The woman carefully selects a table by the window, though there are no customers.
“Sorry,” says Fiona as she sits, “My mind's been in a bit of a muddle recently. Who did you say you were?”
The woman smiles, though there's little warmth to it. “You can call me Rose.”
A bent, ageing man approaches. Rose barks an order for afternoon tea for two, and he scuttles away.
“And are you normally in the habit of taking dizzy young women for tea?” Fiona asks.
“Only those that look like they've got a story to tell.”
