Sally. Freya NorthЧитать онлайн книгу.
with her breathing. She could hear the clock, digital but audible; phit, phit, phit. For every three phits came one long, hushed, oblivious breath from Richard. A distant thrush sang to the morning while an occasional car hummed by. Under it all she could decipher the fridge adjusting its thermostat.
She lay on her back with Richard’s arm lolling on top of the quilt over her stomach. She checked for the spider and found him a little further along the ceiling, playing dents again.
If I woke now, and saw him, I’d probably presume again that he was a dent. I wonder if he times his sorties according to phits? Sally grinned at her early-morning dedication to pointless ponderings, her commitment to theorizing over nothing particular. Shyly, she looked across at Richard. Asleep and safe and soundless. She wondered what time it was and reckoned round about 7.30. But then knowing the exact time suddenly assumed great importance so she tuned into the phitting and travelled her eyes up over Richard to locate the clock. 7.45. She smiled. And then smiled again, not knowing why.
He’s awfully good-looking. I have chosen well.
But over and above the surge she felt on gazing at him, was a softness and warmth inside for him.
Stop it, stop it. Sally, stop.
And yet she found herself not recalling, thrust by thrust, the athletics of the previous night, but simply looking at him in the here and now. Asleep. Lovely. She felt compelled to reach out and delicately stroke away the flop of hair meandering over his eye and the bridge of his nose. Then she lingered and, with her fingertips, traced his eyebrows and the soft dips in the corners of his eyes. A careful fingertip brushed away an endearing pip of sleepydust. Again she found herself smiling and felt that same softness and warmth within.
No, Sally, no. Stop it. No. Impossible. Not after a week. Not ever.
The spider was on the move again and scuttled across and over to where the cupboards met the ceiling. The crack was plenty big enough and it disappeared from view.
Well, if the spider can snoop then so can I.
She left the bedroom noiselessly and went through to the lounge and over to the kitchen.
You can tell a lot about a person by what he keeps in the fridge.
You can tell a lot about a person by what they eat for breakfast, and with the fridge door still open, Sally ate tiramisù straight from the dish. Crouching on her heels, she noted that the milk was semi-skimmed and the eggs were free-range. There were peppers of every conceivable colour, flat-leaf parsley in a small tumbler of water, live yoghurts, slices of meat in Harrod’s cellophane and a punnet of raspberries.
In November!
Having had enough tiramisù (for now), Sally opened a limed oak cupboard and catalogued the fine oils and vinegar, the packet of porcini which looked withered, rather sorry and somewhat inedible in their dried state. Much to her amusement and relief, right at the back she spied a large bottle of HP Sauce. She smiled and opened the next cupboard and examined the china. Villeroy and Boch.
That’ll do.
Over in the lounge, she went to the bookcase to handle those sumptuous leather volumes. She ran her hand along the ash, very smooth and surprisingly warm. With a tentative fingertip, she felt the embossed spines and read the titles to herself. She took down Julius Caesar and ran it over her cheek. She fanned the pages and inhaled deeply. Then she touched the spine with her tongue tip and was miles away in another small heaven of her own when peace was shattered by the post.
He gets The National Geographic, what luxury!
Leaving the rest of the post with the Guardian on the doormat, Sally curled up on the leather recliner and lost herself in the social behaviour of the humpback whale, and went on a fascinating trip through Alaska by husky.
And that was how Richard found her when he surfaced half an hour later.
‘Morning, Sal.’
‘Morning, Richie.’
‘Breakfast?’
‘Mmm.’
‘In bed?’
‘And why not?’
How civilized: warm croissants, freshly juiced oranges, a good pot of Earl Grey and the morning paper.
‘This is my favourite part of Saturday’s Guardian, the Questionnaire,’ revealed Sally, and they laughed out loud at Alan Bennett’s disclosures. Richard grabbed a spoon and turned it into a microphone.
‘Sally Lomax, twenty-five, teacher, National Geographic reader, tiramisù demolisher and sex-goddess, what is your idea of perfect happiness?’ He thrust the spoon at her.
Delighted, Sally sparked back: ‘A beautiful stone farmhouse in Tuscany and a dark swarthy male to go with it.’
Actually, Saturday morning, breakfast in bed, the paper and you would do nicely. But you shan’t know that.
‘With which historical figure do you most identify?’
‘Lady Godiva.’
‘Which living person do you most admire?’
‘Aunt Celia. She’s seventy and has the strength of an ox and the courage of Samson.’
‘What vehicles do you own?’
‘Strong pair of legs.’
‘And a Mini Cooper. What is your greatest extravagance?’
‘Danish pastries.’
‘And tiramisù for breakfast?’
Sally blushed.
‘Sal, you’re blushing! What objects do you always carry with you?’
‘Donor card, paracetamol, rape alarm, pocket hankies, emery board, safety pins, stamps, address book.’
‘Am I in it?’
‘No.’
‘What makes you most depressed?’
‘Child abuse. Oh, and synthetic cream.’
‘What do you most dislike about your appearance?’
‘I rather like it!’
‘Sally!’ Richard chastized.
‘Okay, my bikini line hair,’ Sally confided.
‘What is your most unappealing habit?’
‘I don’t have any.’
‘Sally!’ Richard warned again.
‘Oh, God. Okay, I fart in the bath.’ They fell about laughing and Richard admitted quite happily that he did too.
‘What would you like for your next birthday?’
‘An answerphone. No, a weekend in Boston.’
‘When is your birthday?’
‘Next year. May the nineteenth.’
‘What is your favourite word?’
‘Funicular.’
‘You what?’
‘It’s a lovely word to say. Try it.’
‘Fu-nic-u-lar. Hmm. What is your favourite journey?’
‘The road to Oban, the boat to Mull; to Aunt Celia’s.’
‘Who are your favourite musicians?’
‘Genesis, Van the Man, Dylan.’
‘Anyone told you it’s now the 1990s? Who are your favourite writers?’
‘Alice Thomas