Amy, with an angry face, denounced the gaudy rooms. They were disgusting, decorated with a heavy hand by Dick Whatchumacallum and his male team, all wearing Armani costumes. Hip huggers.

Madge turned toward Amy with a quite pleasant, even friendly smile. And now Amy saw that Bodo Heisinger was coming from the other end of the corridor; he held up a piece of aloe vera. This would have amused her if she had been less angry. Madge took the green stalk and sent Bodo back to the Adletskys. The bathroom lights went on. ‘You’re not coming in with me,’ Amy said, and forced her aside. She observed that Madge was smiling at her and seemed more pleased than not by Amy’s show of temper.

As she shut the door against Madge and turned the lock, Amy was obliged to admit that she had not been seriously burned. To have tea poured deliberately into her lap was nevertheless an outrage. And then for the woman to try to push her way into the bathroom, as not even a sister would do after you had come of age. It made Amy consider: sane or insane? There must be some degree of privacy even in a women’s prison. If the woman was sane, she was getting more mileage than she should out of the time she had served. Madge took every pretext to set aside the lady conventions. And there were no reasons to assume that she was clinically bonkers. High-handed, a bully, and perhaps when you were a convict you picked up some masculine ways. But that didn’t add up to insanity.

The Heisinger bathroom, too, was overdecorated – too many thick towels, too many appliances, Amy couldn’t see frail old Mrs Adletsky in the crimson Jacuzzi – she’d be swept away. Beside the bath was a toilet with a cushioned cover on the lid, and Amy pulled down her underclothes and had seated herself, when Madge came in. She entered from the master bedroom. The toilet was in a recess between the whirlpool bath and a shower stall. Amy had failed to notice how long the tiled room actually was. Beyond, there were washbasins and mirror walls, and there was a dressing room as well.

‘I don’t think I was especially well brought up,’ said Amy, ‘but I was taught that this is one place where privacy is respected.’

‘Well, I gave you time enough to examine the burned spot. The tea was lukewarm, not boiling. The Mexicans do good coffee, but they don’t understand how to brew tea. I realized when I poured the old lady her cup that it was tepid. I wanted a private talk, to have you to myself awhile. That was the whole idea. Wasn’t it sweet of Bodo to bring the aloe vera? It’s one of his special remedies. But I can see for myself that the red scald isn’t too bad. You got wet, I’m sorry to say, and I’ll pay the cleaner’s bill too, but tea won’t stain –we used to rub spots out with tea when I was young.’