Read Online Simply Heaven by Serena Mackesy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Serena Mackesy
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Where did you think this house came from? And his accent? Surely you’re not trying to tell me you couldn’t tell something from his accent?’
I force myself to relax against the back of the chair. ‘Mary,’ I say, and allow just a little trickle of I’m-indulging-you into my voice, ‘if your film industry is to be believed, ninety-five per cent of your population talks like Rufus, and anybody who doesn’t is probably carrying a gun. And besides, just look at him! The guy dresses like a scarecrow! Jeez. If I saw him in a bar, I’d probably think he was the cleaner come early.’
She blinks. Well, I guess blinks is the right word for it. Her upper lashes snap down to meet the lower ones, like the eyelids on an old china doll. ‘I don’t have the first clue what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, come on, Mary. That linen suit with the elbow patches? Those checked shirts with the holes in the cuffs that look like they ought to be dishcloths? The tweed jacket? The lining on that must have gone while he was still learning to tie his shoelaces.’
‘It’s a hacking jacket,’ she replies icily, ‘and it was his grandfather’s.’
What in hell’s name is a hacking jacket? Something you wear for coughing in?
‘Well, exactly,’ I say. ‘I mean, what sort of rich fella wears hand-me-downs?’
The blink again. ‘The sort,’ she replies – and I think, yes, I’ve got her grinding her teeth – ‘who has clothes to inherit .’
‘Oh, right,’ I reply, injecting as much airiness into the words as I can muster. ‘My lot only ever have one suit at a time, and they tend to be buried in it.’
A long, frosty silence. I check my watch. Ten minutes now. Hopefully he will be queuing at the checkout, or at least at the deli counter.
‘How’s your water?’ I ask.
‘Fine,’ she snaps again, ‘Fine. It’s water. How else would it be?’
‘Just asking,’ I say. I’m beginning to think that I might quite enjoy winding this woman up. I mean, if she’s going to think I’m a peasant, I may as well take it all the way. I bury my face in my glass to hide the smile that has started to play across my lips.
Eventually she can’t resist beginning to speak again. ‘So. You do something that involves feet ?’
I nod. Think: I must remember to ask her what she does later. Just give her a little time to get settled in, first.
‘And how about the rest of the family?’ she asks. ‘Any more chiropodists in the family? Or are you the only one?’
I go for it, really go for it. Lay on the accent like peanut butter. ‘Naooouw waaay!’ I cry, hamming it up till her eardrums reverberate. ‘OI’m the inderl ik -chewull in moy fimmer-luy.’
There’s a long pause, and I think that perhaps she might have realised that I’m jerking her chain. But the encrusted horror in the ‘rii-ull-uh’ that emerges from her mouth suggests that she hasn’t picked up on it at all, but has merely adjusted her own accent to show the contrast with my own proletarian vowels. I’ve noticed this before, actually: the very grand rarely have what anyone else would call a sense of humour, especially about themselves. I suppose a sense of humour is hard to develop when you’ve got so many noses wedged up your butt.
‘Aow, yih! They were happy as Larry when I went to college when I was twenty-three. An ology in the family!’
‘Really,’ she says again. ‘And what does your father do?’
‘Whaddya think ? He’s a Greek Cypriot, for crying out loud. Obviously, he bought a cab, like everybody else.’
‘A cab ?’
‘Yih. Done pretty nicely out of it, as well.’ Yeah. But I’m not going to tell you the half of it.
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yih. After he married my old girl he jumped over the wall and set up a firm of his own. My mum helped out in the office, you know? They’re pretty much retired now, but life’s treated them pretty good, all told.’
Mary, by this time, has the sort of ghastly smile on her face that you
I force myself to relax against the back of the chair. ‘Mary,’ I say, and allow just a little trickle of I’m-indulging-you into my voice, ‘if your film industry is to be believed, ninety-five per cent of your population talks like Rufus, and anybody who doesn’t is probably carrying a gun. And besides, just look at him! The guy dresses like a scarecrow! Jeez. If I saw him in a bar, I’d probably think he was the cleaner come early.’
She blinks. Well, I guess blinks is the right word for it. Her upper lashes snap down to meet the lower ones, like the eyelids on an old china doll. ‘I don’t have the first clue what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, come on, Mary. That linen suit with the elbow patches? Those checked shirts with the holes in the cuffs that look like they ought to be dishcloths? The tweed jacket? The lining on that must have gone while he was still learning to tie his shoelaces.’
‘It’s a hacking jacket,’ she replies icily, ‘and it was his grandfather’s.’
What in hell’s name is a hacking jacket? Something you wear for coughing in?
‘Well, exactly,’ I say. ‘I mean, what sort of rich fella wears hand-me-downs?’
The blink again. ‘The sort,’ she replies – and I think, yes, I’ve got her grinding her teeth – ‘who has clothes to inherit .’
‘Oh, right,’ I reply, injecting as much airiness into the words as I can muster. ‘My lot only ever have one suit at a time, and they tend to be buried in it.’
A long, frosty silence. I check my watch. Ten minutes now. Hopefully he will be queuing at the checkout, or at least at the deli counter.
‘How’s your water?’ I ask.
‘Fine,’ she snaps again, ‘Fine. It’s water. How else would it be?’
‘Just asking,’ I say. I’m beginning to think that I might quite enjoy winding this woman up. I mean, if she’s going to think I’m a peasant, I may as well take it all the way. I bury my face in my glass to hide the smile that has started to play across my lips.
Eventually she can’t resist beginning to speak again. ‘So. You do something that involves feet ?’
I nod. Think: I must remember to ask her what she does later. Just give her a little time to get settled in, first.
‘And how about the rest of the family?’ she asks. ‘Any more chiropodists in the family? Or are you the only one?’
I go for it, really go for it. Lay on the accent like peanut butter. ‘Naooouw waaay!’ I cry, hamming it up till her eardrums reverberate. ‘OI’m the inderl ik -chewull in moy fimmer-luy.’
There’s a long pause, and I think that perhaps she might have realised that I’m jerking her chain. But the encrusted horror in the ‘rii-ull-uh’ that emerges from her mouth suggests that she hasn’t picked up on it at all, but has merely adjusted her own accent to show the contrast with my own proletarian vowels. I’ve noticed this before, actually: the very grand rarely have what anyone else would call a sense of humour, especially about themselves. I suppose a sense of humour is hard to develop when you’ve got so many noses wedged up your butt.
‘Aow, yih! They were happy as Larry when I went to college when I was twenty-three. An ology in the family!’
‘Really,’ she says again. ‘And what does your father do?’
‘Whaddya think ? He’s a Greek Cypriot, for crying out loud. Obviously, he bought a cab, like everybody else.’
‘A cab ?’
‘Yih. Done pretty nicely out of it, as well.’ Yeah. But I’m not going to tell you the half of it.
‘Oh yes?’
‘Yih. After he married my old girl he jumped over the wall and set up a firm of his own. My mum helped out in the office, you know? They’re pretty much retired now, but life’s treated them pretty good, all told.’
Mary, by this time, has the sort of ghastly smile on her face that you
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