Colouring In by Angela Huth Read Free Book Online Page B

things this morning. Go and buy a car, for a start. Will I be able just to walk into a showroom and drive one away? Or will there be a lot of palaver about road tax and insurance? I don’t know. I don’t really feel up to anything much. Might just have a quiet morning. Cogitate. Make lists. Get my bearings.
    Wonderful seeing Dan again last night. Made me realise how much I’d missed him. Our weekly jokes. His pertinent comments on whatever was happening in the world. And he didn’t seem to have changed much in ten years. Bit craggier, I suppose – rather suits his always handsome face. That infectious laugh undiminished. His kindly eyes and sort of general concern for mankind still seemed to be intact. He exudes a maturing contentment, never lets on about the disappointment he’s constantly grappling with – his plays. Man in a million, Dan. Bloody lucky, I am, to be his friend.
    Number 18 hadn’t changed, far as I could see, either. The rather shambolic, bright kitchen: the bits of furniture, so quietly polished that it’s only when you study them closely you realise how good they are. No new pictures: all the familiar Pipers and Nicolsons and the lovely Gwen John Isabel picked up for a song years ago. All very comforting, the sameness. I came through the door wondering what to find. There was no shrill welcome, shouting and hugging: but a quiet sense of pleasure in my return that almost brought tears to the eyes. I felt looked after, loved.
    Briefly I was re-acquainted with my goddaughter. Wouldn’t have recognised her, of course. She’s turned into a tall skinny sub-teenager, rather terrifying, I thought. Daresay she’ll be very good looking when she’s through the imprisoned teeth stage: Isabel’s eyes and auburn hair. Miss far-too-pleased-with herself was my immediate impression. Gave her a couple of quid on an impulse, said go and buy yourself something. By the look on her face it should have been a tenner. Suppose I’m out of touch. But I wasn’t drawn to her.
    I do wish they hadn’t asked Carlotta – not last night, anyhow, our getting together after so long. She always takes over so. Doesn’t know when to pipe down, when to listen. She’s too full of her own opinions. She’s quite sure she knows what everybody is feeling – though if she is so sure, why does she keep asking? She hadn’t been in the room for ten minutes when she came up to me, put her face intrusively close to mine, and said how are you feeling, Bert, back in England at last? What the hell did she expect me to say? Couldn’t she imagine? I mumbled some answer about jet lag which plainly she found inadequate.
    Perhaps I’m being unfair. Carlotta is definitely a life-giver, vivacious to a fault. There’s something quite endearing about her energy, her enthusiasm, her sudden moments of attention, so acute that they make you feel almost dizzy. Then she pulls away from you, which is very slightly provocative. I have to say I was entertained by her interest in marketing strategy, and her appalling over-use of all the jargon. I teased her a bit about that. I’m not sure she was amused. But she managed to laugh. I quickly changed to the subject of my wretched house, and she offered to help. A picture flashed before my eyes: Carlotta in and out the place being serious about paint and curtains. Not sure I wanted any of that, but I said you’re very kind.
    Have to say the years have improved her looks. When I last saw her, at that awful dance when we went in for a bit of clumsy fumbling in the bushes, she was plump and unmemorable. Now, what, almost twenty years later, she’s a smart London woman. Obviously fashion is of importance to her, and trends and future trends seem to interest her. We have almost nothing in common, so that hasn’t changed. And yet I have to admit that she’s bright, attractive, beguiling in a noisy way. But not my sort of woman. During the evening my feelings for her – wonder if she guessed? – could be