MONEY TO BURN
by MARGERY ALLINGHAM
Did you ever see a man set light to money? Real money: using it as a spill to light a cigarette, just to show off? I have. And that’s why, when you used the word “psychologist” just now, a little fish leaped in my stomach and my throat felt suddenly tight. Perhaps you think I’m too squeamish. I wonder.
I was born in this street. When I was a girl I went to school just round the corner and later on, after I’d served my apprenticeship in the big dress houses here and in France, I took over the lease of this old house and turned it into the smart little gown shop you see now. It was when I came back to go into business for myself that I saw the change in Louise.
When we went to school together she was something of a beauty, with streaming yellow hair and the cockney child’s ferocious, knowing grin. All the kids used to tease her because she was better-looking than we were. The street was just the same then as it is now. Adelaide Street, Soho: shabby and untidy, and yet romantic, with every other doorway in its straggling length leading to a restaurant of some sort. You can eat in every language of the world here. Some places are as expensive as the Ritz and others are as cheap as Louise’s papa’s Le Coq au Vin, with its one dining room and its single palm in the white-washed tub outside.
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