitcases are already at the airport. We’ll be fine. But we have to go!”

Edwin was sat on Caroline’s arm, perfectly happy. She has an incredibly calming effect on him. The only other person who can do that is Kate.

“Yes, please fuck off, the pair of you,” said Peter, emerging from the kitchen with two mugs. “And I mean that with much love and respect, obviously. But seriously, hop it. It’s a baby, not a portable nuclear missile. We’ll manage, or we’ll call Kelly’s mum.”

Peter can say these things and get away with them, because he’s a very charming man. He kissed Mel as if she were on her way out and gently steered her towards the door. In doing so he caught my eye.

“Oy, Captain Awesome ... Gerrout.”

That was to me. I can think of worse nicknames, even if the delivery was dripping with sarcasm. I got up and kissed Edwin one last time, then Caroline.

“Bye. Be good. Don’t cause a fuss over nothing and drive everyone up the wall, okay?” I said.

“He won’t, I’m sure,” said Caroline, tickling Edwin’s other cheek.

“Wasn’t speaking to him,” I said, very pleased with myself.

“Bye Edwin. Be nice to Uncle Peter and Aunty Caroline, okay?” cooed Mel, until Peter and I both placed one hand under her armpits and gently dragged her into the hallway. Caroline made Edwin wave as Mel simultaneously giggled and wept. Luckily she was fine by the time the lift delivered us in the tiny, but expensively marbled lobby. I texted Ali, my driver, who had been circling the block. I have a shortcut set up on my phone: rfp. That becomes:

“Ready for pickup.”

The answer came in a millisecond.

“Took you long enough. On my way.”

He has shortcuts as well, you see. Yeah, my driver has an attitude problem ... But let’s face it, he’s not the only one.

First class on British Airways is nice, but nothing out of the ordinary. Big leather chair, very nice lunch, some silly toiletries I’ll never use and then you’re there, on a short international flight from London to Roma Fiumicino, also known as Leonardo da Vinci. That’s quite obviously a marketing gimmick, though. And a useless one at that: who the hell picks their destination based on the name of the airport? If that’s how it worked, Batman airport in Turkey would get a lot more visitors than it does, not to mention more stag parties showing up in Moron airport, Mongolia. Conversely, Mafia airport in Nigeria might just as well shut down and the same goes for Asbestos Hill and Crooked Island, both in Canada. But it doesn’t work that way, which is why Bogota Airport, Butler Airport, Perm Airport and Pocos de Caldas are all perfectly happy with their IATA codes BOG, BUM, PEE and POO. Though I suspect flughafen Sembach in Germany may have paid extra for SEX, just to amuse the 17^th Air Force.

Anyway, Fiumicino sits thirty kilometres from downtown Rome, and like anything Italian it is noisy and fairly disorganised but somehow charming. Don’t underestimate Italians, tempting though it may be to believe the stereotype. They’ve managed to keep the country going without any sort of functional national government for decades and they manage to build sports cars and vast numbers of very nice Fiats and Alpha Romeos, which in terms of logistics is no mean feat. They also build high speed trains, but the Dutch ministry for transport isn’t talking about that, ever again. (I am: we bought a train off them that couldn’t handle rain and snow. Or rather, we forgot to mention it should be able to handle that and so we got a couple of carriages that might as well have been made out of tin foil. They lasted a year. Looked nice, though.)

There’s an express train that runs straight to Rome Termini, but the reservation website is about as reliable as a Swiss FIFA chairman and the area around Central Station isn’t where you’d want to be, anyway. Unless you like the smell of exhaust fumes and interacting with the sort of bewildered people who carry placards with them, that is.

A perfectly nice local train also runs from Fiumicino to Rome, but for reasons known only to Italian civil planning committees it doesn’t actually go anywhere you’d want to be as a tourist, so you need to transfer, luggage and all, to the subway at one point. I’d have done that, but as Kate carefully explained (by bellowing in my ear for five minutes) I am a millionaire who should stop acting like he’s some flea-bitten backpacker, especially when I’m finally getting around to taking my gorgeous wife on a honeymoon for which she was long overdue. Fair point, really. I just needed reminding. You can take the Dutchman out of Holland, but...

The thing is, I wasn’t actually being cheap: I just wasn’t looking forward to dealing with a local cab driver. An ITALIAN cab driver. Think about that for a second. A cab driver AND HE’S ITALIAN! Dante missed a trick there, when he came up with his depictions of hell.

Luckily Keller & Fox is also a great travel agency and so Mel and I were met right after customs and baggage pick-up by a slender, cheerful young man with a thick black mane, who immediately began to flirt with my wife. As in, two seconds after he clocked us. But I know Italians: it’s just politeness with them, most of the time. You compliment the host on the quality of the food and you flirt with a woman to demonstrate you were brought up well. Mel found it amusing and I am pretty much the last person on the planet who is allowed to be jealous when my wife is being chatted up. She lets me get away with far, far worse.

Rome has a lot going for it, but I wouldn’t call it a beautiful city. I’d call it a fairly pedestrian city with a lot of amazing monuments in it. It’s been around since time immemorial, but by now only the monuments have (mostly) survived decades of fire, flooding, wear and tear, so most Romans live in fairly new, bland apartment buildings. We all like ornate facades with stone carvings but few of us can afford to have them made or maintained, so these buildings were simply plastered and painted pink or brown. Paris looks much better, if you ask me. So does Amsterdam. The typical Italian Cypress trees were everywhere, though, and the city has a lot of green spaces. The touristy bits are okay, obviously. But you can live in Rome and spend your days seeing nothing but boxes. Still, it’s the same in parts of London, I suppose.

Rome is quite manageable on foot, especially if you are a nineteen year old tri-athlete. If you’re not, the subway system is a Godsend. Unlike London or Paris, where you need an advanced degree in trigonometry to figure out your trip, Metropolitana di Roma has just three lines. It also has just three stations where you can transfer, so making a mistake is nearly impossible.

Most of the tourist attractions are on the east side of the Tiber, which meanders through town much like the Thames does back home. Only a few sites, including the Vatican, require you to cross the river.

We had booked an apartment in the fanciest neighbourhood (although that depends on how you rate the Vatican), Tridente. That’s where the Spanish steps are, and all the shops for people like Caroline. Via Borgognona is in a pedestrian zone, which is nice unless you’re dragging your luggage around with you. The paving stones are bluish and run past dozens of designer boutiques, fancy restaurants and expensive hotels. However, at number 22 there is only an unassuming double wooden door with a copper plate that has six doorbells, an intercom and a keypad. I found it after just fifteen minutes of pacing up and down the street, because for some reason the house numbers ran like this: consecutive numbers from low to high on one side of the street, then back again on the other side. So whereas you’ll usually find number 22 more or less opposite number 21, in this case it was opposite number 380! And this after a staring contest with our driver, who had expected more of a tip. He’d just slipped his mobile number to Melody and then he wanted ME to tip him! Plus, it turned out he had dropped us off at the wrong end of the street.

All in all I was relieved that entering the four digit access code from the email I had been sent unlocked the door in one go. We entered a dark, cool hallway where a motion sensor spotted us and activated a fluorescent lamp. Next to a row of six mailboxes (the mailman knows the code as well) numbered 101 to 109 hung a small, black lockbox with another keypad. The second code opened it and revealed a house key.

“Thank God for that,” mumbled Melody. She had found the flirting amusing, but the flight and the search for number 22 had worn her out. We didn’t have many reserves, being the parents of a one-year-old.

“Nearly there,” I said, turning to the next hurdle: a double stairway to the first floor. No lift. I hoisted both our bags upstairs while Mel went ahead.

“Left here,” she said, as I emerged at the top of the stairs. She opened a green door at the end of a marble corridor and went straight on to use the bathroom.

The apartment was nice. As promised we had a view of the street, a cosy kitchen, a flatscreen television I would probably not use even once and a bedroom on the other side of the house, out of the sun. The first thing I do when I enter a hotel room or an apartment is to check for bed bugs, so I did that rather thoroughly while Mel was on the loo. It was fine. The bed was neatly made. Just one pillow, but there was another one in the closet.

“Lots of personal stuff,” said Mel, when she came to look for me. “Family pictures.”

“Someone lives here most of the year, I guess. They bugger off when they can get a booking. It’s nice though, isn’t it?”

“If you say so. I’ve only seen the loo. Look, Martin, do you mind if I take a nap? It’s only four in the afternoon but I’m...”

Tired as a dog. I know. She looked it, to be honest. Having a child is one of the quickest ways to turn a lovely young woman into an animated cadaver. Okay, that’s crude. She was still stunningly beautiful, even though her breasts now had dents in them and she needed all her expertise as a makeup artist to hide the bags under her eyes.

“Of course, sweetheart. I’ll step out and get some shopping in.”

“Shopping? We’re dining out! I won’t sleep THAT long!”

“No, I mean just the essentials. I didn’t bring tea, we probably want some jam and crackers in the morning, stuff like that. I’ve checked the kitchen: it’s nearly empty. Say, did you see a complimentary gift basket anywhere? Or a folder with some information about the house and the wi-fi password?”

Mel was already stripping off. She sleeps nearly naked.

“No. Like I said, I’ve seen the loo and the hallway. If you give me an hour I’ll be right as rain, okay?”

“Sure. But I’m taking the key, so if you decide to leave the house you can’t...”

I don’t think she was listening by that point. She pulled back the duvet, stepped into bed and was snoring before she managed to pull up her left foot from the floor. I smiled, did it for her and quietly went outside.

I wandered around the neighbourhood until I found a tiny Spar supermarket. Spar is a supermarket chain that specializes in small branches. They could fit one in a public loo if they had to, but I’ve always wondered what they’d do if they were given a regular size store. My bet is that would be hilarious: they’d struggle to fill it, like a recently released prisoner in his first rental apartment. Their tiny freezers and miniscule checkout stations would look ridiculous. Their staff, only being used to walking sideways like crabs, would scurry around like scared cats and be confused by the fact they now had more than one of anything. ‘TWO brands of tea? TWO types of biscuits? This is madness! OH MY GOD SHOPPING TROLLEYS!’

I did the sideways shuffle past half a dozen old Italian ladies with expensive perms and sunglasses they kept on indoors, as I gathered some snacks in a tiny basket. Some bottled water, tea, biscuits. I’d nick some sweetener from the first cafe we’d visit, that would be soon enough. A jar of jam, a packet of crackers and a bottle of orange juice made valiant attempts to hide from me, but I’ve been in stores like these before. They’re not arranged by food type or even by broad categories. They’re arranged by the principle of ‘this is how we’ve done it since 1963 in this location and if we change it all the seniors who keep us afloat will have a stroke’. The cashier seemed offended by the fact I was buying Signora di Marco’s orange juice and Julio’s cookies (they hadn’t been in yet and I had the last one of both) but eventually allowed me to run my card through the cash register. Bless the European Monetary Union, which made it possible to use my bank card in the exact same way as back home. Americans may not be as familiar with this feeling, but Europeans over a certain age remember how a trip abroad would require a visit to a bank a few days in advance to get a supply of Danish Krone, Spanish Pesetas or Italian Lire, not to mention some gas money for the countries you’d pass through on the way there. Only idiots use local ‘bureaux de change’, you see? You’d be doing sums in your head all day and come home with a useless collection of small bills and coins, which you’d keep in a jam jar for the next trip. Glad to see the back of that system.

I gave Mel as much time as I could, but after an hour and a half the plastic bag was cutting into my fingers and I wanted a cup of tea. When I opened the door to the apartment I was greeted with an enthusiastic call from the bedroom:

“There he is! Come fuck me!”

“Oh, you’re awake. You could have called. I have a phone, you know.”

“I thought you were having fun. Looking at statues and stuff.”

I put my bags down on the kitchen worktop. We don’t usually yell at each other, but if you can’t have a nice yell in Italy then where the hell can you?

“Looking at ... You’re an art history major!”

“Flunked. Where the hell are you?”

“Kitchen!”

“That’s not where the fucking is!”

Okay, so no tea for me. I hastily downed a glass of orange juice and reported for duty. Mel was no longer naked, but this was almost better. She was lounging on the bed in some very expensive looking white lingerie, including a teddy so transparent I only saw some floating stitches.

“I showered,” she smiled. “But I’ll eat you raw.”

Then she sat up and grabbed my belt buckle. I was wearing jeans and a buttoned shirt as ever, with a cream jacket to hold my wallet and hide my embonpoint.

“I could give it a rinse,” I said. “Won’t take a second.”

She kept pulling me onto the bed.

“I’ll blow you later. For now, I really, urgently, need to be ploughed. We have to use a condom, I’m afraid. I’m back on the pill but I’m still irregular and I don’t trust myself yet. Don’t worry, I brought some with me.”

She opened a night stand drawer and produced a Durex box with twenty-four condoms, still wrapped in foil. (For obvious reasons those boxes aren’t called ‘family size’, but they are.)

“Jesus! Twenty-four? You can get ‘em three at a time you know!” I laughed, as I finally fell onto the bed. She crawled on top me.

“We’re not going home until this box is empty,” she said, grinning. Then we kissed. That was the one thing we didn’t stop doing, but the rest of our sex life had been a disaster ever since Edwin was born. It had taken her ages to recover from the stitches and even then we were just always so tired. Her more than me, because at the end of the day he needed his mummy a lot more than his dad. And let’s be fair, I had Kate to look after me. For me it wasn’t so bad, but for us, for our relationship, it had been rough. And I was pleased she was so eager to rekindle it.

“Okay, so three times a day, one for each hole, that’s four days. But that does mean we’ll have to have sex at the airport on our way back,” I said, trying to be funny. The joke was the ‘one for each hole’ part, because Mel doesn’t do anal. She’s terrified of it. I never cared for it either but Kate is fond of it and I’m over the shock by now. She prepares for it and we always use a rubber, so it’s fine.

Mel didn’t take the bait. She knows I’d never ask her for anal, much less spring it on her.

“You mean six times a day in my hot, wet...”

She nibbled my ear.

“ ... shaved, tight...”

Now she was fully on top of me, restricting me with her legs and grabbing my wrists. That was fine. It’s nice, when it’s your horny wife who does that. Less so when it’s an armed robber in a back alley, obviously. And very confusing if they turn out to be the same person, I dare say.

“ ... pussy. It’s all yours again. Grand reopening.”

Mel and I usually talk when we’re having sex. Kate just wants to kiss. I love kissing, but I’m fine with talking as long as it doesn’t get too mundane. If you start to bring up the fact we need a new dishwasher I’m calling time. It’s just that Mel LOVES fucking and for all my physical limitations I do have one strong selling point: I can fuck like a circus freak. Seriously, I’d be a great porn star. Any position, as long as you like. I ejaculate almost at will and that means I can go for as long as it takes. Mel loves to rotate through a number of positions and when she’s good and ready for the finale she’ll let me know. That used to be after only two or three minutes, because she thought I’d probably be exhausted. But then she found out I can do five or even ten minutes easily and boy does she take advantage of that!

We started off with me on my back. She put the condom on for me and gingerly climbed on top. We took a few minutes to get started, because she wanted to be in control of how much of me was in her at any one time. Melody looked downright worried as she lowered herself over me, determining the pace. First it was just the tip, but after a few minutes I was in halfway. We’d fuck for about ten to fifteen strokes, during which she would evaluate if and how much it hurt, and then she’d lower herself a bit more.

“Are you in all the way?” she asked. Now that’s a question we all love to hear, don’t we, guys? In this case I understood where she was coming from, though. She was so nervous, it was hard for her to read the signals from her own body.

“Two thirds, I’d say. Look, if it hurts don’t...”

“Doesn’t hurt. It’s just ... It’s different. Am I nice and tight for you?”

“Yes, it’s wonderful. I can’t tell the difference.”

“Really?”

Really, because all pussy feels more or less the same if you’re wearing a rubber. I decided this would not be a good moment to share that bit of trivia.

“I’m not as wet as I used to be,” she mumbled. “Guess that’s broken, too...”

I gently took her face between my hands, forcing her to pay attention.

“Mel, nothing is broken. It’s just nerves. Let’s kiss and not worry about how many centimetres I’ve got inside you.”

And so we kissed, even though I couldn’t get her to stop trying to lower herself a few more millimetres. After a few minutes, I stopped.

“Mel, sweetheart, don’t obsess over this.”

“I want to fuck! God damn it, it’s been almost a year! I know Kate keeps you busy, but I’ve really been looking forward to this!”

She rolled off me and we continued our conversation on our sides. I played with her dark hair. She has a natural afro, but sometimes it’s curly and sometimes it’s almost straight. I shudder to think what horrible chemicals are needed for that, but she’s a professional makeup artist and hairstylist. I have to assume she knows what’s she’s doing. I like the afro, really. I don’t mean she has one of those microphone-shaped heads, like the Jackson five. It’s still styled, but her hair has a helix shape and its fascinating to run your fingers through it. The secret is ‘apricot castor oil’, apparently. Us men have no idea of the expense women have to keep themselves looking good. I spend fifteen quid a year on razors from Lidl and that’s about it.

Melody, having been blessed with gorgeous brown skin, doesn’t use much makeup, but her eyelids are usually slightly blue and she uses a bit of eyeliner. God knows what she does to keep her eyebrows so thin and perfectly styled, but it must hurt like a bastard. I have some grey ones that grow in a weird angle and when I ask Kate to pull them out I usually end up teary-eyed and cursing under my breath. Imagine doing a few hundred each month!

“I used to get wet when you so much as looked at me,” she moped.

“Surely you didn’t think that was going to last? Be glad you’re not dry-heaving.”

“Hey! Don’t insult my husband! There’s a bloody queue for him, you know!” she smiled. I ignored that.

“Sweetheart, haven’t you ... explored things in the past year? I know you’ve been tired, but didn’t Susan introduce you to...”

The joys of the dildo. I couldn’t quite bring myself to complete that sentence. Not since I got hit in the face by one, which belonged to Kelly.

“Yes. Of course I play with myself, Martin! Like, almost every day. But I play with my clit, you see. I don’t actually stick my fingers up there.”

She held up her left hand, showing me her immaculate fingernails. I couldn’t tell if they were real or not but I guess they weren’t because she then said:

“Don’t want to lose one of these up there. And to be honest, I tend to think of that as...”

“As what?”

She blushed. I know what to look for and she very clearly blushed.

“As ... ahem ... reserved. For you.”

Mel has a submissive side to her, which sometimes catches me unawares. She knows I don’t care for it and I don’t really know how to handle it, either. So I just leaned in, kissed her and said:

“Well, my nails don’t come off. And I cut them regularly. How about I have a little play with you?”

“You sure?” she said, sounding worried.

“One finger at a time. If I’m honest I don’t feel all that much through a condom, so I can’t tell how you’re doing. But my fingers are fine.”

“Okay then!” she said, and rolled onto her back. I scuttled around to find a position I’d be able to hold for a while. That took some doing, as I’m right-handed and the best position is where I’m facing away from her.

“That’s okay,” she said, spotting my conundrum.

“No, I need to see your face. I’ll do it with left, that works too,” I said, crawling around her.

“Or we do THIS,” she said, kicking up her legs and curling her back. She hooked her elbows behind the back of her knees and then reached for a pillow, which she positioned under her lower back. She was right, this was a great way to spend some quality time with her pussy.

“There’s no way you can hold that position for more than a minute!”

“Try me. I practice yoga, remember.”

“Yes, all of six lessons so far.”

“I practice at home, while Edwin naps. Go on then!”

I tucked the second pillow underneath her, double-checked the edges of my fingernails and then ... I decided I’d rather do something else. And so I began to kiss her there, just the outside for starters. The inside of her pussy is lovely and pink, but the labia are much darker. Very convenient if you haven’t got your reading glasses on, actually.

“OOOOH! I like that! But weren’t you going to ... ungh ... going to ... oooooh fuck, yeah...”

“Isn’t the idea to see if I can get you wet?”

“Yes...”

“Let’s just see if I can do it without using my hands first.”

I actually folded my hands behind my back and dove in. The idea was to show her we could have all sorts of fun, to restore her confidence that nothing was broken. Different, probably, but not broken. For a second I imagined the top of Edwin’s head peeking through, which put me off, but then I saw Mel’s face as she stared at me. She trusted me, in fact she relied on me to help her through this. And she is my wife, after all. So I manned up and kissed her there as if my life depended on it.

Three minutes later we were both one hundred percent sure she could get wet. Extremely wet. I reached for my shirt, because I urgently needed to dry my face. I began to slip in a finger, but suddenly Mel’s eyes opened wide.

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This Is Your Carstairs Speaking

Ron Dudderie

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