The habit

The last time she’d visited the curtains had been closed on the side of the lounge that led to a pool deck. Now they were open and the pool sparkled with underwater lighting. Not only that, the deck had been screened from the cool night air and bore a startling resemblance to what could be a set of the musical South Pacific.

There was a dugout canoe bobbing on the pool, there was a small sandy beach, tropical foliage—real palm trees and hibiscus bushes. There were waiters and waitresses wearing leis, sarongs and grass skirts, there was the lovely music playing softly in the background. The tables that bore the canapés and drinks were covered in palm thatch and strewn with frangipani blooms.

It was all so professionally done, so real, you could imagine yourself on an island in the South Pacific.

Irene closed her mouth and turned to find Diane Paxton at her elbow. ‘This is just brilliant,’ she breathed.

Diane smiled. ‘We do our best. Now, let me look at you.’

Irene looked down at hersel