One of the first things I saw on induction day at Levin-Bell Rowing Club was a bare bum.
Cole Wright is sitting in the rear seat of a black up-armored Chevy Suburban, one of three in a convoy speeding its way down Route 125 in the Seacoast Region of New Hampshire.
Even from this distance, Vivienne can hear the cultish drone of the singing bowls, and she rolls her eyes as she comes along the dark path between the trees.
Joan Goodwin gets to the Johnson Space Center well before nine, and Houston is already airless and muggy.
Three hours later, Friday and Melanie were on a flight to Oslo. Ian was not with them.
This particular tale begins right at that moment when all things begin, which is when you don’t actually realise that something is about to begin.
‘Let’s buy a chateau’, they said . . . ‘It’ll be an adventure’, they said . . . ‘You’ll meet a prince’, they said . . .