"Plague" - читать интересную книгу автора (Masterton Graham)

'He's not exactly Bjorn Borg, but he's better than his late unlamented predecessor. A bit heavy with the forearm smashes. Proving his virility, I shouldn't wonder.'

Dr. Petrie laughed. 'I used to like his late unlamented predecessor. He was the only tennis club pro I could ever beat.'

'Darling,' said Adelaide, 'the club dog could beat his late unlamented predecessor.'

'Well,' retorted Dr. Petrie, 'what's wrong with that? Listen - do you want me to pick you up at the club tonight?'

'Are you coming this way?'

'I have to pick up Priscilla.'

'Tonight? I thought it was tomorrow! Oh, darling - what about our elegant intelligent dinner-for-two on the Starlight Roof?'

Dr. Petrie took a deep breath. He knew that Adelaide wasn't crazy about Priscilla - maybe because Adelaide, at nineteen, was still just a little girl herself.

'We can eat at home,' said Dr. Petrie. 'That Polynesian place delivers. And champagne, too. How about that?'

Adelaide was sulking. 'It's hardly romantic. I feel like doing something romantic. Eating at home is so ghoulish. You have to wash your own dishes.'

Dr. Petrie ran his hands through his hair. 'Listen,' he said. 'I'll buy two candles, a single red rose, and a new Leonard Bernstein record. Is that romantic enough for you?'

Adelaide gave a deep mock sigh. 'I should have dated my Uncle Charlie. At least he knows how to twist. All right, darling. I surrender, as usual. What time will you get here?'

'Six-thirty. And listen - I love you.'

'I love you too. I just hope this phone isn't tapped. They'd report you to the medical council for suggestive conduct.'

Dr. Petrie shook his head in exasperation, and laid the phone down.

Esther was helping Mrs. Fairfax into the clinic. Mrs. Fairfax was the sole survivor of the Fairfax food family, who had made their millions out of early freeze-drying techniques. She was a slender old lady with a sharp, penetrating face and a violet rinse. She walked on two sticks, but she held herself upright, and Dr. Petrie knew from uncomfortable experience that she had a sharp tongue.

'Good morning, Mrs. Fairfax,' he said smoothly. 'Are you feeling well?'

Mrs. Fairfax sat herself laboriously down in one of Dr. Petrie's two white Italian armchairs. She propped her sticks against the glass-topped coffee table, and spread her elegant blue-flowered dress around her.

'If I were well, Dr. Petrie,' she said icily, 'I should not be here.'

Dr. Petrie left his desk and went to sit beside her in another armchair. He always preferred the informal touch. It made patients feel easier; it even made them feel healthier.

'Is your hip bothering you again?' he asked sympathetically.

Mrs. Fairfax gave a histrionic sigh. 'My dear doctor, there is absolutely nothing wrong with my hip. But there is a great deal wrong with my beach.'

Dr. Petrie frowned. He could see himself frowning in the large smokey mirror opposite his chair. He wondered if, despite his looks, he was beginning to get old.

'Your beach? he enquired politely. He was used to the eccentricities of wealthy old widows.

'It's absolutely disgusting,' she said coldly. She brushed back her violet hair with a tanned, elegant claw. Today, her fingers were encrusted with sapphires, but Dr. Petrie knew that she had as many rings for every color of dress she ever wore.