Read Online Poison At The Pueblo by Tim Heald - Free Book Online Page A

round.
    â€˜Becoming old makes a man seem reactionary,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t mean that he is fuddy-duddy or old-fashioned. He just seems like it to those younger than himself.’
    â€˜And maybe to those who know him best.’
    They thought about this in silence. Their marriage was a long one now, childless and sometimes compartmetalized, but by and large successful. It was true that she knew him better than anyone and the reverse was true, too, though her husband’s knowledge of her was less obvious to those outside their long, close and, in its strange way, loving relationship. He knew that he was snobbish even though he tried not to let the fact rule his life. She knew even better than he did, but she also recognized that he tried to sublimate the feeling. After most of their adult life together they recognized each other’s shortcomings, had even come to cherish them, much as, despite everything, they cherished each other.

EIGHT
    B ognor ordered two glasses of cava from the Polish girl with the pink-streaked hair. The wine was a crisp, dry Summarocca from south-west of Barcelona. The girl was a crisp, dry PhD student from the University of Cracow. Sir Simon sampled the former languidly and smiled approvingly at the latter. He fancied himself as a connoisseur of wine and women, though he was circumspect about both. He did not wish to seem snobbish or pretentious about the booze. Let alone drunk. Nor too interested in sex. A studied indifference on both counts played well at home. Monica was both suspicious and censorious of anything else. He had learned to appear nonchalant.
    â€˜Changed, hasn’t it?’ she ventured, when the wine came.
    â€˜Madrid?’ he countered, trying not to sound defensive. He suspected she meant something quite different.
    She did.
    â€˜Life,’ she said. ‘I meant that life has changed. Madrid, too, but not as fundamentally. And Madrid has improved even while the basics are still there. She’s sexier, more stylish, but deep down there’s still something much more elemental than cold-blooded northern Europeans can do. At least in public. But I’m not so sure about life. Seems to me it’s nastier and more brutish than it used to be.’
    â€˜Not shorter though,’ said Bognor. ‘A generation ago, we’d be dead.’ He smiled but inwardly cringed. He wasn’t convinced he was in the mood for a serious discussion about life. Jet lag, booze, age, excitement – all conspired to put him in the mood for more ephemeral natter.
    Monica, however, had the bit between her teeth.
    â€˜Your job for instance,’ she said. ‘It’s not the same as when you started.’
    â€˜Of course not,’ he agreed. ‘I’m in charge now. I write the script. In the old days I did as I was told. By Parkinson.’
    â€˜And everyone else.’
    â€˜That’s a bit harsh.’ He stared at the bead in his glass and watched the bubbles rise to the surface before vanishing as mysteriously as they had arrived. The bubbles suddenly seemed like a metaphor for life – coming from nowhere, departing to nowhere and dancing inconsequentially through elusive liquid in the interim. ‘I like to think I called a few shots,’ he protested, ‘even when I was wet behind the ears.’
    â€˜In your dreams,’ said his wife, smiling at her glass. ‘You’ve always been a pushover. Especially when it comes to the crunch.’
    â€˜That’s not fair either,’ he said. ‘I can be pretty bloody steely when the chips are down. I wouldn’t mess with me. Especially when the cookie crumbles.’
    Lady Bognor laughed and swallowed. ‘Darling, I wouldn’t have married you if you weren’t you,’ she said, ‘and you’ve done frightfully well at whatever it is that you do. But don’t let’s kid ourselves about writing our own scripts. I don’t think