Blast from the Past. Cathy Hopkins
Читать онлайн.| Название | Blast from the Past |
|---|---|
| Автор произведения | Cathy Hopkins |
| Жанр | Зарубежный юмор |
| Серия | |
| Издательство | Зарубежный юмор |
| Год выпуска | 0 |
| isbn | 9780008289270 |
It all began with a birthday gift from my friend, Marcia. Most people would think of giving a scarf, a pair of earrings, books or some scented bath oil but, oh no, not Marcia, not this time. She’d wanted to be different and present me something out of the ordinary.
‘Today’s our last day and you remember what we promised each other,’ she said as we sat, ready for breakfast, in rattan chairs on the terrace of our brightly coloured heritage hotel on the shore of Lake Pichola in Udaipur, India.
‘I do,’ said Pete, Marcia’s husband. ‘Presents! Time to reveal what we’ve all been planning.’ He reached down and produced three envelopes from his rucksack. He fanned his face with them then handed one to Marcia, one to me, and kept the last for himself. ‘These are from me. Happy fiftieths. May we have many more decades together.’
‘Especially in locations like this,’ I said as I gazed out over the water which was shimmering in the early morning sun. Udaipur was my favourite part of the holiday so far, a fairy tale of a city with a scenic and romantic setting, marble palaces, courtyards, gardens, temples, ancient narrow streets and, of course, stunning views from our hotel of the famous lake. And to top it all, presents. I knew that whatever Pete and Marcia had got me would be thoughtful and generous – from Marcia in particular; she loved to spoil friends and always picked something that was just right.
‘So go on, open them,’ said Pete.
‘I will,’ said Marcia, ‘but first …’ She handed me a tube of lotion and pointed at my nose which was red from the sun.
I laughed. ‘You never change.’ She’d been telling me what to do since I’d met her on my first day at secondary school. Along with all the other wide-eyed new girls, I’d entered the school gates, looking around for someone, anyone, I knew, but there was no one I could see from my junior school. I’d followed the crowd into assembly, got in line, and there in front of me was Marcia, her wild, black hair tamed into a long plait. She’d turned around, looked me up and down, assessing me, then she’d pulled her jumper up and rolled the waistband of her skirt, making it inches shorter than the knee-length uniform rule. She’d indicated that I should do the same which I did without question. ‘Welcome to seven years of hell. I reckon we should stick together.’ I’d laughed, impressed, and stuck close to her, and here she was, almost forty years later, still looking out for me and telling me what to do. I applied the coconut-scented cream, though it was really too late, my face blared Englishwoman abroad. Marcia, being dark skinned, never suffered the same problem, nor did Pete; in fact, his tan had developed evenly into a deep nut brown.
A handsome young waiter in a white starched uniform appeared and placed tall glasses of mango lassi on the table in front of us. Pete whipped out his iPhone and showed it to him. ‘Please would you take a photo? Three of us?’
The waiter nodded so Pete handed it to him then indicated that Marcia and I should pull our chairs close while he went to stand behind us.
‘Everybody