Read Online The Book of Tomorrow by Cecelia Ahern - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Cecelia Ahern
Tags: Fiction
Ads: Link
built that himself. Wasn’t here when I moved in.’
It struck me as odd phrasing. When I moved in . ‘Who lived here before?’
Rosaleen looked at me then, with those wide curious eyes she’d previously reserved for when I was eating. She didn’t say anything. She does that a lot, at the most random times. Dropping in and out of our conversations with looks and pauses as though she loses signal on her brain connection.
She freaked me out so much that I looked away, apparently down at the rug that was given to her by somebody for something, I don’t know…But that morning when I was alone and didn’t have her nervous jabbering interfering in my thoughts, I was able to look around properly.
The living room was cosy, I suppose, if not a little old. Well, a lot old, not like my house, which is—was—modern and clean, crisp lines and everything symmetrical. This room had things all over the place. Art that didn’t match the couches, funny-looking ornaments, tables and chairs with spindly legs and animal claws, two couches with totally different fabrics—one blue and ivory floral, the other as if a cat had thrown up on it—and a coffee table that doubled as a chessboard. The floor felt like it was uneven, sloping from the fireplace to the bookshelves, making me feel a little seasick. The busiest area seemed to be around the fireplace; an open fire that mademe shudder with its contraptions that looked like something out of a medieval torture chamber; wrought-iron pokers with animal heads, coal shovels of different sizes, an ancient bellows, a black cast-iron fireguard with an animal of some sort emblazoned on the front. I turned my back on the fire and concentrated on the floor-to-ceiling bookcase, with a ladder, running the length of the wall. It was filled with books, photos, tins, keepsake boxes, useless trinkets, that kind of thing. Most of the books were on gardening and cooking, very specific, not at all to my taste. They were old and well-read, some ripped apart, some missing their covers, yellowing pages, and some that looked water damaged, but not a speck of dust was to be seen. There was a huge red-bound book, which looked so ancient the pages were black with the red dye running into them. It was Lloyd’s Register of Shipping 1919-1920 Volume 2 . Inside were hundreds of pages of the alphabetically arranged names of vessels, showing the dead weight and capacities of holds and permanent bunkers. I slid it back into place and wiped my hands on my clothes, not wanting the bacteria of 1919 to infest me. Another book was about faiths of the world, which had on the cover a gold emblem of a cross dug into the ground with a snake twisted around it. Then beside it was a book on greek cooking, though I doubted very much that there’d be a place for a souvlaki next to Rosaleen’s Aga. The next book was The Complete Book of the Horse , though it mustn’t have been, for there were twelve more on the subject.
I’d read only the first chapter of the book Fiona gave me at my dad’s funeral and already that was the most I’d read in a year, so the books stuffed onto the shelves didn’t particularly interest me. What did interest me was a photo album filed alongside them all. It was in the large book section, beside the dictionaries, encyclopaedia, world atlas and thatkind of thing. An old-fashioned album, it had the look of a printed book, or at least its spine had. It had a red velvet cover and was embossed by a frame of gold, and I took it out and ran my finger across the front, leaving a darkened trail on the velvet. I curled up in the leather-studded armchair, looking forward to getting lost in somebody else’s memories. As soon as I opened the first page, the doorbell rang, long and shrill. It broke the silence and made me jump.
I waited, almost expected Rosaleen to come sprinting across the road with her teadress hitched up to her thighs, revealing hamstrings so tight Jimi Hendrix could play on them. But she
It struck me as odd phrasing. When I moved in . ‘Who lived here before?’
Rosaleen looked at me then, with those wide curious eyes she’d previously reserved for when I was eating. She didn’t say anything. She does that a lot, at the most random times. Dropping in and out of our conversations with looks and pauses as though she loses signal on her brain connection.
She freaked me out so much that I looked away, apparently down at the rug that was given to her by somebody for something, I don’t know…But that morning when I was alone and didn’t have her nervous jabbering interfering in my thoughts, I was able to look around properly.
The living room was cosy, I suppose, if not a little old. Well, a lot old, not like my house, which is—was—modern and clean, crisp lines and everything symmetrical. This room had things all over the place. Art that didn’t match the couches, funny-looking ornaments, tables and chairs with spindly legs and animal claws, two couches with totally different fabrics—one blue and ivory floral, the other as if a cat had thrown up on it—and a coffee table that doubled as a chessboard. The floor felt like it was uneven, sloping from the fireplace to the bookshelves, making me feel a little seasick. The busiest area seemed to be around the fireplace; an open fire that mademe shudder with its contraptions that looked like something out of a medieval torture chamber; wrought-iron pokers with animal heads, coal shovels of different sizes, an ancient bellows, a black cast-iron fireguard with an animal of some sort emblazoned on the front. I turned my back on the fire and concentrated on the floor-to-ceiling bookcase, with a ladder, running the length of the wall. It was filled with books, photos, tins, keepsake boxes, useless trinkets, that kind of thing. Most of the books were on gardening and cooking, very specific, not at all to my taste. They were old and well-read, some ripped apart, some missing their covers, yellowing pages, and some that looked water damaged, but not a speck of dust was to be seen. There was a huge red-bound book, which looked so ancient the pages were black with the red dye running into them. It was Lloyd’s Register of Shipping 1919-1920 Volume 2 . Inside were hundreds of pages of the alphabetically arranged names of vessels, showing the dead weight and capacities of holds and permanent bunkers. I slid it back into place and wiped my hands on my clothes, not wanting the bacteria of 1919 to infest me. Another book was about faiths of the world, which had on the cover a gold emblem of a cross dug into the ground with a snake twisted around it. Then beside it was a book on greek cooking, though I doubted very much that there’d be a place for a souvlaki next to Rosaleen’s Aga. The next book was The Complete Book of the Horse , though it mustn’t have been, for there were twelve more on the subject.
I’d read only the first chapter of the book Fiona gave me at my dad’s funeral and already that was the most I’d read in a year, so the books stuffed onto the shelves didn’t particularly interest me. What did interest me was a photo album filed alongside them all. It was in the large book section, beside the dictionaries, encyclopaedia, world atlas and thatkind of thing. An old-fashioned album, it had the look of a printed book, or at least its spine had. It had a red velvet cover and was embossed by a frame of gold, and I took it out and ran my finger across the front, leaving a darkened trail on the velvet. I curled up in the leather-studded armchair, looking forward to getting lost in somebody else’s memories. As soon as I opened the first page, the doorbell rang, long and shrill. It broke the silence and made me jump.
I waited, almost expected Rosaleen to come sprinting across the road with her teadress hitched up to her thighs, revealing hamstrings so tight Jimi Hendrix could play on them. But she
Similar Books
