Flanagan reaches for the phone on the night table beside the bed. ‘Oh no, Mrs. Desi xxx I cannot completely spread the skin and have to tilt the razor to reach inside the narrow folds. But I’m too flabbergasted to utter a sound and shyly nod instead. … Yeah, tell me about it. I can’t believe I’m doing this, yet here I am. I crawl onto the bed from the foot end and squeeze my head between her thighs. But this time the sound is different. She is on the wrong side of fifty and showing it, even if the Meg Ryan hairstyle and the heavy make-up try to deny it. An elderly man in a starched white shirt and black pants lets me in. Suddenly, the phone rings. Mrs. Can’t seem to shake off that damn diarrhea.’
Little rosebud?
