Michelle burst into laughter, followed by John, who almost spit up his cola. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. The room was dark and dusty. It’s kind of the World War II thing. But whenever the storm grew dangerous, either McClintock or Spurlock broke into saving laughter. “Hello?” She asked as she cradled the phone by her ear. “Don’t be too sure of that,” she answered enigmatically. She was practically destitute of jewellery. "Why not?" "I'll tell you," cried a deep voice from the back of the bed.
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