"Improper English" - читать интересную книгу автора (MacAlister Katie)

УI donТt imagine you learned too much about my mother from the draft she sent for this flat, but I can tell you that our agreement is iron-clad, with no changes allowed: She pays for this very expensive flat for two months, and I write a book. ItТs as simple as that. If I donТt succeed . . .Ф My mouth went dry at the thought of the alternative. УWell, IТd rather not think of that. Assuming I do finish the book, IТll be sitting in clover. MomТs agreed I can spend a year rent-free in the apartment over her garage, allowing me to establish myself as a writer. After that, my future is negotiable.Ф

A languid hand reached for the red lacquer fan sitting next to the tea tray. I avoided the questions in her eyes, and went to check on the water.

УIn case youТre wondering, I threw away those tea bags and IТm making tea the way you like it, although I have to admit, it never fails to amaze me how you English drink hot tea in the middle of summer.Ф I swished out the teapot with hot water and added fresh tea. УYouТd think everyone would drink iced tea when it gets this hot out.Ф

Isabella examined her perfectly painted rose-colored toenails. УTea should be hot, not iced,Ф she said pedantically, then allowed a smile to curl her lips as I carried the tea to the small table next to her. УAnd coffee should be white, not black.Ф

I shuddered as I kicked the floor pillow next to the table. УYouТre not going to get me into that argument again. You forget IТm from SeattleЧif itТs not strong enough to strip paint, itТs not real coffee.Ф

УYou say that with pride.Ф

A smart-ass retort rose immediately to my lips, but it withered when I met the look of concern in her eyes. I hadnТt told her much about my life, but Isabella seemed to have an uncanny knack of seeing through the usual screens. I gave her a rueful smile instead, and plopped down on the pillow. УSeattleites take their coffee very seriously.Ф

УWhat will you do if you donТt finish your book?Ф

I considered what to tell her while I played mother and poured tea, adding milk to hers and lemon to mine. IТd only known Isabella for a little more than a week, having met her the day I took over the sublet on the flat. She was polite but rather distant then, warming a little each day until the previous day when I admitted my purpose for being in London. Although our contact was limited to a few hours each afternoon, our friendship had grown into something very comfortable. I trusted her where I trusted very few people.

УIf I canТt cut it as a writer, I will...Ф I paused, staring into the tea, hoping for inspiration, hoping for a life-altering event, hoping for hope. У... I will be an indentured servant with no future. None. Ever.Ф

Her eyelids dropped over her brilliant blue eyes. Outside, a siren Dopplered against the building and in through the three open windows as a panda car swerved in and out of the busy afternoon traffic, around two corners of Beale Square, finally heading off for God-knows-where. We sipped our tea in companionable silence, the fragrant smell of Earl Grey mingling with the tang of fresh lemon and the faintly acid bite from the bouquet of flowers IТd bought at the corner shop. I stopped avoiding the inevitable and glanced at Isabella.

УI must be going,Ф she said with what sounded like genuine regret, and set her cup down next to the few pages of my book. A slight line appeared between her eyebrows for a moment as she eyed the papers; then her brow smoothed as she rose gracefully from the chaise and ran her hand down the tunic of her hand-dyed primrose silk hostess pajamas that I coveted almost as much as I had coveted everything else she had worn. УThere is such a thing as trying too hard, darling. Perhaps if you were to forget everything youТve read about writing a book, your prose might be less . . .Ф

I stared at the hostess pajamas for a moment, calculating how much they must have cost, finally determining that they were probably more expensive than my entire stay in England. УWhat?Ф I scrambled up from the pillow and walked the ten feet over to the door. УPurple?Ф I tried on a little pout for size.

She smiled suddenly, tiny laugh lines appearing around her cerulean eyes. She patted my hand reassuringly as I smiled back. УGhastly.Ф

My smile slipped a little, but I managed to murmur my appreciation for her advice.

УDo you know what you need?Ф she asked, her head tipping to one side as she ran her gaze over me. I straightened up from my habitual slouch, and wished I had on something more elegant than the plain Indian sundress IТd picked up at a tiny shop in the tube station. I also toyed with the idea of wishing I wasnТt quite so Amazonian and more in the line of IsabellaТs sylph-like figure, but shrugged that thought away. Wishing wouldnТt make me shorter, skinnier, or more graceful.

УWhat do I need?Ф I asked as soon as she completed her survey of my rumpled dress, bare legs, and unpainted toenails.

Her smile deepened, a dimple peeking out from one side of her mouth. УA man.Ф

УHa!Ф Surprised, I hooted with laughter. УSure, you got one in your pocket? IТll take him!Ф

One perfect blond eyebrow rose quizzically.

УYou thought I was going to say I donТt want one, didnТt you? You can think again, sister. IТve been looking for a man my whole life.Ф

УI see.Ф

УIТve had some, tooЧI donТt want you thinking I havenТt, because I have.Ф

УI never imagined you hadnТt.Ф

УItТs just that theyТve all been creeps. IТm a bit of a creep magnet, you see. If thereТs a flaky guy around who thinks itТs sexy to rub Cheetos all over your erogenous zones, I fall for him.Ф