Everyone said it was a beautiful scarf. But then, as they all knew, she had such taste, such style. Tied around her neck, it suited her coloured honey hair and flawless, creamy skin. She would give a faraway smile, and touch it with her manicured fingers whenever anyone expressed admiration. It was so soft: handwoven Chinese silk, printed with drawings of butterflies, and accompanying notes, from an eighteenth century journal of lepidopterology found in the attic of the designer’s grandmother’s house.
Yes, it was a beautiful scarf, and she adored it. It was a Remelée creation; there were only twenty made, and no two were the same. Even though the couture house’s staff knew her well, she’d still had to put her name down on a list and wait until they rang to say she’d been chosen. She drove straight down to collect it in her gleaming black Range Rover, flaunting the ‘no-parking’ zone outside the boutique. The scarf cost more than she paid her maid each month.
Such a beautiful scarf. And it has to be said it still looked pretty, knotted around her slender white neck and pulled tighter and tighter by her maid’s murderous hands until her eyes bulged and her body went limp. It suited her colouring, you see. Even once she’d turned purple.