The giant Selfridges bag turns up at the studio a few hours later, with a sheepishly smiling Nigel attached to it. ‘Your stuff, Miss. The boss asked me to bring it over.’ So poor old Nigel has had to come into town twice today on my account. Fuck’s sake. I swallow my exasperation and thank him sincerely for his trouble, lugging the bag back upstairs to the studio. Aside from the pairs of Vejas that didn’t fit me, it’s all there. The pyjamas, the skincare—the used and unused skincare, the unused underwear, and a couple of spare t-shirts from the original haul, as well as two surprises. The
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