‘A little promenade, madame?’ Madame Valade rose from the chintz-covered chair with alacrity and a little rustle of her silken petticoats. And, decently as he could, McClintock was giving the man the boot. The movie droned on, the sounds becoming manageable except for the frequent high-pitched screams of young girls when a poltergeist manifestation would leap out of a shadow. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. FOREWORD Forever Fifteen was born of a dream I had in 2002, a dream that was part nightmare. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. The touch of his lips neither thrilled nor alarmed her, because the eyes that looked into hers were clean. The agony on the sands now ceased to puzzle her.
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