"Lisa Tuttle - Honey, I'm Home!" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tuttle Lisa)

watched TV any more except for movies and the news. All right, and
Eastenders, sometimes. But she didnтАЩt like anybody on that show; the
characters were, without exception, loathsome in varying degrees. Wicksy
had been fanciable once, but sheтАЩd gone off him well before heтАЩd been
written out of the script; the only other halfway attractive males in the series,
all long gone now, had been villains. Anyway, for all she knew the magic
only worked on American series.

Thirtysomething should be more her style. She had watched it, or
parts of it, from time to time, but while the women were OK, the men were
not. HopeтАЩs husband at least was good-looking, which was more than she
could say of any of the others, but he was an irritating, egocentric whiner.

There were a lot of good-looking guys on Twin Peaks, but they were
all weird. And there had been too many dead women on that series to risk
getting involved.
 She wondered if that was a contemporary equation - safe and boring
or attractive but dangerous - or if it had been ever thus. It seemed an
awfully immature attitude towards sex, but maybe the television idea of
romance was inescap-ably adolescent. She tried to remember the last time
sheтАЩd found any character from a television series sexually interest-ing, let
alone compelling, and then remembered Frank Furillo from Hill Street
Blues. There was a man to make her heart beat a little faster. Not only sexy
but nice. She con-sidered his eyes, his laugh, the way he moved, and then
she remembered something about his character which made her sigh in a
different way. He was a recovering alcoholic. She had played partner to one
of those before - also a тАШpizza-manтАЩ. That had been one of the several last
straws before she left New York, and she had sworn never again.

Familiar music impinged upon her consciousness, jarring, percussive,
a popular track from several years back, carrying a freight of memory.

She sat up and stared at the blank screen while the radio played the
theme music from Miami Vice.

It came back in a rush: the curious, guilty pleasure of it, like eating a
whole batch of brownies, delicious and comfort-ing and yet sickening.
Something she could never talk about. For those few months, one night a
week, she had a secret, a pleasure waiting for her, like having someone to
go home to. SheтАЩd get in from somewhere, maybe a union meeting, maybe
a disappointing tryst in a pub. Sometimes sheтАЩd be a little drunk, sometimes
she would pour herself a glass of white wine, sometimes sheтАЩd have a
packet of fish and chips, sometimes she would have been crying. SheтАЩd
turn on the television and curl up in the comfy chair with her wine or her
chips and gaze at the screen entranced by the brilliantly coloured, designer
vision of Florida. She knew Miami wasnтАЩt like that - it certainly wasnтАЩt where
her grandparents lived - and she knew cops didnтАЩt dress like that, but
watching Miami Vice she was as uncritical as any dreamer in her own
dream.