Read Online Romeo's Tune (1990) by Mark Timlin - Free Book Online
Authors: Mark Timlin
Tags: Crime/Thriller
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vet’s for a check-up.
I was standing outside the office door watching the world go by, keeping one eye open for Cat, eating a burger and trying to avoid dropping grease onto my trousers. Although the day was slightly warmer I was dressed for the cold in a big leather pilot’s jacket over a flannel shirt and faded-out blue jeans.
A train pulled into the station from the direction of town and a flock of pigeons rose from the platform at the sound of slamming doors. I chewed on my breakfast and watched the passengers. Suddenly I saw her. She exited from the tunnel leading to the stairs with a suitcase in each hand. She stopped and looked around.
There were two choices for her. She could turn left and cut down the narrow alley to the main road and out of my life forever, or walk past my office door.
I knew she’d walk past me. I knew we’d meet. Don’t ask me how, but I knew that I was looking at the girl I was going to marry, and I really didn’t know what the hell to do about it. I hate chatting up women. I prefer to insinuate myself into their lives and that was going to be difficult on the corner of a busy junction at eleven-fifty on a weekday morning. I stood and stared as she shifted her grip on the suitcases and walked towards me. I knew she was going to be beautiful, maybe by the way she moved. She had the air of someone with complete control. I felt like a goon. As she got closer her features became clear. I had been right. She was beautiful, breathtakingly so. I held my breath.
She was black-haired, with fine white skin and eyes that were a shade of turquoise that eyes had no right to be. She looked a lot like Natalie Wood used to look in her old movies. But the killer, the absolute killer, were the few, faint acne scars on the skin stretched across her high cheek-bones. The scars didn’t mar her beauty; far from it, they made it more real, as if by their very nature the slight imperfections were perfection itself. I fell in love that second, when I saw those scars and I swear I’ve loved her more every day since.
She passed me by without a second glance. To be perfectly honest she passed me by without a first glance.
‘Can I help?’ I stuttered. Yeah, I swear I stuttered like a big kid.
She stopped and turned, still holding the cases in her hands.
‘Pardon me?’ she said. Her voice had a soft American accent.
‘Can I help?’ I repeated.
‘No, thank you,’ she replied quite curtly. She turned away and walked on.
I walked after her, overtook and stopped in front of her, half blocking her path. ‘They look heavy,’ I said. Really impressive. I know, but what do you say?
“They are,’ she replied, ‘and they’re getting heavier by the second.’
‘I’ll carry one for you,’ I offered.
‘No, thank you,’ she said, and moved past me. I stood there for a moment and then pursued her again.
‘Do you need a lift?’ I asked. I was getting desperate.
‘A what?’ She cocked her head to one side.
‘A lift, a ride.’
‘Oh, you’re a cabbie?’
We’d moved on down the street by this time, leapfrogging each other until we’d ended up outside the minicab office that had recently opened two doors down from my office.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Do I look like one?’
‘Sure you do.’
‘No,’ I repeated stupidly, ‘but I’ve got a car and you look like you could use a hand so I’ll give you a ride to where you’re going.’
‘I don’t accept lifts from strange men.’
That seemed fair. I didn’t blame her.
‘My name’s Nick,’ I said, ‘Nick Sharman.’ And I stuck out my hand. Quite what I expected her to do with it I didn’t know. She kept hold of her suitcases, and I saw her looking at my outstretched fingers still glistening with hamburger fat.
‘Sorry,’ I said and wiped my hands on my jeans. As soon as I did it I knew how it must have looked. I stared at my hand and at the grease mark on my trousers.
‘Attractive,’ she said.
‘Shit,’ I said.
‘Nice
I was standing outside the office door watching the world go by, keeping one eye open for Cat, eating a burger and trying to avoid dropping grease onto my trousers. Although the day was slightly warmer I was dressed for the cold in a big leather pilot’s jacket over a flannel shirt and faded-out blue jeans.
A train pulled into the station from the direction of town and a flock of pigeons rose from the platform at the sound of slamming doors. I chewed on my breakfast and watched the passengers. Suddenly I saw her. She exited from the tunnel leading to the stairs with a suitcase in each hand. She stopped and looked around.
There were two choices for her. She could turn left and cut down the narrow alley to the main road and out of my life forever, or walk past my office door.
I knew she’d walk past me. I knew we’d meet. Don’t ask me how, but I knew that I was looking at the girl I was going to marry, and I really didn’t know what the hell to do about it. I hate chatting up women. I prefer to insinuate myself into their lives and that was going to be difficult on the corner of a busy junction at eleven-fifty on a weekday morning. I stood and stared as she shifted her grip on the suitcases and walked towards me. I knew she was going to be beautiful, maybe by the way she moved. She had the air of someone with complete control. I felt like a goon. As she got closer her features became clear. I had been right. She was beautiful, breathtakingly so. I held my breath.
She was black-haired, with fine white skin and eyes that were a shade of turquoise that eyes had no right to be. She looked a lot like Natalie Wood used to look in her old movies. But the killer, the absolute killer, were the few, faint acne scars on the skin stretched across her high cheek-bones. The scars didn’t mar her beauty; far from it, they made it more real, as if by their very nature the slight imperfections were perfection itself. I fell in love that second, when I saw those scars and I swear I’ve loved her more every day since.
She passed me by without a second glance. To be perfectly honest she passed me by without a first glance.
‘Can I help?’ I stuttered. Yeah, I swear I stuttered like a big kid.
She stopped and turned, still holding the cases in her hands.
‘Pardon me?’ she said. Her voice had a soft American accent.
‘Can I help?’ I repeated.
‘No, thank you,’ she replied quite curtly. She turned away and walked on.
I walked after her, overtook and stopped in front of her, half blocking her path. ‘They look heavy,’ I said. Really impressive. I know, but what do you say?
“They are,’ she replied, ‘and they’re getting heavier by the second.’
‘I’ll carry one for you,’ I offered.
‘No, thank you,’ she said, and moved past me. I stood there for a moment and then pursued her again.
‘Do you need a lift?’ I asked. I was getting desperate.
‘A what?’ She cocked her head to one side.
‘A lift, a ride.’
‘Oh, you’re a cabbie?’
We’d moved on down the street by this time, leapfrogging each other until we’d ended up outside the minicab office that had recently opened two doors down from my office.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Do I look like one?’
‘Sure you do.’
‘No,’ I repeated stupidly, ‘but I’ve got a car and you look like you could use a hand so I’ll give you a ride to where you’re going.’
‘I don’t accept lifts from strange men.’
That seemed fair. I didn’t blame her.
‘My name’s Nick,’ I said, ‘Nick Sharman.’ And I stuck out my hand. Quite what I expected her to do with it I didn’t know. She kept hold of her suitcases, and I saw her looking at my outstretched fingers still glistening with hamburger fat.
‘Sorry,’ I said and wiped my hands on my jeans. As soon as I did it I knew how it must have looked. I stared at my hand and at the grease mark on my trousers.
‘Attractive,’ she said.
‘Shit,’ I said.
‘Nice
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