Blind Date Read Online Free PDF

skin of the inside upper arm can be ideal for the neck, and at last, we seem to have succeeded.” He stood behind her, holding her head in both hands, turning her profile to the audience. The photographer took another picture, like a man fascinated by patchwork.
    â€œThere arealways problems with mending the jaw and the neck, because it must remain mobile in order for the patient to eat, to communicate. The patient is always anxious to communicate, isn’t she, Elisabeth?” He laughed. “Of course one wants a patient to eat and smile, but in this case, one didn’t wish to encourage laughter, ha, ha.”
    Bastard.
    One would have prefered it if the patient had at least wanted to smile. Rather than the screaming, the swearing, the corrosive, articulate anger, the tuneless singing and latterly, the constant flow of hot, furious tears. And the language, good God, her language. No fishwife was ever so fluent. The whole range of emotional responses was hers, excluding gratitude.
    The photographer came back, slipped away again. Elisabeth adjusted herself to lie, fairly comfortably now, on her left side, with her head propped up in her left hand. In this pose, she surveyed the audience as the doctor continued, on and on and on in a fluent delivery which seemed to her a remarkably self-satisfied postscript to her humilation. Then she noticed it, a fresh, pink rose, placed close to her hand, so sweet smelling it made her want to cry. And then, laugh.
    Staring out into the darkness, Elisabeth lowered one eyelid in a lascivious wink. She had tried the gesture in front of a mirror, making Matt giggle, aware of how absurd it looked from a face which seemed as if someone had taken a bite out of the neck, mended it with play-dough and put it back crooked. The faces out in the black sea of the audience were doubtless perfect, but invisible, barred from her scrutiny. There was the sound of a high giggle, quickly suppressed. Mr. Ryman, a surgeon with a future and a paper to prepare, stood at the end of her couch; talking, gesturing, explaining a point, little glasses trembling on the end of his nose. With the clawed fingers of her right hand, Elisabeth pulled the material of the gown above her knees, winked again, extended one foot, wiggled her toes, bent her knee and extended her right foot until her big toe could stroke the cleft of his backside. It was a friendly, lascivious gesture which he did not notice until he jumped, with a ridiculous meow of alarm, the half-moon glasses clattering to the floor, the noise of that drowned in a storm of laughter. Elisabeth lay on her back and closed her eyes, aware of the camera again. She raised her good hand in a two-fingered salute, curled the other round the rose.
    Decidingit was better to join in the laughter, the surgeon swept his glasses off the floor and put them back on his nose.
    â€œAs you will see, ladies and gents,” he announced jovially, “the patient is making an excellent recovery. But it has been, and will be, a long process …”
    Drunk again, Miss Kennedy. When will you ever learn?
    If only that were all.
    Are you intelligent? Do you hurt? Are you a failure?
    Yes, yes, yes. And whose fault is it?
    My own. I have never done a brave thing or a wise one.
    S teven was waiting outside.
    â€œWhat were they laughing at?” he asked.
    â€œThey’re going to sell me at a discount,” she said. “Put me up for auction. I should’ve painted my toenails.”
    â€œCar’s outside. Can you manage the walk?”
    He was deliberately brisk, because she seemed to be in danger of crying again, which he did not want. He was always slightly awkward with emotion, trying to hide it, as if she noticed.
    â€œI don’t see why you should pay and display if you’re parking a car in order to carry a patient, be one, or visit one,” she said distinctly as they crossed what felt like a mile of concrete, the urge to weep suppressed