Summer Holiday. Penny Smith

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ gave me a fright,’ she said, her heart beating unnecessarily fast.

      ‘Sorry.’ He smiled. ‘Again.’ He leant his forearm on the car roof. ‘I’m sorry for my very poor attempt at humour earlier. Can I take you for a drink to make up for it?’ He hastened on before she had a chance to speak. ‘There’s a really pretty little pub about a mile away. It’s on your way home. They do coffee. Or … erm … other things, if you don’t want a drink of an alcoholic nature?’ he ended, raising his eyebrows hopefully.

      ‘How could I possibly say no?’ she answered. ‘A nice glass of something sounds just the job. Only the one, mind you, since I do have to drive home.’

      Alex began to explain where the pub was, but saw that she had lost him beyond turning left on to the main road. ‘Tell you what, why don’t you follow me?’

      ‘Much easier,’ she agreed.

      It was a relief to get the air-conditioning going in the car. She tuned in to Radio 2 and jigged along to ‘Honky Tonk Woman’, singing the few words she knew and humming the rest. She was going to a pub with a dreadlocked eco-warrior. Not that he was a warrior, but it was a very sexy word redolent of a bygone age when men were men and women wandered about in long skirts applying harts-horn and experimenting with plaits.

      ‘Whoa, lady,’ she said aloud, running her hand along the nape of her neck and lifting her hair to get a bit of ventilation.

      The verges were verdant with flowers, trees and bushes, all bursting into life. It was like a scene from a 1950s film with euphemisms for sex. Peonies exploding. Pods popping. Stamens thrusting. Miranda felt an excitement she hadn’t experienced since the very first blind date after her divorce, when she’d thought that she was going to be properly pillaged. How misplaced that had been.

      The photograph of Marc – that was his name – had shown a stocky man with close-cut hair in the Russell Crowe mould, standing by a stallion with muscular nostrils and a look in its eye. She had spent about three hours getting ready – even bought new clothes and underwear to emphasise the new leaf she was turning over.

      And then she had met him. She would literally have preferred to have had dinner with his horse.

      His wallet had been bursting with platinum credit cards and fifty-pound notes – he had made sure she noticed them when he took out a picture of his new Labrador. But he had been an unreconstructed bore who could barely wait for her to finish a sentence before he was leaping in with long, tedious stories, all of which he started, ‘I must tell you about this funny thing that happened to me …’

      Under her breath, she replied, ‘No, you don’t have to tell me and it won’t be funny.’

      Her mobile phone startled her by ringing very loudly where it nestled in her crotch. She put the hands-free earphones in and answered.

      ‘Hi, Mum.’

      ‘Oh, hello, Lucy. Listen, I’m driving so I might lose you if I go into an iffy patch. How are you?’

      ‘Fine. How are you?’

      ‘Feeling pretty good, actually. Everything okay, or were you after something?’ She might as well cut to the chase, since Lucy generally only phoned to lecture her about splitting up the family or how she should invest her cash.

      ‘Hmm. I saw Dad yesterday and he said you still had some of his books, which you said you were going to give him back. I thought I’d save you a trip by picking them up from you this week.’

      Miranda bristled. She consciously kept her voice light. ‘I wonder which ones they are. He did take the couple he’d read, and the yard of books he bought at Sotheby’s to put on his office bookshelves,’ she said sweetly. ‘Sorry. You’re going to have to tell him to give me a ring and let me know what he’s talking about.’ He wouldn’t because he was a coward and that was why he had drafted in Lucy to ask her.

      ‘Leatherbound books, he said,’ Lucy countered, obviously having been briefed by Nigel.

      ‘Yes. The ones he bought by the yard, as I said. No doubt he’s finished reading them all and is desperate for the sequels,’ she said bitchily. Nigel read the Financial Times, the Telegraph and some magazine called Square Mile, which she’d once read in the bath in the absence of anything racier.

      ‘He says you know which books he’s talking about. Apparently you claimed they were yours, but Gran says they were definitely hers and she gave them to Dad.’

      ‘Well, I’ve no idea what you, he and she are talking about,’ she said waspishly.

      ‘Do you think you could check when you get home, though?’ asked Lucy, relentlessly.

      ‘Not tonight. I’m on my way to a …’ She paused, unwilling to get into a conversation about where she was going and with whom ‘… friend’s house. For dinner. I’ll be late.’

      ‘Oh.’ Lucy sounded put out. ‘Well, I’ll tell Dad you’ll do it in the morning, then.’

      ‘No, you won’t,’ countered Miranda. ‘You’ll tell him to give me a ring and explain what I’m looking for.’

      ‘I’ve already told you what you’re looking for. Don’t be mean, Mum. Which friend are you having dinner with?’

      ‘Eh?’

      ‘Which friend are you having dinner with?’

      ‘Lydia,’ she said foolishly, no other name coming to hand quick enough. Damn. Trust her to pick the wife of one of Nigel’s best friends.

      ‘On a Sunday?’

      ‘Well, it was supposed to be lunch, but I was busy. So I’m dropping round now.’

      ‘It won’t be a late one, though, knowing Lydia and Justin. He’s like me, up at five every morning. I must ring him – I heard a rumour about Standard and Poors.’

      Miranda’s eyes widened. Drat and double drat. That would be the cat put firmly amid the pigeons.

      ‘I’m sorry, I can’t hear you very well, Lucy. If you can hear me, lots of love. Speak to you soon. ’Bye.’ She clicked the off button and glanced down to switch the phone off altogether. Ridiculous. Lying to your daughter about going to a pub with a young man.

      ‘Young man.’ She couldn’t help putting on an accent. Like that actor in the sketch show. Who was he? She couldn’t remember his name. Someone dressed as an old woman, ogling the man who came round to fix the boiler. Fix the boiler – oh, that’s a good euphemism, she thought.

      Feeling a little discombobulated, she concentrated on the camper van ahead.

      They pulled off at a crossroads and within ten minutes were in the car park of a pretty pub with a bright display of hanging baskets at the front and a little beer garden at the back. ‘Why don’t you grab a spot outside and I’ll get you a drink?’ Alex said, holding her door open as she got out of the car.

      ‘All right. Could I have a half of whatever the local beer is, please?’

      ‘Crisps?’

      ‘Salt and vinegar, please.’

      ‘An СКАЧАТЬ