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Authors: Sophie Kinsella
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I can be in an ad! Oh, this is going to be
so
cool. Maybe I’ll be in one of those Bacardi ads where they’re all on a boat, laughing and water-skiing and having a great time. I mean, I know it’s usually fashion models, but I could easily be somewhere in the background. Or I could be the one driving the boat. It’ll be so fantastic. We’ll fly out to Barbados or somewhere, and it’ll be all hot and sunny and glamorous, with loads of free Bacardi, and we’ll stay in a really amazing hotel . . . I’ll have to buy a new bikini, of course . . . or maybe two . . . and some new flip-flops . . .
“St. Winifred’s,” says the taxi driver—and with a start I come to. I’m not in Barbados, am I? I’m in the middle of bloody nowhere, in Somerset.
We’ve stopped outside an old honey-colored building, and I peer through the window curiously. So this is a convent. It doesn’t look that special, actually—just like a school, or a big country house. And I’m wondering whether I should even bother getting out, when I see a nun. Walking past, in black robes, and a wimple, and everything! A real live nun, in her real habitat. And she’s completely natural. She hasn’t even
looked
at the taxi. This is like being on safari!
I get out and pay the driver—and as I walk toward the heavy front door, I feel prickles of intrigue. There’s an elderly woman going in at the same time who seems to know the way, so I follow her along a corridor toward the chapel. And as we walk in, I feel this amazing, holy, almost euphoric sensation coming over me. Maybe it’s the lovely smell in the air or the organ music, but I’m definitely getting something.
“Thank you, Sister,” says the elderly woman to the nun. And she starts walking off to the front of the chapel—but I stand still, slightly transfixed.
Sister. Wow.
Sister Rebecca.
And one of those lovely flowing black habits, and a fantastic clear nun complexion all the time.
Sister Rebecca of the Holy . . .
“You look a little lost, my dear,” a nun says behind me, and I jump. “Were you interested in seeing the Bevington Triptych?”
“Oh,” I say. “Erm . . . yes. Absolutely.”
“Up there,” she points, and I walk tentatively toward the front of the chapel, hoping it will become obvious what the Bevington Triptych is. A statue, maybe? Or a . . . a piece of tapestry?
But as I reach the elderly lady, I see that she’s staring up at a whole wall of stained-glass windows. And I have to admit, they’re pretty amazing. I mean, look at that huge blue one in the middle. It’s fantastic!
“The Bevington Triptych,” says the elderly woman. “It simply has no parallel, does it?”
“Wow,” I breathe reverentially, staring up with her. “It’s beautiful.”
And it really is stunning. It just shows, there’s no mistaking a real work of art, is there? Real genius just leaps out at you. And I’m not even an expert.
“Wonderful colors,” I murmur.
“The detail,” says the woman, clasping her hands, “is absolutely incomparable.”
“Incomparable,” I echo.
And I’m just about to point out the rainbow, which I think is a really nice touch—when I suddenly notice that the elderly woman and I aren’t looking at the same window. She’s looking at a much smaller, dingier one which I hadn’t even noticed.
As inconspicuously as possible, I shift my gaze to the right one—and feel a pang of disappointment. Is
this
the Bevington Triptych? But it isn’t even pretty!
“Whereas this Victorian rubbish,” the woman suddenly adds savagely, “is absolutely criminal! That rainbow! Doesn’t it make you feel sick?” She gestures to my big blue window, and I gulp.
“I know,” I say. “It’s shocking, isn’t it? Absolutely . . . You know, I think I’ll just go for a little wander . . .”
Hastily I back away, before she can say any more. And I’m sidling back down the side of the pews, wondering vaguely what to do next, when suddenly I notice a little
so
cool. Maybe I’ll be in one of those Bacardi ads where they’re all on a boat, laughing and water-skiing and having a great time. I mean, I know it’s usually fashion models, but I could easily be somewhere in the background. Or I could be the one driving the boat. It’ll be so fantastic. We’ll fly out to Barbados or somewhere, and it’ll be all hot and sunny and glamorous, with loads of free Bacardi, and we’ll stay in a really amazing hotel . . . I’ll have to buy a new bikini, of course . . . or maybe two . . . and some new flip-flops . . .
“St. Winifred’s,” says the taxi driver—and with a start I come to. I’m not in Barbados, am I? I’m in the middle of bloody nowhere, in Somerset.
We’ve stopped outside an old honey-colored building, and I peer through the window curiously. So this is a convent. It doesn’t look that special, actually—just like a school, or a big country house. And I’m wondering whether I should even bother getting out, when I see a nun. Walking past, in black robes, and a wimple, and everything! A real live nun, in her real habitat. And she’s completely natural. She hasn’t even
looked
at the taxi. This is like being on safari!
I get out and pay the driver—and as I walk toward the heavy front door, I feel prickles of intrigue. There’s an elderly woman going in at the same time who seems to know the way, so I follow her along a corridor toward the chapel. And as we walk in, I feel this amazing, holy, almost euphoric sensation coming over me. Maybe it’s the lovely smell in the air or the organ music, but I’m definitely getting something.
“Thank you, Sister,” says the elderly woman to the nun. And she starts walking off to the front of the chapel—but I stand still, slightly transfixed.
Sister. Wow.
Sister Rebecca.
And one of those lovely flowing black habits, and a fantastic clear nun complexion all the time.
Sister Rebecca of the Holy . . .
“You look a little lost, my dear,” a nun says behind me, and I jump. “Were you interested in seeing the Bevington Triptych?”
“Oh,” I say. “Erm . . . yes. Absolutely.”
“Up there,” she points, and I walk tentatively toward the front of the chapel, hoping it will become obvious what the Bevington Triptych is. A statue, maybe? Or a . . . a piece of tapestry?
But as I reach the elderly lady, I see that she’s staring up at a whole wall of stained-glass windows. And I have to admit, they’re pretty amazing. I mean, look at that huge blue one in the middle. It’s fantastic!
“The Bevington Triptych,” says the elderly woman. “It simply has no parallel, does it?”
“Wow,” I breathe reverentially, staring up with her. “It’s beautiful.”
And it really is stunning. It just shows, there’s no mistaking a real work of art, is there? Real genius just leaps out at you. And I’m not even an expert.
“Wonderful colors,” I murmur.
“The detail,” says the woman, clasping her hands, “is absolutely incomparable.”
“Incomparable,” I echo.
And I’m just about to point out the rainbow, which I think is a really nice touch—when I suddenly notice that the elderly woman and I aren’t looking at the same window. She’s looking at a much smaller, dingier one which I hadn’t even noticed.
As inconspicuously as possible, I shift my gaze to the right one—and feel a pang of disappointment. Is
this
the Bevington Triptych? But it isn’t even pretty!
“Whereas this Victorian rubbish,” the woman suddenly adds savagely, “is absolutely criminal! That rainbow! Doesn’t it make you feel sick?” She gestures to my big blue window, and I gulp.
“I know,” I say. “It’s shocking, isn’t it? Absolutely . . . You know, I think I’ll just go for a little wander . . .”
Hastily I back away, before she can say any more. And I’m sidling back down the side of the pews, wondering vaguely what to do next, when suddenly I notice a little
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