Blind Date Read Online Free

foremost house on the hill, owner lately deceased. A glimpse of her white hair lifted his spirits, assured him of the continuity of his life.
    â€œThe view’s marvellous from here,” the American said. “What’s it like in winter, though?”
    â€œWhat? The view?”
    What did he mean? The view would be the same in winter; same sky, same stretch of sea, same outlook on the garden at the back, same view of the railings at the front. What did he think? Same view, different colours, less inviting in mid-December than July, obviously; did he want a guarantee of the weather? It was difficult to remain affable in the company of someone who was wasting his time, but the only way out of a downward route into ill manners was to act as if the man was the best friend he had ever had. He must resist the impulse to throttle him, pretend he was interesting and his questions intelligent, while acting at the same time as if he did not despise him for the simple crime of having limitless money. The village was rich, but this man, immeasurably richer. Rich and loud, the perfect North American cliché.
    â€œOh, of course, I see whatyou mean. The ambience in winter? Rather nice, actually. Usually mild, quite a lot going on, very friendly community coming into its own, if you get my drift. People remember that they know one another, need one another. Is there anything you’d like to see again?”
    There was always this conflict: sell the house and gain the commission as well as the kudos and sense of achievement, or sabotage the whole issue, because he could not bear to have this idiot as a near neighbour. If in doubt, remain as charming as your mother-in-law throughout because you never knew if the customer might have nicer acquaintances he would recommend.
    â€œYou sure this is the finest house in town?”
    Steven drew a deep breath. “Well I’ve lived here most of my life, so I’m bound to say that this is the finest village on the coast, aren’t I? And I’m bound to say, that local opinion has this as the finest house. Because it has such a commanding position …”
    â€œAnd because it’s so expensive.”
    â€œYes. And because it doesn’t change hands very often.”
    â€œPardon me?”
    Steven did not hate Americans. He simply found them exasperating and uncomfortable because they did not speak his language any better than he could follow their laconic code. And they seemed to have the strange tradition that when they were buying a superfluous house with their ridiculous supplies of cash, it was the man who chose it, and houses chosen by men were always wrong for their women. Perhaps this creature who resembled a frog with the watchful eyes of a lizard would go home and insert a brick from the place down his wife’s suspender, by way of a gift. Then they would visit once or twice over three years and sell it again because it was too far from an airport and she had not wanted it. He brightened at the prospect.
    â€œThisain’t the finest house,” the American said. “Maybe the prettiest, but not the finest.” He was standing by the window, jabbing his finger, pointing at the hill, to where the green shutters of Diana’s house were distinctly visible in the sun. “Now that one there, that’s the finest. By my standards, anyways.”
    â€œThat one?” Steven asked, pretending not to understand. “Oh yes. Not for sale.”
    â€œWhy, if the price is right …”
    â€œBecause it’s spoken for. Anyway,” he added, “it’s got a curse on it. Now, are we finished here?”
    Ever fastidious, he brushed the dust from the sleeve of his jacket, and fingered the knot of his tie. Such a smart young man, the American remarked to himself, disliking the vision of a well-dressed realtor so clean he almost shone with it. As if a suit, however casually cut, made any difference. Certainly not in this