Who Wants To Live Forever?. Steve Wilson

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ how often is he away?” I asked.

      “He’s away most weeks, although usually he’s just at Head Office in London. But once a month he’ll fly to Chicago to meet the other international organisation heads, and every now and then he flies to Stockholm for a European summit meeting. I always go with him to Chicago, as he’s usually there for a week, but I don’t go with him on all of the European visits. To tell you the truth, I get a little fed up of all the travelling. An airport is an airport after all, and after a while they all look the same. Sometimes I can’t even tell if I’m at O’Hare or Landvetter. They’re the main airports in Chicago and Stockholm,” she added in case we needed clarification. I was about to say something, but Debbie was already talking.

      “I thought you said he had no long trips lined up while the class was on, but if he goes to Chicago every month, that has to clash surely?”

      “No, as it turns out, not at all. We were away in the first week of September, and we fly out to O’Hare again on the twenty-first of this month — I won’t miss a class because it’s half-term. We come home at the end of October and fly back again in early December.”

      “What do you do when you’re out there? I mean, doesn’t it get a bit boring while he’s at work?” asked Trish.

      “Oh, no, not at all. Chicago and Stockholm are beautiful cities. I love shopping in Gamla Stan when in Stockholm — that means ‘the old town’ — and when we’re in Chicago, we try and get to the baseball whenever we can.”

      “You like baseball?” I asked. “I’ve never been to a game, but I used to watch it when it was on Channel 5.”

      “Oh, yes, we both love it, but my husband is a Cubs fan while I follow the Red Sox. It’s a pity that neither of them are in the World Series this year. Who do you follow?”

      “I’m sorry,” I said, “I got it wrong. I thought you meant basketball.”

      “Oh, no, baseball is America’s national sport, not basketball. And there’s nothing like going to Cellular Field to watch the Sox. I suppose my husband feels the same when he’s down at Wrigley Field watching the Cubs.”

      “It must be something to be at one of their games. You must be a real fan,” I said, before taking a deep swig of my lager. “Can I get you all another drink?” I asked.

      “We can’t have you getting the drinks in all the time,” said Trish. “Unlike the class, this is 2011, not 1911.”

      “Hey, we said we weren’t going to mention the class,” said Debbie.

      “I’d get the drinks,” said Gail, standing and picking her coat up, “but I really do have to go. I’ll see you all next week.”

      After Gail had left, Trish turned to me. “Fancy a man getting mixed up about sport, not knowing the difference between baseball and basketball. Even I know that,” she said, mockingly.

      “As it happens,” I replied, “I do know a lot about baseball. More than a lot, in fact. I might not have attended a game live, but I used to stay up until four a.m. on a Monday morning watching the televised games, even when I had work the next day. I know more than Gail does, it appears.”

      “Why? What do you mean?” asked Debbie.

      “I don’t want to be unkind, but she made a few basic errors. She knew where they play but she got the name of her team wrong. It’s the White Sox in Chicago. The Red Sox are from Boston. It’s as if she’s swotted up on the subject but doesn’t know it intimately. Similar with the airports she was talking about. If she was flying to Stockholm, she’d most likely use Arlanda. There are several other airports that serve the city, but Landvetter isn’t one of them — that’s the main airport for Gothenburg.

      “Okay,” said Trish, “let’s get this right. You’re saying that Gail has been getting basic facts mixed up, over both airports and sport. But why would she do that?”

      “I don’t know, I really don’t.”

      “No,” said Debbie, “neither do I. Perhaps she just got confused?”

      “Or maybe she’s just trying too hard to impress us and tell us what she thought we wanted to hear?” added Trish.

      “Could be,” I said. “If so, though, she didn’t say what I wanted to hear. I was interested in learning something about Gail herself, but I don’t think I know any more about her now than I did before. I don’t mean I wanted to know her complete life story, but a potted history would have been nice.”

      “Come to think of it, Gail’s story did sound a little like she was reciting some facts that she’d learnt parrot-fashion. You know, a bit like used to happen at school, when you’d have to recite, say, the periodical table. I knew the symbols and elements, but that didn’t mean I knew anything about chemistry.”

      “Yes, but, unlike school, it sounds as if Gail learnt the wrong facts,” said Debbie.

      As it was getting late we decided to call it a night. “Next week, though,” said Trish as we were leaving, “let’s all of us tell our ‘potted histories’, as that’s clearly what Ethan wants to hear.”

      “I will — on condition that Ethan tells us his tale as well,” insisted Debbie.

      “If I must,” I added. “It will make for a long night, especially if we can persuade Gail and Emma to join us as well.”

      We said our goodnights and went our separate ways home, with the prevailing thought in my head being that I had a date — of sorts — after class next week.

       Chapter Five

       Amber — Friday 7^th October 2011

      She carefully applied the foundation to her cheeks, laying it on thickly to try and mask the discolouration; the last thing she needed now was for somebody to notice the change. She was almost certain that nobody had, so far, but she didn’t want to take any chances.

      For some strange reason, it was always the left side of her face that showed the signs first, so she applied an extra layer there. She tutted as she saw a couple of wrinkles, but quickly set about masking their appearance as well.

      Finally, she looked at her reflection in the mirror; she spent a lot of time looking in mirrors these days. There was barely any resemblance to the woman who had stood in Alan Ingleby’s bathroom eleven years earlier; Amber clearly was no more.

      The mark was barely visible; it would pass inspection as long as nobody came too close. Not to worry, there were still a few days before she’d be back in that environment, and she knew from previous experience that in these early days any blotches often disappeared overnight. And if it was still there on Tuesday evening — well, it wasn’t that unusual to have a little bruising, was it? She could always come up with a believable explanation for how it happened. Why, it might even gain her a sympathetic ear; it might make her task that little bit easier.

      The others had accepted her story without batting an eyelid. Her duplicity came easily with experience. Men, especially, never thought to question her. Despite her СКАЧАТЬ