13 Little Blue Envelopes Read Online Free PDF Page A

man’s house. A kind of messy English man’s 38

    house. At home, the bathrooms were crammed full of country-crafty wicker wall ornaments, and seashells, and potpourri that smelled like the Hallmark store. This room was stark blue with blue carpet and dark blue towels. No decorations. Just a little shelf full of shaving cream (unknown brand in a vaguely futuristic-looking container), a razor, a few men’s Body Shop items (all tan or amber colored and serious looking—she could tell they all smelled like tree or something suitably manly).
    All of her toiletries were carefully sealed up in a plastic bag, which she set on the carpet. (Wall-to-wall—plush but worn flat.
    Who carpeted a bathroom?) Her stuff was all pink—had she meant to buy so much pink? Pink soap, pink miniature shampoo bottle, little pink razor. Why? Why was she so pink?
    She took a second to close the blind on the large bathroom window. Then she turned to the tub. She looked at the wall, then up at the ceiling.
    There was no showerhead. That must be what Richard meant by “the bath” was all hers, which she had thought was just some Britishism. But it was all too real. There was a Y-shaped rubber tube. There were open suction cups on each tip of the Y
    part, and there was a handle on the end of the stem that looked a lot like a phone. After examining the tub and this device, Ginny determined that the Y tips were supposed to go over the two spigots, and water would come out of the phone, and some shower-like action would result.
    She gave this a try.
    Water shot up toward the ceiling. She quickly pointed the shower phone into the tub and jumped in. But it proved impossible to try to wash herself and juggle the shower phone, 39

    and she gave up and filled the tub. She hadn’t taken a bath since she was little and felt a little stupid sitting in the water. Also, the bath was amazingly loud—every movement produced a sloshing noise that echoed embarrassingly. She tried to make her movements as conservative as possible as she washed up, but the effort was lost as soon as she had to submerge herself to wash her hair. She was pretty sure that ocean liners could be lowered into the sea and make less noise than she did.
    When the drama of the bath was over, she realized that she had another, totally unexpected problem. Her hair was soaked, and she had no way of drying it. She hadn’t brought a blow dryer since it wouldn’t work here anyway. There was no alternative, it seemed, but to quickly bind it up in braids.
    When she emerged, she found Richard all suited up in what appeared to be the same suit and tie he had on the day before.
    “Hope you were all right in there,” he said apologetically. “I don’t have a shower.”
    He’d probably heard her sloshing around all the way in the kitchen.
    Richard started opening cabinet doors and pointing out things that might be considered breakfast-worthy. He was clearly unprepared for her visit, as the best he could offer was a bit of leftover bread, a little jar of brown stuff called Marmite, an apple, and “whatever is in the refrigerator.”
    “I’ve got some Ribena here, if you want that,” he added, taking a bottle of some kind of grape juice and setting it in front of Ginny as well. He excused himself for a moment. Ginny got a glass and poured herself some of the juice. It was warm and 40

    incredibly thick. She took a sip and gagged slightly as the intense, overly sweet syrup coated her throat.
    “You’re . . .” Richard was in the kitchen doorway now, watching this with an embarrassed expression. “You’re supposed to mix that with water. I should have told you.”
    “Oh,” Ginny said, swallowing hard.
    “I’ve got to be off now,” he said. “I’m sorry . . . there’s been no time to talk at all. Why don’t you meet me at Harrods for lunch?
    Let’s meet at Mo’s Diner at noon. If you ever get locked out, I leave a spare key wedged in the crack in the step.”
    He carefully walked her