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Authors: Jeffrey Archer
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, which he began to read while he waited for his wife to dress. Hillary Clinton said she wouldn’t be running for president, which only convinced Dick that she
would, especially as she made the announcement standing by her husband’s side.
* * *
Maureen came out of the bathroom wearing a hotel dressing gown. She took the seat opposite her husband and sipped the water.
‘Better take a bottle of Evian with us when we visit the Hermitage,’ said Maureen. Dick looked up from behind his paper. ‘The girl in the gym warned me not to drink the local
water under any circumstances.’
‘Oh yes, I should have warned you,’ said Dick, as Maureen took a bottle from the table by the window and put it in her bag. ‘Can’t be too careful.’
* * *
Dick and Maureen strolled through the front gates of the Hermitage a few minutes before ten, to find themselves at the back of a long queue. The crocodile of visitors moved
slowly forward along an unshaded path. Maureen took several sips of water between turning the pages of the guidebook. It was ten forty before they reached the ticket booth.
Once inside, Maureen continued to study her guidebook. ‘Whatever we do, we must be sure to see Michelangelo’s
Crouching Boy
, Raphael’s
Virgin
, and
Leonardo’s
Madonna Benois
.’
Dick smiled his agreement, but knew he would not be concerning himself with the masters.
As they climbed the wide marble staircase, they passed several magnificent statues. Dick was surprised to discover just how vast the Hermitage was. Despite visiting St Petersburg several times
during the past three years, he had only ever seen the building from the outside.
Maureen read from the guidebook. ‘Housed on three floors, the collection displays treasures in over two hundred rooms. So let’s get started.’
By eleven thirty they had only covered the Dutch and Italian schools on the first floor, by which time Maureen had finished the large bottle of Evian.
Dick volunteered to go and buy another bottle. He left his wife admiring Caravaggio’s
The Lute Player
, while he slipped into the nearest rest room. He refilled the empty Evian
bottle with tap water before rejoining his wife.
If Maureen had spent a little time studying one of the many drinks counters situated on each floor, she would have discovered that the Hermitage didn’t stock Evian, because it had an
exclusive contract with Volvic.
By twelve thirty they had all but covered the sixteen rooms devoted to the Renaissance artists, and agreed it was time for lunch. They left the building and strolled back into the midday sun.
The two of them walked for a while along the bank of the Moika River, stopping only to take a photograph of a bride and groom posing on the Blue Bridge in front of the Mariinsky Palace.
‘A local tradition,’ said Maureen, turning another page of her guidebook.
After walking another block, they came to a halt outside a small pizzeria. Its sensible square tables with neat red-and-white check tablecloths and smartly dressed waiters tempted them
inside.
‘I must go to the loo,’ said Maureen. ‘I’m feeling a little queasy. It must be the heat.’ She added, ‘Just order me a salad and a glass of water.’
Dick smiled, removed the Evian bottle from her bag and filled up the glass on her side of the table. When the waiter appeared, Dick ordered a salad for his wife, and ravioli plus a large Diet
Coke for himself. He was desperate for something to drink.
Once she’d eaten her salad, Maureen perked up a little, and even began to tell Dick what they should look out for when they visited the Summer Palace.
On the long taxi ride through the north of the city, she continued to read extracts from her guidebook. ‘Peter the Great built the Summer Palace after he had visited Versailles, and on
returning to Russia employed the finest landscape gardeners and most gifted craftsmen in the land to copy the French masterpiece. He meant the
, which he began to read while he waited for his wife to dress. Hillary Clinton said she wouldn’t be running for president, which only convinced Dick that she
would, especially as she made the announcement standing by her husband’s side.
* * *
Maureen came out of the bathroom wearing a hotel dressing gown. She took the seat opposite her husband and sipped the water.
‘Better take a bottle of Evian with us when we visit the Hermitage,’ said Maureen. Dick looked up from behind his paper. ‘The girl in the gym warned me not to drink the local
water under any circumstances.’
‘Oh yes, I should have warned you,’ said Dick, as Maureen took a bottle from the table by the window and put it in her bag. ‘Can’t be too careful.’
* * *
Dick and Maureen strolled through the front gates of the Hermitage a few minutes before ten, to find themselves at the back of a long queue. The crocodile of visitors moved
slowly forward along an unshaded path. Maureen took several sips of water between turning the pages of the guidebook. It was ten forty before they reached the ticket booth.
Once inside, Maureen continued to study her guidebook. ‘Whatever we do, we must be sure to see Michelangelo’s
Crouching Boy
, Raphael’s
Virgin
, and
Leonardo’s
Madonna Benois
.’
Dick smiled his agreement, but knew he would not be concerning himself with the masters.
As they climbed the wide marble staircase, they passed several magnificent statues. Dick was surprised to discover just how vast the Hermitage was. Despite visiting St Petersburg several times
during the past three years, he had only ever seen the building from the outside.
Maureen read from the guidebook. ‘Housed on three floors, the collection displays treasures in over two hundred rooms. So let’s get started.’
By eleven thirty they had only covered the Dutch and Italian schools on the first floor, by which time Maureen had finished the large bottle of Evian.
Dick volunteered to go and buy another bottle. He left his wife admiring Caravaggio’s
The Lute Player
, while he slipped into the nearest rest room. He refilled the empty Evian
bottle with tap water before rejoining his wife.
If Maureen had spent a little time studying one of the many drinks counters situated on each floor, she would have discovered that the Hermitage didn’t stock Evian, because it had an
exclusive contract with Volvic.
By twelve thirty they had all but covered the sixteen rooms devoted to the Renaissance artists, and agreed it was time for lunch. They left the building and strolled back into the midday sun.
The two of them walked for a while along the bank of the Moika River, stopping only to take a photograph of a bride and groom posing on the Blue Bridge in front of the Mariinsky Palace.
‘A local tradition,’ said Maureen, turning another page of her guidebook.
After walking another block, they came to a halt outside a small pizzeria. Its sensible square tables with neat red-and-white check tablecloths and smartly dressed waiters tempted them
inside.
‘I must go to the loo,’ said Maureen. ‘I’m feeling a little queasy. It must be the heat.’ She added, ‘Just order me a salad and a glass of water.’
Dick smiled, removed the Evian bottle from her bag and filled up the glass on her side of the table. When the waiter appeared, Dick ordered a salad for his wife, and ravioli plus a large Diet
Coke for himself. He was desperate for something to drink.
Once she’d eaten her salad, Maureen perked up a little, and even began to tell Dick what they should look out for when they visited the Summer Palace.
On the long taxi ride through the north of the city, she continued to read extracts from her guidebook. ‘Peter the Great built the Summer Palace after he had visited Versailles, and on
returning to Russia employed the finest landscape gardeners and most gifted craftsmen in the land to copy the French masterpiece. He meant the
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