A Vision of Loveliness

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‘Bag bag bag bag bag bag BAG.’

It was the old woman in the greasy tweeds. As she leaned towards Jane with the handbag, the hairy fabric of her skirt gave off an unmistakably nasty, leaky smell.

‘You forgot your bag, duckie.’

It wasn’t Jane’s handbag. She wasn’t even carrying a bloody bag. But she was flustered by the old woman’s unexpectedly posh voice, by her sweaty yellow face as she loomed across the table of empties, holding the handle by one tobacco-stained hook.

‘Your baaag, deah.’

Jane took it, too embarrassed to start explaining. They were about to leave the pub but Tony had gone to the Gents’ and she didn’t want to be stood in the street on her own. Not round here. She glanced down at the bag on her lap. It was an impressive-looking mock-croc affair and it clunked open expensively, releasing a delicious whiff of suede and scent and a glimpse of an Hermes label. Not mock croc at all. Croc croc.

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