Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof by Anna Nicholas Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anna Nicholas
black sky.
Ollie is shaking me awake. I peer, bleary eyed, at my alarm clock. Thankfully, I haven't overslept. Light is streaming in from the window.
  'What is it?'
  'Jorge's here.'
  'Who?'
  'He says he's the new postman. He knocked at the front door.'
  I belly flip out of bed, grab a bathrobe and hop over to the mirror. Late-night celebrations at Juana and Pep's house have taken their toll. Alan is laid out on the bed like a corpse, although his lungs still appear to have life. I tiptoe downstairs to the front door and there, like a heavenly seraph bathed in primrose light, is the Argentinean Adonis. He smiles shyly, his long mane of chestnut hair fastened loosely behind him, his eyes as blue and mesmeric as the Indian Ocean. I extend a hand.
  'You're Jorge, the new postman?'
  His eyes widen in surprise as he addresses me in formal Spanish. 'You know my name? News travels fast in this town.'
  'It certainly does.'
  'I'm sorry to arrive so early, but I wanted to introduce myself before going to the depot. Time won't permit me to deliver to your house every day, but I'll do my best.'
  'Well, that's better than in the past.'
  As he passes me the mail, I stealthily notice a small black tattoo of what looks like a letter 'R' on his bronzed wrist.
  'You are British?'
  Well, even by a long stretch of the imagination, he can hardly think me a native.
  'That's right.'
  He smiles apologetically. 'Ah, I speak German, Russian and French, but no English. I will have to learn.'
  Why a quadra-lingual Argentinean deity is delivering post in the Sóller Valley, I'll never know.
  'Perhaps you can give me lessons,' he says, with a beatific smile.
  Like a shot.
  'Maybe one day.'
  He shakes my hand and, with a slight nod of his head, saunters off down the track, his tall, muscular frame undaunted by the heavy mailbag slung over his shoulder. Ollie hovers behind me.
  'He's really cool. I told him one of my jokes.'
  'That's nice.'
  Ollie's blue eyes follow the fast-moving figure, now just a blurry silhouette devoured by the sun.
  'I do hope we'll see him again.'
  Indeed, let's hope we will.
THREE
RAINING CATS AND DOGS
Sunday 11 p.m., Mayfair
The taxi cuts a gash through two lanes of stationary vehicles waiting at the lights, and then turns into a dark, stubby little side street which leads directly onto a small square. A less enlightened or kindly passerby might consider it more of a parking bay flanked by a few grand terraces and an underground car park, but Audley Square it is. The rain continues to blubber inconsolably beyond my window as the car draws to a halt by the pavement, shivering involuntarily, perhaps with the chill. I stare beyond the blurred window at the tall redbrick building which now serves as my home from home when I'm back in London. A minute's sprint away is The Dorchester, rising like a decorous wedding cake, its lights twinkling in the leaden sky, and the posturing Hilton with its shiny windows and black beetle limos outside. For all its charm, my club could do with a generous lick of paint and modernising and so, like a dowdy cousin, hangs back from its more glitzy relatives along Park Lane. Its quaint and cosy aspect attracts scores of female members brought up on a diet of Mallory Towers, whose most cherished childhood memories include winceyette pyjamas, pillow fights, and a time when lemon sherbet was presented in small twists of white paper â I am one of those girls. The rain is bucketing down and I briefly contemplate how wet I'm going to get dashing to the front door without an umbrella, and with a truculent case in tow. Very, that's how. The driver grins at me in the mirror.
  'Forgotten your brolly?'
  'Well, it is May.'
  'Makes no difference, love.'
  He's right about that.
Ollie is shaking me awake. I peer, bleary eyed, at my alarm clock. Thankfully, I haven't overslept. Light is streaming in from the window.
  'What is it?'
  'Jorge's here.'
  'Who?'
  'He says he's the new postman. He knocked at the front door.'
  I belly flip out of bed, grab a bathrobe and hop over to the mirror. Late-night celebrations at Juana and Pep's house have taken their toll. Alan is laid out on the bed like a corpse, although his lungs still appear to have life. I tiptoe downstairs to the front door and there, like a heavenly seraph bathed in primrose light, is the Argentinean Adonis. He smiles shyly, his long mane of chestnut hair fastened loosely behind him, his eyes as blue and mesmeric as the Indian Ocean. I extend a hand.
  'You're Jorge, the new postman?'
  His eyes widen in surprise as he addresses me in formal Spanish. 'You know my name? News travels fast in this town.'
  'It certainly does.'
  'I'm sorry to arrive so early, but I wanted to introduce myself before going to the depot. Time won't permit me to deliver to your house every day, but I'll do my best.'
  'Well, that's better than in the past.'
  As he passes me the mail, I stealthily notice a small black tattoo of what looks like a letter 'R' on his bronzed wrist.
  'You are British?'
  Well, even by a long stretch of the imagination, he can hardly think me a native.
  'That's right.'
  He smiles apologetically. 'Ah, I speak German, Russian and French, but no English. I will have to learn.'
  Why a quadra-lingual Argentinean deity is delivering post in the Sóller Valley, I'll never know.
  'Perhaps you can give me lessons,' he says, with a beatific smile.
  Like a shot.
  'Maybe one day.'
  He shakes my hand and, with a slight nod of his head, saunters off down the track, his tall, muscular frame undaunted by the heavy mailbag slung over his shoulder. Ollie hovers behind me.
  'He's really cool. I told him one of my jokes.'
  'That's nice.'
  Ollie's blue eyes follow the fast-moving figure, now just a blurry silhouette devoured by the sun.
  'I do hope we'll see him again.'
  Indeed, let's hope we will.
THREE
RAINING CATS AND DOGS
Sunday 11 p.m., Mayfair
The taxi cuts a gash through two lanes of stationary vehicles waiting at the lights, and then turns into a dark, stubby little side street which leads directly onto a small square. A less enlightened or kindly passerby might consider it more of a parking bay flanked by a few grand terraces and an underground car park, but Audley Square it is. The rain continues to blubber inconsolably beyond my window as the car draws to a halt by the pavement, shivering involuntarily, perhaps with the chill. I stare beyond the blurred window at the tall redbrick building which now serves as my home from home when I'm back in London. A minute's sprint away is The Dorchester, rising like a decorous wedding cake, its lights twinkling in the leaden sky, and the posturing Hilton with its shiny windows and black beetle limos outside. For all its charm, my club could do with a generous lick of paint and modernising and so, like a dowdy cousin, hangs back from its more glitzy relatives along Park Lane. Its quaint and cosy aspect attracts scores of female members brought up on a diet of Mallory Towers, whose most cherished childhood memories include winceyette pyjamas, pillow fights, and a time when lemon sherbet was presented in small twists of white paper â I am one of those girls. The rain is bucketing down and I briefly contemplate how wet I'm going to get dashing to the front door without an umbrella, and with a truculent case in tow. Very, that's how. The driver grins at me in the mirror.
  'Forgotten your brolly?'
  'Well, it is May.'
  'Makes no difference, love.'
  He's right about that.
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