Island in the Sea by Anita Hughes Read Free Book Online Page B

wrappers and a half-eaten Violet Crumble. She saw a porcelain coffee mug and a sliced orange.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” she asked.
    â€œI ran out of cigarettes and got hungry,” Lionel explained. “First I tried the tostadas the maid left but they were too spicy. Then I thought I’d make a sandwich but rinsing lettuce and slicing tomatoes was exhausting. So I raided the pantry and found a tin of biscuits and a packet of butterscotch creams.”
    â€œIt looks like the kitchen in Cinderella when she went to the ball.” Juliet collected silver spoons and put them in the sink.
    â€œMaybe you could run down to the newsagent and buy a pack of cigarettes,” he suggested.
    â€œHave you thought of quitting?” Juliet asked.
    â€œI used to think about it every other Thursday.” Lionel ate a bite of his sandwich. “But then I’d get invited to an industry function that served lamb medallions and chocolate torte. Cigarettes might kill you but they’ll never make you fat; I’d rather die of lung cancer than get a middle-aged spread.”
    â€œYou’re thin as a rail.” Juliet couldn’t help but smile.
    â€œDo you really think a diet of scotch and cigarettes will allow me to live to eighty?” Lionel raised his eyebrow. “I do try to keep in shape, I swim thirty laps a day.”
    He put the plate in the sink and entered the living room. He filled a glass with bourbon and sat on a striped love seat.
    â€œHave you ever wanted something so badly you can’t sleep? You lie on Egyptian cotton sheets reciting William Blake and think you’d give anything to close your eyes. When you do manage to drift off, the thing you want is so close you believe life is suddenly glorious and you can achieve your goals.” Lionel ran his fingers over the rim. “But then you wake up and the heater is hissing and you realize it was just a dream.”
    â€œWhen I graduated from college my roommate was moving to Florence and selling her Mazda for practically nothing,” Juliet mused. “I never had my own car and pictured visiting the farmer’s markets on the Hudson. But I couldn’t find an apartment in Brooklyn with a parking space so she gave it to her boyfriend.”
    â€œI’m not talking about a bloody car, I’m talking about love,” Lionel snapped. “When you’re standing in the shower or jogging around the park and all you can see is a pair of full breasts and a small waist and long legs.”
    â€œI wouldn’t know.” Juliet blushed.
    â€œI got a job as a valet at Claridge’s,” Lionel continued. “Six nights a week I carried Louis Vuitton suitcases through the marble lobby and let small dogs in knitted sweaters nip my feet. I opened doors for men in white dinner jackets and women trailing mink coats.
    â€œBut I didn’t complain because I had all day to write songs.” His eyes darkened. “Except I pictured Samantha’s blond hair and blue eyes and couldn’t write a word.”
    â€œWhat happened after you had dinner with Samantha?” Juliet asked. “Did you see her again?”
    â€œIf love was that easy my career would have been over twenty-five years ago.” Lionel sighed. “No one would decipher the lyrics of love songs trying to understand why suddenly the juciest steak tasted like cardboard and they couldn’t remember their own name.”
    *   *   *
    He took a sip of bourbon and closed his eyes. He saw his room above the garage with its narrow bed and wood desk and Tiffany lamp. He pictured the dormer window and view of Eaton Square. He remembered crumpling up notepaper and tossing it into the garbage.
    Lionel stuck his hands in his pockets and crossed the gravel driveway. He saw the main house with its white columns and wrought iron balconies. He inhaled the scent of hibiscus and dahlias and suddenly missed Cambridge with its