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decline.
    The other girls on the counter were okay, but the manageress, Aneesa – whose name Jessica had learned on her first day meant ‘friend’ – was perhaps the worst-named woman in history. She had hated Jessica from the minute the young American had arrived for work. Initially, Jessica had tried to let the woman’s animosity flow over her and put it down to the fact that Aneesa was having a bad week. But after a few days she realised the manageress was simply consumed with jealousy over the girl’s freedom and youth.
    Arriving at the side door to the department store on 197, Jessica wove her way through a labyrinth of corridors and then up the service elevator one more floor to the counter on 198. At 8.03 am, the store was still empty except for the staff arranging things for the early morning rush. Pulling on her frumpy apricot-coloured gown over her long skirt and sensible top, Jessica paced across the shop floor and arrived at her station just as Aneesa came out of the staff rest area to do her morning inspection.
    The doors were opened at precisely 8.30 and the first cus- tomers began to arrive. Within 2 minutes, Jessica found herself arranging the fat fingers of a wealthy-looking Arab woman on the little glass-topped table between them. The woman was very overweight. Her chins wobbled above a collection of thick gold necklaces and her fingers were swamped with vulgar rings. Thanks to her heavy gold bangles, her wrists clattered and she stank of Chanel No.5, a perfume Jessica had always detested. The woman had not once made eye contact with her.
    For the first 5 minutes of the manicure, Jessica tried in vain to make small talk. She’d been told this was expected of her and the girls had all been schooled in the right and wrong things to say. But the woman wasn’t interested. Still not meeting Jessica’s eyes, she merely grunted an occasional incoherent response.
    A couple arrived at the shop counter. Dressed in matching beige and sensible footwear, the woman was organising her husband.
    ‘Frank, go get some souvenirs for the boys . . . Yes, at that shop we saw on the floor below this one.’
    The husband, about 60, with thinning grey hair and a kindly face, nodded. ‘All right,’ he said with a broad Australian accent. ‘I’ll be back for you in half an hour, darl’ . . .’
    He turned to leave as his wife, a well-upholstered woman with flaming red hair and flamboyant scarlet lipstick, followed an assistant over to the counter next to Jessica’s. The woman settled herself into her chair.
    ‘He’s a sweetheart,’ she said. ‘But off the golf course, he doesn’t know what to do with himself.’ The Australian woman let out a sigh and beamed at Jessica, then at Jessica’s customer who seemed to not understand a word the tourist had said.
    ‘Heard your accent,’ the Australian women went on. ‘American, right?’
    ‘Yes,’ Jessica said quietly. She wasn’t supposed to be talking to other customers while she worked.
    ‘Name’s Carmen,’ the woman said. ‘Brisbane, Australia. Can’t get used to this dry desert heat . . .’
    ‘Ow!’ the Arab woman exclaimed suddenly.
    Jessica recoiled, pulling away the narrow metal probe she had been gently using on the sides of the woman’s nails to clear away remnants of old varnish.
    ‘What are you doing? You stupid girl!’
    ‘I’m sorry . . .’ Jessica began.
    ‘You stuck that thing in my finger!’
    ‘I don’t think I did . . .’ Jessica regretted arguing the moment the words left her mouth.
    ‘You what? You . . . Get me the manageress.’
    ‘What’s happened?’ Carmen asked, looking concerned.
    ‘This stupid . . .’ the woman began.
    Jessica stared at the Australian woman, her face turning red. ‘I don’t think I . . .’ Her voice was shaky.
    Carmen turned to Jessica’s customer and was about to say something when Aneesa arrived. The manageress stood close to the woman and spoke Arabic. The customer started to