Читать онлайн «Working Wonders»

To Robin Colgan and Dominic Colgan,

for all the reading I got in as a child while you

were playing First World War/sailing boats/

digging enormous holes for no apparent reason.

As annoying brothers go, you’re absolutely

the best a girl could wish for.

Contents

‘Stop kicking me. ’

Arthur had been dreaming of thundering hooves, when suddenly the hooves came to life. Fay hadn’t been dreaming of anything, and redoubled her efforts.

‘I have to keep kicking you! Otherwise you don’t get up and go make the tea. ’

‘Why don’t you use the energy you’re expending on hurting my legs to get up and go make the tea?’

‘What are you, a time and motion expert?’

‘Yes, actually!’

Arthur sighed. An argumentative approach to mornings with Fay had never benefited him before and seemed unlikely to start now. He rolled out of bed, wincing. Outside it was still dark.

‘There’s no milk!’

There was no reply, either. Fay had rolled over and grabbed the pillow, luxuriating in a few extra seconds of warmth – his warmth, Arthur thought crossly.

‘Do you want juice, water or ketchup on your cornflakes?’

Fay eyed him balefully.

Arthur moved into the bathroom impatiently, as usual knocking over several of the ornamental starfish and candles with which Fay insisted on cluttering up the place. The house was a boring estate semi in Coventry, not a New England beach house. No-one would ever, ever walk into their little bathroom and think – ah! Grooved wood! Perhaps I have been magically transported to a world of fresh lobster and windswept sands. Arthur had never been to New England. He briefly wished himself there, if only because the time difference would give him another five hours of delicious sleep.

Groaning, he stared sticky-eyed into the mirror and splashed water on his face. It was normally a nice affable face, although right now it looked cross and tired. He looked at his hair and resisted the urge to measure it. His floppy brown hair was one of his favourite things about himself and he was terrified of the day it would finally desert him, although it was bearing up all right (his forehead was just getting a bit longer, that was all). At thirty-two years old, the confused vertical groove line between his eyes was becoming permanent but his smile was lovely, which he would have known if he ever smiled at the mirror or in photographs, which he never did.