Do You Remember the First Time?. Jenny Colgan

Чтение книги онлайн.

       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 СКАЧАТЬ