Butlins, visibly eased.
A sudden flurry of activity prompted Roger to stand on his tiptoes to see over Butlins shoulder, but there was no sign of Irene. The group of soggy flamingos were flocking nervously, the question of her imminent arrival ricocheting around the gathering causing a back draught of raised eyebrows and frantic clucks.
“Do you think she’s going to come?” On of the smaller flamingo’s asked nervously manhandling her Timex.
“It’ll be the first time she’s had a meeting with a bloke and not,” Another slightly larger with a face like a discarded betting slip responded less than charitably.
The last time Roger had seen the larger flamingo she had been weeping inconsolably into a tumbler of gin after discovering her Robbie Williams look alike with a secret fortune, was really an out of work welder from Bolton trying to outrun the CSA. After systematically despatching a half bottle of gin she had spent the night splayed out on Irene’s bathroom floor with her head down the toilet bowl. Roger had found it hard then to feel any sympathy for her, or really forgive her for interrupting an interesting bout of foreplay with Irene by wailing like a lost cat. Now he felt even less likely to grant her either.