And then came Mrs Fletcher, snapping her scissors, the soft scrunch of the blades through thick hanks, the gradual sensation of lightness. Now every scrap of hair that Powell had touched was gone.

Neville’s a pleasant sort of standby when there’s nothing more exciting on the go. A safe, attractive, reliable chap. He’s respectful, never having tried to get her into bed which, if she was a better sort of person, she might appreciate.