The taxi drew up at the decorative doorway of a city centre hotel. A heeled boot, its polished black leather reflecting the luminescence of the street lights, stepped out into a puddle, followed by the rest of Beatrice. She swore, but was glad of her forethought for changing from her sneakers at the baggage carousel into the waterproof and yet stylish German footwear. The second time the boots had saved her that day, as she'd evaded the Australian Prime Minister's outstretched hand by bending down and concentrating on the zippers as she changed. A technique Tante Fran would certainly have approved of. She sighed, her thoughts drifting to Tante Fran's retirement and the closure of the shoe shop. She had found an alternate supplier, but Tante Fran's shop would for ever have a place in her heart. As would Tante Fran's nephew, Caspian...
'Here you go hen,' said the taxi driver, hauling her suitcase onto the pavement. 'Good luck with the conference. Ah'll look into an electric car. And thanks for that book recommendation!'
Beatrice added a healthy tip to the payment, pocketed the receipt, and strode towards the doors of the hotel, which were immediately swung inwards. The attendant lifted an eyebrow above his finely chiseled face in welcome, and ushered her in.
Beatrice Deft, International Publishing Consultant, was in town...
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