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Chapter Ten

Claire invited me round for breakfast. The fact that her flat appeared smaller than mine was solely down to it containing twice as much clutter. Overflowing bookcases and piles of magazines climbed walls plastered with art nouveau posters and moody black and white stills from old films. A large wooden desk holding notes scribbled on jotter-pads and a thin and rather battered machine, what I took to be some sort of mini-computer, was crammed into the bay window. There were newspapers everywhere. Mugs of crystallizing coffee dregs perched on various surfaces.

I took a peek into her bedroom while she made us toast; same deal, half-open drawers and clothes spread randomly over chairs and duvet. A bulging wardrobe’s door hung half off its hinges. Trans-Port Claire’s attitude had seemed neat and professional. I hadn’t seen her at home but she couldn’t have been as sloppy as this. Here was another difference between the two Claire’s despite their identi

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