Hot Water Man Read Online Free Page A

could not put it into words. Here in Pakistan, perhaps, he could recapture the old Christine, and that time years ago when everything seemed possible.
    And then there was that other difficulty. They did not talk about it much; though so outspoken about her woman’s predicament in general, Christine was thankfully shy about mentioning this. To transfer oneself from one continent to another could hardly solve it; logically they were the same two people as before. But he no longer felt logical about this.

5
    The party was held in the garden. The sun had sunk; even during twilight, however, the air felt centrally heated. Up above the crows banged about in the trees, disturbed by the social exclamations.
    The film had not yet started. A blank screen hung against the wall. Spotlights were wired up amongst the bushes, pools of emerald leaves. People stood about chatting. Donald approved of dressing-up; nobody did it in England any more. Between the guests slid bearers holding trays of lukewarm gin and tonic. The Pakistani ladies drank Bubble-Up.
    â€˜This is the life,’ he said to Christine, so they looked as if they were talking. He turned to the bearer. ‘Thank you.’
    â€˜Thank you.’ Christine took a glass.
‘Shoukriah.’
    â€˜You’re much nicer to servants than you are to me,’ he said.
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Look, there’s Shamime. She’s the girl I was telling you about – does our public relations.’
    Shamime turned. Tall and slim, she was one of those girls about whom you would say: She’s not exactly beautiful. And keep wondering about it, unable to move your eyes from her face. Her nose was certainly too big. Her hair was looped in black coils. She wore a loose turquoise trouser suit with strings of gold chains. She looked somewhat like this in the Cameron office.
    â€˜Amazing dress.’ She held out a slim brown arm to Christine. ‘Where on earth did you get it?’
    â€˜In England. London,’ said Christine. ‘I worked in a dress shop. It sold second-hand clothes.’
    â€˜Trendy second-hand clothes,’ added Donald. The dress was a floral thing from the forties, with padded shoulders. He had mixed feelings about this garment.
    â€˜Donald says I look like a charwoman.’
    Shamime laughed. ‘Where’s the shop?’
    â€˜In a little passage where they sell antiques,’ said Christine. ‘At weekends they have stalls. It’s rather like your bazaars, actually. You know, lots of people, no cars, covered arcades too, like in Karachi. Rather fun.’
    â€˜Sounds just like Camden Passage.’
    Christine paused. ‘So you’ve been there?’
    â€˜Adore it. I love Islington and Hampstead. I get so self-indulgent in those little shops.’
    â€˜I see. Do you go to London often?’
    â€˜When I run out of marmalade.’ She laughed again. ‘No, seriously, there are so many things you can’t get here. It’s impossible.’
    â€˜Which hotel do you stay at?’
    â€˜My cousin has a little house behind Harrods. But hasn’t Harrods changed? Full of Arabs.’
    In the pause that followed this remark Donald was aware of a general shifting. Chairs had been arranged; someone was fiddling with the projector. He sat down beside Christine. He leant towards her, then stopped. He would like to gossip with her about Shamime but his wife was turning out to be disappointing in this respect; invariably she was nicer about the Pakistanis than the English. This seemed like racial discrimination to him.
    The guests had taken their seats now. The lights were switched off. Donald heard the scrape and whirr of crickets up in the bushes. Or were they tree-frogs? He had yet to learn. Forty years ago these streets were a wilderness of scrub. Karachi was a small sea-port then with a native bazaar and an English cantonment; where two-lane carriageways now lay. Grandad had shot a tiger. Or