"Tuttle-MeetingTheMuse" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tuttle Lisa)

"Then you can come back again in a few days, when he's here. Better ring first
to make sure he's in. But as long as you're beret come in for a cup of tea.
Wouldn't you like to see where his wonderful poems get written?"

It would have been too awkward to refuse. Following her inside, she wondered
about the woman who played at being keeper of the shrine. In her hippy, gypsyish
clothes -- cheesecloth blouse and long madras skirt, silver bangles on her arms
and a ring on every finger -- she was unlikely as either a housekeeper or a
secretary. She knew he wasn't married, but asked with false naivete," Are you
Mrs. Storey?"

The woman smiled. "I'm sorry, I should have introduced myself. I'm his
girlfriend, Amy Carrick."

There was something in the woman's proud smile and the little toss of her head
that made her suspect she wouldn't have made such a claim in the poet's
presence.

"Where is he now? Will he be back soon?"

"He's gone away for a few days, walking in Scotland. He does that sometimes,
when he needs to be alone for inspiration. That's how poets are. Wouldn't you
like to see his study, where the magic happens? Just through here. This is his
desk, this is his chair. He always writes long-hand, on this sort of pad. There
are his pencils, and a rubber, and a couple of biros, but he's taken his
favorite pen away with him."

It was like being shown around a museum by a too-officious curator, facts forced
upon her and never allowed a moment for thought Or a meaningful private
discovery. Although she knew she was being silly, she found herself disbelieving
everything the woman said. No, this was not the room where he created his poems.
Perhaps he wrote letters here, on that old manual typewriter shoved to the back
of the desk, or typed out the final versions, but the poems had not been written
at that desk, with Graham Storey in that chair.

"Go on, I can see you're dying to try it. Go ahead, I won't tell him, sit down,
see what it feels like to sit in the poet's chair!"

She backed away. "Could I use your bathroom, please?"

Amy led her to the other end of the small house, where the bathroom was beside
the kitchen. "I'll make us a pot of tea while you're freshening up."

She ran the water to mask any sound, and had a look around the bathroom. There
were no signs of a woman's occupancy, no makeup, moisturizer, or tampons, not
even a toothbrush in the mug beside the sink. Only one person lived here, and he
was away.

"Why don't you take a seat in the lounge, make yourself at home. I'll be in with