Kehua! Read Online Free Page B

villainy of men.
    But Scarlet does rather look forward to telling her friends of the severance of her bond with Louis. The more boring ones
     will no doubt protest briefly and say,
You can’t do this to us. We’ve got tooused to saying Louis-and-Scarlet.
The others, the fun ones in fashion PR, will say,
Jackson Wright? Wow! Go for it, Scarlet.
But all they know is that Jackson got a lot of column inches for his last vampire film, so their advice can’t be relied upon.
    Her uncle Richie, whom she seldom sees, but admires, and who is paranoid on the subject of gayness, will eventually call from
     Hollywood and say something along the lines of,
Oh so Louis finally decided to come out, did he?
And Scarlet will leap to Louis’s defence, and in so doing lose her resolve to leave him. Scarlet likes Louis. She is fond
     of Louis. She just doesn’t love him – at least not today – and certainly not in the carnal way she loves Jackson – and she
     hates living in Nopasaran – but she does not like others denying his heterosexuality. What would that make her?
    She hates the way people just can’t leave other people alone to live their lives in the way they want, but most of all she
     hates the way she cares what other people think of her. She feels resolve drifting away. She has to get out of here. There
     is twittering in her ears. She is just not where she should be. She has not run far enough yet.
    It is her own fault. She should have kept her mouth shut and said nothing; she could already have escaped from Nopasaran at
     last, looking out over the Soho rooftops from Jackson’s fabulous apartment in fabulous Campion Tower, in Jackson’s fabulous
     bed, with Jackson’s fabulous body beside her. Louis has narrow shoulders and few muscles; he is a life-of-the-mind man. Jackson,
     so far as Scarlet knows, is a life-of-the-body man. All these life-altering things happening, and here Scarlet still is, trying
     to decide whether
moules marinière
can be frozen or should be eaten before their sell-by date. Should she put the delicate little white cucumber sandwiches
     out for Beverley’s tea or not? Will they dry and curl up? Life keeps leaping from the mundane to the cosmic and back again.
    As for Beverley, she thinks the girl is looking decidedly shifty. I haven’t described Beverley in any great detail. She looks
     much like any other seventy-eight-year-old, one who has seen better days and become, as the old do, somehow fuzzy round the
     edges. But she’s not too bad; when she comes into a room she brings energy with her: she does not deplete it in those around.
     Her figure remains trim, her heels stay more high than flat, in spite of the recent trouble with her knee. She has a vulgar
     tendency to wear satins and velvets, and what the unkind would call bling: large pieces of gold and platinum jewellery better
     suited to evening than day.
    The antique yellow-velvet sofa where she nurses her recovering leg is under a window, where tiny, elegant fronds of Virginia
     creeper, red and green, push in under the frame. In winter it is almost impossible to keep the room warm, in spite of the
     Aga’s year-round, patient efforts. The north wind can blow in quite cruelly, but it’s not too bad today. The other side of
     the daffodils the lawn runs down to a little stream that flows between reeds and marks the end of the garden. Someone once
     even saw a fish here, really tiny, but nevertheless a sign that the energies of nature cannot be denied for ever. In the 1730s
     a minor tributary of the River Fleet escaped when the rest of the flow was diverted into underground culverts, and has flowed
     in a trickle through the back garden ever since, to disappear from sight where the brambles and elders of Highgate Cemetery
     grow thickest, there where Karl Marx’s massive bearded headstone stands.
    Beverley’s house Robinsdale too has its history, which should not be ignored. Its very bourgeoisity seems to have attracted
     to it