Every Woman Knows a Secret [antikvár]

One Yesterday is gone for ever. And once each day is gone, it can only be seen through the one-way mirror of what has happened between then and now. In this way, every minute of every day that passes is a kind of bereavement. Jess Arrowsmith was not thinking about any of this, not yet. She was used to keeping her mind narrowly fixed on her work, and on this early winter's morning she was busy with plants and pots and compost. If her thinking strayed beyond them it was only to the comfortable prospect of hot coffee, and a ten-minute sit-down with the newspaper, the small rewards for one job properly completed before she had to begin the next. It was a cold day but the big greenhouse was pleasantly warm; the ridges and valleys of glass overhead were faintly misted so the bone-whiteness of the sky above was softened. Jess worked steadily, without looking up, amongst scents that she loved but knew too 1