Читать онлайн «The Dead of Jericho»

Not remarkably beautiful, he thought. Not, that is to say, if one could ever measure the beauty of a woman on some objective scale: sub specie aeternae pulchritudinis, as it were. Yet several times already, in the hour or so that followed the brisk, perfunctory 'hallos' of their introduction, their eyes had met across the room-and held. And it was after his third glass of slightly superior red plonk that he managed to break away from the small circle of semi-acquaintances with whom he'd so far been standing.

Easy.

Mrs. Murdoch, a large, forcefully optimistic woman in her late forties, was now pleasantly but firmly directing her guests towards the food set out on tables at the far end of the large lounge, and the man took his opportunity as she passed by.

'Lovely party!'

'Glad you could come. You must mix round a bit, though. Have you met-?'

'I'll mix. I promise I will-have no fears-'

'I've told lots of people about you. '

The man nodded without apparent enthusiasm and looked at her plain, large-featured face. 'You're looking very fit. '

'Fit as a fiddle. '

'How about the boys? They must be' (he'd forgotten they must be) 'er getting on a bit now. '

'Michael eighteen. Edward seventeen. '

'Amazing! Doing their exams soon, I suppose?'

'Michael's got his A-levels next month.

'Clear-minded and confident, is he?'

'Confidence is a much overrated quality-don't you agree?'

'Perhaps you're right,' replied the man, who had never previously considered the proposition. (But had he noticed a flash of unease in Mrs. Murdoch's eyes?) 'What's he studying?'

'Biology. French. Economics. ' ('That's right. Please do go along and help yourselves. ')

'Interesting!' replied the man, debating what possible motives could have influenced the lad towards such a curiously uncomplementary combination of disciplines. 'And Edward, what's-?'

He heard himself speak the words but his hostess had drifted away to goad some of her guests towards the food, and he found himself alone. The people he had joined earlier were now poised, plates in their hands, over the assortment of cold meats, savouries, and salads, spearing breasts of curried chicken and spooning up the coleslaw. For two minutes he stood facing the nearest wall, appearing earnestly to assess an amateurishly executed watercolour. Then he made his move. She was standing at the back of the queue and he took his place behind her.

'Looks good, doesn't it?' he ventured. Not a particularly striking or original start. But a start; and a sufficient one.

'Hungry?' she asked, turning towards him.

Was he hungry? At such close quarters she looked more attractive than ever, with her wide hazel eyes, clear skin, and lips already curved in a smile. Was he hungry?