Read Online Out of The Blue by Charlotte Mills - Free Book Online

window facing the garden. The walls were painted a light mocha colour and an oblong table was covered with a complementary, dark-brown tablecloth, neatly laid. Undoing the wine, I poured myself a small glass and Jamie a generous one.     
    Jamie joined me a few moments later carrying two large white bowls, one brimming with lettuce the other filled with slices of crusty bread.
    “I hope you’re hungry.”
    “Starved. What are we having?”       
    “Spaghetti bolognaise. I hope that’s okay.” She picked up her glass, taking a small drink.
    Could she have made anything messier to eat? All I could think about was pasta sauce dripping off my chin. I scanned the table again. Thank God there were serviettes on hand.
    “Perfect. Can I do anything to help?” I replied.
    I saw a small smile appear at my words. “Nope, nothing except making yourself comfortable.”
    I took a seat on the opposite side of the table away from the doorway. The dining room was in keeping with the hallway. I admired a large cast-iron fireplace on the party wall; the alcoves either side had built-in glass-fronted cupboards stripped back to their natural wood. A picture rail circled the top of the room, supporting a number of framed prints.     
    She returned with a cast-iron pot of bolognaise in one hand and a bowl of spaghetti in the other, placing them both on large cork mats. She sat at the end of the table facing out into the garden.   
    “Please, help yourself,” she said, indicating the food with her hands.    
    I went to work, quickly covering my plate with a large pile of spaghetti. Using my fork, I made a hole in the middle for the sauce. It was good, very good. I was engrossed in the enjoyment of the food when she spoke.   
    “I was thinking about that conversation we had about dead celebrities the other night.”
    I wiped my mouth with the nearest serviette, which I’m sure was framed with orange sauce by now. “Yeah,” I replied, even though, as I recalled, it was a one-sided conversation she had instigated.
    “It’s weird how some people have really distinctive voices; you know who they are without even seeing them. You just need to hear them speak to know who they are.”
    Okay, I’ll bite. “Like who?” I asked.
    “Well, the other day I was working on my laptop while watching Seven Psychopaths . Have you seen it?”
    “No, I don’t think so.”
    “I was facing away from the screen, but I knew instantly when Christopher Walken started talking compared to the other actors. He’s got such a characteristic voice and the way he talks is very distinctive.”     
    I smiled at her obvious love of film. “Umm, what about James Mason?” I said, trying to join in.
    “Ohh! North by Northwest . I love Hitchcock films.” Her eyes seemed to light up at my words.
    “Really? Me too.” Something else we had in common. “So how come you didn’t study film at university rather than history?”
    “Umm, well I guess at the time I wasn’t as interested in film as I am now. If I were to go to uni now I might be tempted, but …”
    I watched her take a drink of wine before she continued.
    “I really like my job and I can’t imagine doing anything else, and this way I still get to enjoy all the films I want without having to think too much.”        
    I could totally understand where she was coming from. I wondered how rare it was for two people in the same room to enjoy their jobs to the extent that we obviously both did. 
    “I can’t think of any foreign actors that have distinctive voices when they talk in their own native languages,” Jamie said.
    “Uh, no, me neither,” I replied, trying to sound contemplative as I concentrated on twisting the last of my pasta around my fork. Definitely one to mull over; I made a promise to myself to try and think of at least one distinctively voiced foreign actor to impress her with.    
    “That was lovely. Just what the doctor ordered,”