“Hush!” said Ludmilla, placing a delicate fingertip to Chrysanthemum's delicate lips, “attend! See! is not that your famous local auteur, Alain Massie – I am reading his latest Bordeaux nouvelle, I am a fan – do you think he would autograph my copy?” and Chrysanthemum noticed a rather fubsy little man, with a Victorian air about him, in that casual-formal style of dressing which marked out a certain class of people, while Ludmilla started rummaging in her voluminous bag, pulling out her mobile phone, camera, lipsticks, tampons, all manner of make-up requisites, together with three or four books, DVDs, CDs and her MP3 player “oh! where is it?” she cried, “stupid cow! I have left it by my bed under Aunty Crist's stairs! shit! merde! calamity!” and Chrysanthemum seized her chance: “let me get it for you, dear heart, I have to go back to the house anyway, to collect a few things Goldy needs here . . . . .” and Ludmilla took hold of her, a hand on each side of her face, and kissed her fiercely on the lips – it felt to Chrysanthemum like a Cossack horde sweeping into an unprepared village, to pillage, loot and rape, and gruntled by the intensity of Ludmilla's assault on her, feeling utterly beholden, she knew at once where her future life lay: in Ludmilla's firm grasp, and she succumbed!