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‘When’s your birthday?’ Clive asked.
‘June the tenth. Why?’
‘Is that Gemini?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how old are you?’
‘Twenty-six,’ said Clare. ‘What is this? A Spanish Inquisition?’
‘Will you marry me?’ Clive asked. ‘I’m twenty-nine tomorrow, by the way.’
Clare said she thought she might but she had better sit down first.
Later, in bed, he said, ‘You know, the Hampshires’ flat is right next to Mrs Radinsky’s in the next block?’
‘So?’
‘So I’m a surveyor, or will be. Old Hampshire’s been sucking up to me since the meeting. Tried to find out what would be involved in extending their flat laterally.’
‘Ah.’
‘I think she’s pretty safe, though. Rita.’
‘Rita now, is it? I’ll have to watch her, given what we are so reliably told about her!’
Clive patted Clare’s bottom appreciatively. ‘She’ll like you. She saw you.’
‘Saw me?’
But he had heard something. ‘Hang on. There’s a hell of a noise outside.’
They got up and, together relishing their nakedness in the December cold, stared out into the wintry darkness. A figure over by the bins straightened up and looked furtively about. Clive opened the window.
‘Oh, Mrs Hampshire,’ he shouted down. ‘What a lovely party. We did enjoy ourselves. But we should have helped with all those bottles, instead of leaving them to you.’
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