THE ODDS
Elizabeth was tall and thin, like a model, and Gary was robust and solid like a marine. Together they were the genetic ideal of modern western society, and as far as any dumpy, flab fighting, pasty skinned neighbour was concerned, horrifyingly appeared not to have to work at it. Elizabeth bought her clothes in Florence when attending annual scientific conferences, and Gary sported the kind of casually elegant style of any man who habitually drank and worked with actors. Together, in public at least, to those whose lives mundanely consisted of nine to five office jobs, they looked like they might have emerged from the pages of some celebrity-obsessed glossy magazine. That would be enough for most of their neighbours to hold ambiguous views of them but worse, Elizabeth was a scientist who read large quantities of fiction, and Gary was a scriptwriter who read large quantities of scientific literature. Together they were The Renaissance, and woe unto anyone who crossed them, and woe unto anyone who strayed from facts to superstition and conjecture.
“We fell in love with the house,” said their next-door neighbour, a podgy banker, prone to wearing a visible vest beneath his work shirt, “It was expensive though and we did some soul searching. But, we just knew that we were meant for this place.”
Gary could never resist rising to the occasion: “You mean, you were divinely inspired to buy your house? It had nothing to do with a good position, a fair price or the fact that the neighbourhood was obviously prestigious?”
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