Rags to Riches. Nancy Carson
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Название: Rags to Riches
Автор: Nancy Carson
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
isbn: 9780008134839
isbn:
He turned the car around and drove off. ‘Well? Have you enjoyed tonight?’
‘Yes, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed myself, thank you. The band’s good. I’m impressed. Have you got a name for yourselves?’
‘The Second City Hot Six.’
‘The Second City Hot Six?…But there are seven of you.’
‘Arthur doesn’t always play. His wife won’t let him out all the time.’
‘Lord, I can scarcely believe that!’ she scoffed. ‘He’s not that brilliant anyway, is he?’
‘Not really. But most of the time we haven’t got him. When we have, he’s a bonus.’
‘A liability, more like. He plays that clarinet as if it were a piece of lead piping. The pianist too – he’s the same – worse, possibly.’
He chuckled at her directness. ‘This stuff’s not serious, Maxine. It’s for fun. It doesn’t really matter how good or bad we are, so long as we enjoy playing together. It pays reasonably well, anyway. That’s a bonus.’
‘I suppose so. But I tend to be a perfectionist, Brent. I couldn’t stand to play jazz – or anything else for that matter – unless I was doing it as well as it was possible to do it.’
‘Does that apply to everything you do?’ he asked provocatively.
‘Of course it does.’ His innuendo was lost on her, however.
‘I see you were talking to Randolf’s chum.’
‘You mean Howard? He was nice. Easy to talk to. I liked him.’ The same glow she’d felt when he held her hand lit her up again as she recalled the moment. After a pause, she said: ‘I asked him about you.’
He snorted with laughter. ‘I bet that impressed him.’
‘I asked him if he knew whether you were married.’
‘Oh? And what did he say?’
‘He said to ask you …I think I upset him. So I’m asking. Are you married, Brent?’
He hesitated, and she knew he was debating with himself whether to tell her a lie. ‘Why? Is it important?’
‘It might be.’
‘Yet you didn’t ask before you accepted my offer to take you out.’
‘Nevertheless, it had occurred to me.’
‘Nevertheless, you accepted my invitation.’
She felt her colour rise. ‘I suppose I did.’
‘Which suggests it isn’t relevant.’
‘It would be relevant if I had designs on you,’ she said, trying to make it sound as if she hadn’t.
He grinned to himself in the darkness. ‘And do you have designs on me?’
‘Certainly not. Especially if you’re married. So? Are you married?’
‘I might be,’ he teased. ‘And then again, I might not.’
‘Sorry, Brent. Turn left here, please.’
‘Left? Hold tight.’ He braked hard and turned the car into the corner.
‘Now right.’
‘Okay…Now where?’
‘Just here will do…Thank you, Brent. Thanks for taking me to listen to the Second City Hot Seven.’
‘Hot Six.’
She smiled enigmatically as she clambered out of the car. ‘See you at rehearsal in the morning.’
Orchestra rehearsals for Beethoven’s Mass in D went well. By five minutes past ten everyone had tuned up and was playing. Leslie Heward was not content with some of the passages in the final movement, prompting various discussions and one or two individuals practising certain phrases privately and spontaneously before going over it again together. They broke for lunch at one o’ clock.
Maxine, who had avoided looking in the direction of Brent Shackleton, was surprised when he sidled up to her as she spoke to Gwen Berry on a point of interpretation on the cello score.
‘Sorry to interrupt, Gwen. Do you mind if I steal Maxine off you?’ he asked courteously. ‘Have you got a minute, Maxine?’
Maxine excused herself and stood up.
‘Last night, Maxine…’ he began seriously. ‘Look, do you mind coming with me to The White Hart for a drink? There’s something I want to talk to you about. It’s probably best done over a drink.’
‘Okay,’ she said, surprised at the prospect of being in his company again so soon. ‘What do you want to discuss with me?’
‘I need some advice. Something you said last night.’
About the question of him being married? ‘Let me grab my bag.’
She trotted alongside him to the exit. ‘Horrible last night, wasn’t it? The weather, I mean.’ She smiled appealingly to confirm she really did mean the weather.
In Chamberlain Square the pigeons were out in force, strutting earnestly in the sunshine, flapping boisterously as crumbs and crusts landed among them. Lunch time was an engrossing time of day for pigeons, for on fine days such as this the providers of all these scraps of bread, the city’s office workers, took to the Square to enjoy sandwiches and flasks of tea among the splendour of some of Birmingham’s grandest Victorian architecture. Office romances budded and blossomed as workers sought relief in the sunshine from the tedium of eye straining paperwork in poorly lit rooms.
Maxine and Brent walked briskly through this urban springtime lunch hour, forcing conversation, for both were aware of how strained their tenuous relationship had become overnight. Brent ventured a remark on the progress of Amy Johnson’s solo flight to and from South Africa, and Maxine replied how brave she must be to attempt it. Then he told her it would be his dream to play jazz on the Queen Mary when the liner made her maiden voyage to America at the end of the month.
He was nicer today, not dashing off in front. She didn’t have to struggle to keep up with him. He was more attentive. In fact, he was beginning to sound rather charming.
They arrived at The White Hart. It was busy, noisy with conversation and laughter.
‘What would you like to drink, Maxine?’
‘Lemonade, please…Brent - no beer this time, thank you.’
He СКАЧАТЬ