Reportage: At the Concrete bar
She is made of fringes: brown pampas grasses on her bag, flopping to the floor; studded ballbearings on her ankle boots; the one on her head has been swept back to make her look awake. The Liberty print scarf says she has enough werewithal for the occasional treat.
The second bottle of Birra Moretti is caressed, lavished over with the same intensity that the first was dismissed. 'She has to hold in his hand in conversation,' she says. 'I'm terrible at doing that for him. At posh parties, Tom always introduces her first, before me.'
Her more conventionally attractive friend laughs at this, in a way I assume she assumes is supportive.
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