Read Online Death Of A Hollow Man by Caroline Graham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Caroline Graham
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securely—nay, chastely—swathed in a long matching skirt chirruped with alarm, then said, “You made me jump.’’
“Sorry … hello.”
“Hello yourself.” Kitty frowned at him. “What’s the matter?”
“Mm?”
“You’re not getting a sore throat, are you?”
“Don’t think so.”
“You’re croaking.”
“Ah. Just the proverbial frog.” He cleared his throat once or twice. Then did a mock gargle. But the dryness at the sight of her remained. “That’s better.”
“It doesn’t sound better. You look a bit peaky actually, Nico … quite drained.” She narrowed her eyes at her reflection. “Now what’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” Nicholas turned his sudden laugh into a cough. “You first here, then? You and Esslyn?”
He linked the names automatically; then, finding ignorance established and Kitty misled, congratulated himself on his cleverness. But no sooner had he done this than a further thought developed. What if Kitty had actually been with Esslyn in the box? Stranger things had happened. Married couples were supposed to sometimes need peculiar settings or bizarre games to turn them on. Look at that Pinter play. Him coming home “unexpectedly” in the afternoons; her in five-inch heels. But surely that was only after decades of marital boredom? The Carmichaels hadn’t been together five minutes. Kitty was speaking again.
“Oh, Esslyn’s working till half six. So I came on early in my little Suzuki. I need lots of time to get ready. In fact—” she smiled, her lovely lips parting like the petals of a rose—“I thought I’d find you here when I arrived.”
“… Er … no …” stammered Nicholas. “Tried to get away, but it was one of the manager’s keen-eyed days.”
“Oh, what a shame.” Another smile, warmly sympathetic. “We could have gone over our lines together.”
Nicholas absorbed the impact of the smile, (a soft, feather-light punch to the solar plexus), and his knees buckled. He hung grimly on to the door handle. For the first time in his life he cursed the enthusiasm that had brought him to the Latimer long before anyone could reasonably have been expected to be present. Then he wondered how the hell, feeling like this, he was going to be able to concentrate onstage. Forcefully he reminded himself that this was only Kitty. Pretty, silly, ordinary Kitty. Her very silliness and the fact that she was an indifferent actress would normally have been enough to ensure his complete lack of interest. And if his mind could reason thus, reasoned Nicholas, why then should his viscera, still churning rhapsodically, not be brought under equally firm control? As he continued to argue against this onrush of carnality, Kitty picked up a wire brush and started to rearrange her hair. She brushed it up and away from her face, which looked even more piquant without the surrounding auerole of golden curls.
Nicholas told himself it was more pointed than heart-shaped. Sharp. A bit ferrety, really. Then she opened her mouth, filled the damp, rosy cavity with bobby pins, and started to pile the hair on top of her head. This movement pushed her bosom out. It strained against her blouse. Then, as Nicholas watched, every button burst its moorings. The fabric fell apart, and her small, exquisite breasts were revealed, double dazzling by being reflected in the mirror. She stood up and, with a light, thrillingly lascivious shrug, magically shed the rest of her garments except for silky, lace-topped stockings and thigh-high boots. Then she turned, placed one foot firmly on the seat of her chair and beckoned to him.
“Nico … ?” Kitty removed the bobby pins. “What on earth’s the matter with you tonight?”
“Ohhh. Nerves, I guess.”
“Right. You and me both. Oh, drat—” Kitty’s hair collapsed. “It’s going to be one of those days when it just won’t stay up.”
Nicholas, whose problem could hardly have been further removed from his companion’s, was temporarily
“Sorry … hello.”
“Hello yourself.” Kitty frowned at him. “What’s the matter?”
“Mm?”
“You’re not getting a sore throat, are you?”
“Don’t think so.”
“You’re croaking.”
“Ah. Just the proverbial frog.” He cleared his throat once or twice. Then did a mock gargle. But the dryness at the sight of her remained. “That’s better.”
“It doesn’t sound better. You look a bit peaky actually, Nico … quite drained.” She narrowed her eyes at her reflection. “Now what’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” Nicholas turned his sudden laugh into a cough. “You first here, then? You and Esslyn?”
He linked the names automatically; then, finding ignorance established and Kitty misled, congratulated himself on his cleverness. But no sooner had he done this than a further thought developed. What if Kitty had actually been with Esslyn in the box? Stranger things had happened. Married couples were supposed to sometimes need peculiar settings or bizarre games to turn them on. Look at that Pinter play. Him coming home “unexpectedly” in the afternoons; her in five-inch heels. But surely that was only after decades of marital boredom? The Carmichaels hadn’t been together five minutes. Kitty was speaking again.
“Oh, Esslyn’s working till half six. So I came on early in my little Suzuki. I need lots of time to get ready. In fact—” she smiled, her lovely lips parting like the petals of a rose—“I thought I’d find you here when I arrived.”
“… Er … no …” stammered Nicholas. “Tried to get away, but it was one of the manager’s keen-eyed days.”
“Oh, what a shame.” Another smile, warmly sympathetic. “We could have gone over our lines together.”
Nicholas absorbed the impact of the smile, (a soft, feather-light punch to the solar plexus), and his knees buckled. He hung grimly on to the door handle. For the first time in his life he cursed the enthusiasm that had brought him to the Latimer long before anyone could reasonably have been expected to be present. Then he wondered how the hell, feeling like this, he was going to be able to concentrate onstage. Forcefully he reminded himself that this was only Kitty. Pretty, silly, ordinary Kitty. Her very silliness and the fact that she was an indifferent actress would normally have been enough to ensure his complete lack of interest. And if his mind could reason thus, reasoned Nicholas, why then should his viscera, still churning rhapsodically, not be brought under equally firm control? As he continued to argue against this onrush of carnality, Kitty picked up a wire brush and started to rearrange her hair. She brushed it up and away from her face, which looked even more piquant without the surrounding auerole of golden curls.
Nicholas told himself it was more pointed than heart-shaped. Sharp. A bit ferrety, really. Then she opened her mouth, filled the damp, rosy cavity with bobby pins, and started to pile the hair on top of her head. This movement pushed her bosom out. It strained against her blouse. Then, as Nicholas watched, every button burst its moorings. The fabric fell apart, and her small, exquisite breasts were revealed, double dazzling by being reflected in the mirror. She stood up and, with a light, thrillingly lascivious shrug, magically shed the rest of her garments except for silky, lace-topped stockings and thigh-high boots. Then she turned, placed one foot firmly on the seat of her chair and beckoned to him.
“Nico … ?” Kitty removed the bobby pins. “What on earth’s the matter with you tonight?”
“Ohhh. Nerves, I guess.”
“Right. You and me both. Oh, drat—” Kitty’s hair collapsed. “It’s going to be one of those days when it just won’t stay up.”
Nicholas, whose problem could hardly have been further removed from his companion’s, was temporarily
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