"Michael Marshall Smith - Maybe Next Time" - читать интересную книгу автора (Smith Michael Marshall)

things to do. The list was short. David was good at his job, and believed that a list
of things to do generally comprised of a list of things that should already have been
done.

His list said he had to (1) have a quick and informal chat with the other
participants in the next dayтАЩs new-business meeting (2) have a third and superfluous
scan through the document explain-ing why said potential clients would be insane
not to hand their design needs over to Artful Bodgers Ltd (3) make sure the meeting
room had been tidied up and (4) . . .

David couldnтАЩt think what (4) might be. He moved his pen back, efficiently
preparing to cross out the numeral and its businesslike brackets, but didnтАЩt. He
dimly believed that his list was incomplete, in the same way you know, when
wandering around the kitchen periodically nibbling a biscuit, whether you finished it
in the last bite or if thereтАЩs a portion still lying around.

There was something he was supposed to do . . . nope, it had gone.

He went home, leaving the list behind. When he covertly glanced at it towards
the end of the meeting the following morning, his sense of mild satisfaction (the pitch
was going well, the new clients in the bag) was briefly muted by the sight of that (4),
still there, still unfilled. The list now had a (5), a (6) and a (7), all ticked, but still no
(4).

For a moment he was reminded of the old routineтАФ
Item 1: do the shopping
Item 2: mow the lawn
Item 4: whereтАЩs item 3?
Item 3: ah, there it is . . .
тАФand smiled. He was disconcerted to realize that the most senior of the
clients, a man with a head which looked carved out of a potato, was looking at him,
but the smile was easily converted into one of general commercial warmth. The deal
was done. By lunchtime he was on to other things, and the list was forgotten.
 This, or something like it, happened a couple more times that month. David
would find himself in the kitchen, wiping his hands after clearing away the dinner that
Amanda had cooked, thinking that he could sit down in front of the television just as
soon as he had . . . and realize there was nothing else he had to do. Or he would take
five minutes longer doing the weekly shop in Wait-rose, walking the aisles, not
looking for anything in particular but yet not quite ready to go and take his position
in the checkout line. In the end he would go and pay, and find himself bagging only
the things he had come out looking for, the things on his and AmandaтАЩs list.

February started with a blaze of sunshine, as if the gods had been saving it for
weeks and suddenly lost patience with clouds and grey. But it turned out that they
hadnтАЩt stocked as much as they thought, and soon London was muted and fitful
again. David worked, put up some shelves in the spare bedroom, and went out once
a week to a restaurant with his wife. They talked of things in the paper and on the
news, and Amanda had two glasses of wine while he drank four. But plenty of
mineral water too, and so the walk home was steady, his arm around her shoulders
for part of the way. Artful Bodgers continued to make money, in a quiet, unassuming