The Reading Room by Ruth Hamilton

Author:Ruth Hamilton [Hamilton, Ruth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780330509299
Publisher: Pan Books

Eight

There was no embarrassment.

Lily woke the next morning to find her lover standing by the bed, a breakfast tray in his hands, a yellow rose stolen from her garden clamped between his teeth. With a flourish, he produced a tea towel, and when she had raised herself into a sitting position, he spread this rather less than clean item across her legs and placed the tray on top of it. The rose was handed to her with all due ceremony, then he sat down and poured tea. ‘Breakfast, madam. No orange juice, so no Buck’s Fizz.’ He stood back and bowed. ‘Should Modom require anything further, room service will provide anything within reason. Except, of course, we do not have the aforementioned Buck’s Fizz.’

‘Pity. But thank you all the same.’ She was strangely hungry. Having expected to find the morning after extremely difficult, she discovered herself to be completely at ease with him. Had this been casual sex and no more? She found herself hoping not. Last night had not been his first experience with a woman; he was adventurous, uninhibited, gentle, yet powerful. ‘Have you eaten?’ she asked.

‘Music is the food of love, so I listened to Lonnie Donegan.’

‘Who?’

‘“My Old Man’s a Dustman”.’ He sang a few bars for her, then mopped up spilt tea. ‘It’s a very romantic piece, and you should not be laughing – it betrays a lack of soul,’ he said. ‘If your spirit can’t share the moment with me, don’t spit tea, I beg you. Would you have preferred “Does Your Chewing Gum Lose its Flavour on the Bedpost Overnight?”? It lacks a certain romanticism—’

‘Stop it, or I’ll choke. You’re killing me, Mike.’

He stretched out beside her. The instinct that had drawn him to Lily in the first place was in no way diminished. He needed to make her happy; he wanted to make her laugh. There was, he knew, a lively woman buried deep under layers imposed by life, and he longed for her to tell him her secret fears. But he now knew that he must not push for disclosure, because she would tell him when she chose. He yawned loudly. ‘The good thing about you is that a man could never get truly bored. There’s always an alternative, you see.’

‘Really?’

He nodded solemnly. ‘When sex loses its appeal – as if it ever would – there’s always noughts and crosses.’

‘What?’

‘The scars. If you had a small tattoo to lengthen one side, you have the grid on your belly. Bags me being the X, though. I’m always X.’

He displayed none of the misplaced respect syndrome that might have inhibited any other man. The scars were a part of her, so he embraced them and tried to find a silly use for them. Mike Walsh was almost unbearably lovable. He took hold of life, bit down hard and got on with it. He was doing the same with her toast. ‘Get your own,’ she advised him. ‘I’m starving.’

‘Now, that’s a compliment,’ he said, rising from the bed.

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