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

“I don’t 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. It’s as simple as that. If I don’t succeed . . .” My mouth went dry at the thought of the alternative. “Well, I’d rather not think of that. Assuming I do finish the book, I’ll be sitting in clover. Mom’s 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.”

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.

“In case you’re wondering, I threw away those tea bags and I’m 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.” I swished out the teapot with hot water and added fresh tea. “You’d think everyone would drink iced tea when it gets this hot out.”

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

I shuddered as I kicked the floor pillow next to the table. “You’re not going to get me into that argument again. You forget I’m from Seattle—if it’s not strong enough to strip paint, it’s not real coffee.”

“You say that with pride.”

A smart-ass retort rose immediately to my lips, but it withered when I met the look of concern in her eyes. I hadn’t 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. “Seattleites take their coffee very seriously.”

“What will you do if you don’t finish your book?”

I considered what to tell her while I played mother and poured tea, adding milk to hers and lemon to mine. I’d 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.

“If I can’t cut it as a writer, I will...” I paused, staring into the tea, hoping for inspiration, hoping for a life-altering event, hoping for hope. “... I will be an indentured servant with no future. None. Ever.”

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 I’d bought at the corner shop. I stopped avoiding the inevitable and glanced at Isabella.

“I must be going,” 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. “There is such a thing as trying too hard, darling. Perhaps if you were to forget everything you’ve read about writing a book, your prose might be less . . .”

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. “What?” I scrambled up from the pillow and walked the ten feet over to the door. “Purple?” 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. “Ghastly.”

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

“Do you know what you need?” 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 I’d picked up at a tiny shop in the tube station. I also toyed with the idea of wishing I wasn’t quite so Amazonian and more in the line of Isabella’s sylph-like figure, but shrugged that thought away. Wishing wouldn’t make me shorter, skinnier, or more graceful.

“What do I need?” 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. “A man.”

“Ha!” Surprised, I hooted with laughter. “Sure, you got one in your pocket? I’ll take him!”

One perfect blond eyebrow rose quizzically.

“You thought I was going to say I don’t want one, didn’t you? You can think again, sister. I’ve been looking for a man my whole life.”

“I see.”

“I’ve had some, too—I don’t want you thinking I haven’t, because I have.”

“I never imagined you hadn’t.”

“It’s just that they’ve all been creeps. I’m a bit of a creep magnet, you see. If there’s a flaky guy around who thinks it’s sexy to rub Cheetos all over your erogenous zones, I fall for him.”