CHAPTER 22
OLIVER’S VERSION OF “later” turned out to be different to most other people’s, because when I put on the robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door and shuffle-hopped out to find some breakfast the next morning, the only person in the kitchen was an older lady, in her late fifties at a guess.
As I walked through the door, she left the stove and pulled out a stool for me to perch on. “You must be Stefanie?”
I nodded. “But call me Stef. And you’re Bridget?”
“Yes, I am.” She looked me over with undisguised curiosity. “Can I get you something to eat?”
“Maybe something light?”
“Toast? Cereal? Eggs?”
“Toast would be good.”
Such a simple task, but I couldn’t even spread butter right now.
Bridget bustled around, setting out a place mat and cutlery then fetching me a glass of
