Far From My Father’s House. Jill McGivering
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Название: Far From My Father’s House
Автор: Jill McGivering
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Зарубежные любовные романы
isbn: 9780007433605
isbn:
He snorted. ‘Just great.’
There was a pause. The phone line seemed to magnify the sound of his breathing. She thought of all the hours they used to spend on the phone together, sometimes talking, sometimes quiet. A long time ago.
‘Am I coming up then? Just for a drink. No fooling around.’
‘Dead right no fooling around.’ She laughed. It was fun, hearing him again. ‘Give me one good reason why I should say yes?’
He slowed his voice to a stagey drawl. ‘I got Scotch.’
She drew back the curtains and switched off the hotel lights and they sat, side by side, looking out through the floor-to-ceiling windows across suburban Peshawar. The road alongside the hotel was a necklace of streetlights, studded with moving cars. House lights blinked randomly in the darkness. In the distance, a blue neon sign spluttered on and off. I should tape the window, she thought, in case there’s a blast. That’s a lot of flying glass.
The whisky was smooth and mellow. She let it roll over her tongue. It stung slightly, then slipped down her throat. The lights outside began to blur.
‘So what happened?’ she said.
He exhaled heavily as if he’d been punctured. ‘It’s a mess.’ He paused. She sensed his tiredness as he let himself start to unwind. ‘There’s lots more people on the way. And not enough food for the ones we already got.’
‘Any idea how many people?’
He shrugged. ‘All we’ve seen is the first wave. The army’s barely in the foothills.’ He slipped off his sandals and crossed his legs, laying an ankle on the opposite knee and pointing the bare sole of his foot towards her. The black hairs above his ankles showed beneath the baggy bottoms of his jeans. He smelt clean, tinged with the perfume of hotel soap.
‘I saw a lot of boxes arriving.’
He raised his glass to his lips, sipped. ‘Not as many as there should be.’
‘Well, there’s always a time lag. Once news of the appeal—’
‘I didn’t mean that.’ He was staring out into the darkness, preoccupied. She sipped at her whisky, giving him time. It burnt its way down her throat and into her stomach and spread there, warming and numbing. It wasn’t easy to get alcohol here. It was a treat. ‘Seems like there’s a ton of stuff missing,’ he said slowly. ‘Tents. Sugar. Rice. You name it.’
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