Gresham Avenue: it could have been called Paradise, Seymour thought, as they walked slowly up one pavement and down the other. The houses were like great white ocean liners berthed in calm harbours. Decorative gates guarded wide sweeping lawns, stately roofs soared to the sky, and the whole avenue was fragrant with perfume.

‘Roses, roses, all the way,’ Angie said. ‘They can all afford full-time gardeners here on Nobs’ Hill. How about this one for you, Seymour? If I lived in number seventeen, we could wave across the street to each other in the mornings.’

Seymour gazed up at the tall, elegant house and tried to imagine himself looking down from the diamond-paned window and waving to Angela in number seventeen. But the house was too grand. He didn’t know anyone who lived in a house like that, and couldn’t visualise himself in it. Angie had no such trouble.

‘Definitely number seventeen for me,’ she said dreamily. ‘Jas is going to buy it for me, soon as he gets out…soon as he gets himself fixed up with a job. We found this street by accident. We were at this great party in Ricky’s flat the other side of the tram track—wow, some party that was! Coming home we took a short cut, only we got lost and found all these white walls shining in the moonlight. I often come out here and walk up and down and drool. I knew you’d like it, too.’

‘Are you and Jas really going to buy number seventeen and live there?’

‘Sure we are. One day it’ll come up for auction and we’ll be there with a big fat cheque in our hot little hands. It’s going to be convenient, too, because there’s a shopping centre just around the corner, and that’s where I’ll set up my florist shop. A florist shop in a posh area like this, you’d make a mint! And just wait till you see the shops, they’re absolutely unreal, too!’

The shopping complex wasn’t a slick modern one with escalators and malls, but two terraced rows facing each other graciously across a garden courtyard. It was too posh, Seymour thought, too aware of its own importance. He felt ill at ease, but Angie, full of aplomb, stopped to inspect a dress in a window.

‘Well, I can’t say I fancy that much,’ she said critically. ‘It’s a nothing sort of colour, like smoke. I usually go for pretty colours, you know, bright and happy, or glittery things. I just love things that sparkle. That one probably costs hundreds of dollars, though you notice it hasn’t even got a price tag. Price tags would be too vulgar for round here, I guess. That dress is too long, too. If you’ve got good legs, you shouldn’t be ashamed to show them off. I reckon I’ve got good legs, don’t you?’