Read Online Only Human by Tom Holt - Free Book Online Page A

you?’
    â€˜Er, hello, it’s Duncan Philips. Who’s that peculiar girl who answered just now?’
    â€˜My mother,’ Maria replied. ‘She’s ninety-six and just recovering from a massive stroke, so I thought I’d better have her in here with me where I can look after her properly. Do you have a problem with that, Mr Philips?’
    â€˜Um, no. Sorry. Look, if it’s not convenient—’
    â€˜No, it’s fine, really - Mother, please stop doing that, it’s not funny. Hello? Sorry about that. She will keep slumping forward in her chair and holding perfectly still, bless her. I think it’s wonderful the way she’s managed to hold on to her sense of humour. Hello?’
    â€˜Hello? Look, I really think I’d better leave it for now, you’ve obviously got a lot on your plate at the moment and—’
    â€˜I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Maria cooed. ‘I’m here to work, and the way I see it is, if she dies, she dies. I mean, ninety-six, she’s had a good innings - Mother, if you do that once again I’ll take away the bottle. You just tell me what needs doing, Mr Philips, and it’s as good as on your desk. Just because I’m having a personal crisis doesn’t mean - oh damn.’
    â€˜Hello?’
    â€˜Nothing to worry about, just spilt this wretched sun-tan lotion all down my top. That’s one thing you can say for black leather, it doesn’t show the stains. Please tell me what it is you want me to do, Mr Philips. If Mother sees me getting agitated, it might bring on one of her turns.’
    â€˜All it was,’ said Mr Philips, sounding like a man who’s just walked into the cathedral tea-rooms and found it full of Hell’s Angels having an orgy, ‘I was supposed to be meeting Mr Nogamura and his party for lunch at Ciro’s and I can’t make it, so I was going to ask if you could stand in for me, but . . .’
    â€˜Ciro’s, right, fine. Half past one?’
    â€˜Yes. But . . .’
    â€˜That’s great. I’ve been dying for a chance to wear this little Hawaiian number I picked up the other day.’
    â€˜Um . . .’
    â€˜And you’ll just poke your head round the door every ten minutes or so, make sure Mother’s okay?Thanks ever so. And if anything does happen, I’ll leave the solicitor’s number at reception. Got to move fast, you see, because of my brother.’
    â€˜Your broth—’
    â€˜Sad, isn’t it? Nothing like a death to bring out the worst in people - Mother, I won’t tell you again. If you do that to poor Mr Philips, I shall be very cross indeed. Well, then. All right, see you later. Bye.’
    She dropped the phone back on to its cradle, stretched out her arms and legs and yawned. The painting, she fancied, was giving her a disapproving look. She stuck her tongue out at it.
    Ciro’s. Mr Nogamura and party. Right. Well, it was better than lying around in here all day. She knew that Rachel Esterling lived in mortal dread of Mr Nogamura, who was something grand in the parent company and never stirred from his lair without a retinue of seven identical young men who spoke no English. Somehow, she fancied, unlike Ms Esterling, she could speak fluent Japanese. This could be mildly amusing.
    She stood up and faced the picture, using its glass as a mirror.
    â€˜The trouble with you is,’ she muttered, ‘you’re no respecter of persons.’
    Which was only to be expected, really. When you’ve hung on the walls of some of the most remarkable people in history, starting with Duke Bernabo Visconti and generally speaking going up in the world thereafter, you find it hard to be overawed by a lot of silly little men in suits with bits of coloured string knotted round their necks.
    (An odd habit, the wearing of ties. Back when she was first painted, men put a noose round their necks when their city had just been