Do You Remember the First Time?. Jenny ColganЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter One

      The rain was beating down on the windscreen, as we tried to navigate (rather damply) along the winding country road.

      ‘I hate the country,’ I said gloomily.

      ‘Yes, well, you hate everything that isn’t fifteen seconds from an overpriced cappuccino,’ said Oliver crossly, although in his defence he had been driving from London for six hours.

      ‘I don’t hate everything,’ I said. ‘Only … those things over there.’

      ‘What things?’

      ‘Those … oh, you know.’

      ‘Cows?’

      ‘Yes, that’s it.’

      ‘You can’t recognise a cow?’

      ‘Remind me.’ He used to think this was really cute.

      ‘It’s where your latte comes from,’ he said, sighing.

      Oliver does like the country. He was born, bred and boarding-schooled here. He couldn’t understand why someone who’d lived their whole life in London wouldn’t want to get out of it once in a while. I had patiently explained to him several times the necessity of all-night Harts the Grocers, proper bagels, and the choice, if one so wished, to pay six pounds for a bottle of mineral water in a nightclub, but he would bang on about fields and animals as if they were a good thing.

      I examined his profile in the dimming light. He looked tired. God, he was tired, very tired. So was I. Olly worked for a law firm that did a lot of boring corporate stuff that dragged on for months and was fundamentally big rich bastards (Ol excepted, of course) working out ways to screw other big rich bastards for reasons that remained mysterious, with companies called things that sounded like covers for James Bond. I worked as an accountant for a mega firm – there were thousands of us. I tried to tell people it was more fun than it sounded, but I think after eleven years they could tell by my tone of voice that it wasn’t. It had seemed like a nice safe option at the time. It was even fun at first, dressing up and wearing a suit, but recently the sixty-hour weeks, the hideous internal politics, the climate of economic fear, and the Sundays Ol and I spent with our work spread out over the kitchen table were, you know, starting to get to me. I spent a lot of time – so much time – in the arid, thrice-breathed air. When we were getting to the end of a deal I’d spend twelve hours a day in there. That was about seventy-five per cent of my waking seconds. Every time I thought about that, I started to panic.

      It wasn’t that we didn’t have a good lifestyle, I reflected, peering out through the rain, and thinking how strangely black it was out here: I hadn’t had much total darkness in my life. I mean, we both made plenty of money – Olly would probably even make partner eventually, as he worked really hard. But the shit we went through to get it … Jeez.

      We took nice holidays, and Olly had a lovely flat in Battersea that I practically lived in. It was a good area, with lots of bars and restaurants and things to do, and if we got round to having kids, it would be a good place to bring them up too. Parks nearby and all that. Good schools, blah blah blah.

      Good friends too. The best, really. In fact, that was why we were here, splashing through the mud in the godforsaken middle of nowhere. My oldest friend from school, Tashy, was getting married. Even though we’d both grown up in Highgate, she’d come over all Four Weddings when she and Max got engaged, and insisted on hiring some country house hotel out in the middle of nowhere with no connection to either of them.

      I was glad she was getting married, give or take the bridegroom. We’d planned this a lot at school. Of course, not until we were at least twenty-two (we were both now thirty-two). In the manner of Princess Diana, if you please (although I’d been to the dress fitting and it was a very sharp and attractive