Ice and a Slice by Della Galton Read Free Book Online Page A

and chatter. She felt a little intimidated; it was ages since she’d been to a party, and then she hadn’t been on her own. Everyone seemed to know everyone else and the new pink top she was wearing, which had seemed fine in the shop, now felt too tight and revealing. This was mostly thanks to the cab driver, who had both told her breasts the fare and also thanked her breasts for the tip.
    Hot as it was, SJ wished she’d worn a jacket. She was still trying to attract the barman’s attention when she heard Julie’s voice behind her.
    “Sorry about abandoning you.”
    “Oh, that’s okay.” She turned to find Julie clutching the arm of a tall man with a sheepish grin and very blue eyes.
    “This is my cousin, Tom. He doesn’t know a soul either. Tom, this is Sarah-Jane, my English tutor. SJ for short.”
    “Hello.”
    “Can I get you a drink?” They spoke at the same time.
    “Gin and tonic, please.”
    Tom was managing not to stare down her top, which was a relief. He was obviously a man of subtlety.
    “Are you an actor?” she asked.
    “No. I sell bits of aeroplanes – not very exciting, I’m afraid.”
    “Don’t be afraid.” SJ studied his side-view discreetly as he stood at the bar. He was wearing a cobalt-blue shirt, and his dark hair was untouched with grey. He had nice ears: very flat and neat and clean. He looked older than her, maybe late thirties, but he was wearing well.
    She liked the way he attracted the barman’s attention without being pushy, and then gestured her ahead of him back through the throng of people.
    There weren’t any unoccupied tables and the chairs that were free were festooned with bags and coats. SJ berated herself for arriving so late.
    “We could sit outside if you like?” Tom suggested. “There’s a lovely pub garden. And we’ll be able to hear ourselves speak.”
    She followed him past blown-up photographs of Julie at various ages, and on through a fire exit, which gave way to a patio area, set up with bench tables and chairs. Silver helium balloons emblazoned with the number 40 floated from several tables that were occupied by clusters of people, deep in conversation.
    Tom led her across the lawn – a square of dark velvet in the shadowy dusk – to a table on the edge. Just beyond it was an oak tree and there were rose bushes somewhere. She could smell their sweet scent drifting across the summer air. Tom was right. It was beautiful out here.
    They sat on a slightly damp wooden bench and he quizzed her about her work. She found herself relaxing with the help of the wine and telling him all about her love of poetry – she never told anyone about that – and how she’d always fancied starting up a class which made poetry fun and not the dry boring subject many English teachers would have you believe it was.
    “Poetry and a pint – I think it could really take off. You know how some poetry gives you this pain here,” she said, touching her left breast to demonstrate and suddenly realising that Tom, who was now obliged to look at her cleavage, still wasn’t gawping. He was going up and up in her estimation.
    “Like the sort of pain you get when you listen to sad music or look at a beautiful picture,” he offered, proving that not only was he a good listener, but that he was sensitive and possibly artistic, too.
    “Exactly like that.” SJ was warming to her theme. “Well, having a pint in your hand would help, wouldn’t it? It would be a sort of drowning your poetry sorrows. A pint is the perfect accompaniment to a poem. What do you think? ”
    Tom nodded thoughtfully and SJ liked him more and more.
    “So how about you?” she said, realising she’d been monopolising the conversation. “Tell me about your life. What do you like doing?”
    “I like good food and wine; eating out in pubs – the old-fashioned type with flagstones and log fires and preferably Egon Ronay.”
    SJ nodded approvingly.
    “I like going to antique fairs too – I collect vintage