The Corpse with the Silver Tongue Read Online Free PDF Page A

he’s handing me a glass.
    â€œThank you,” says polite little me, as I flash a weak smile at him and look back, in horror, to see the Tamsin person literally bouncing her way down the stairs toward me. She’s about five feet tall, must weigh all of one hundred pounds, is barefoot and brown-limbed, has a little beaded lariat tied around her long, sun-bleached blond hair, and is wearing a flowing chiffon something or other topped with a couple of long silk scarves and a shawl. All very “child of the sixties” but a twenty-first-century version . . . Clean, healthy looking. Almost sterile. Fake. I wonder if the deception is carried through—maybe she’s even a vegan.
    â€œChampagne for my little darling, what!” Alistair hands her a glass too.
    â€œOh, just a sip or two, darling,” she replies, gushingly.
    Maybe she doesn’t drink , I think. It seems that Tamsin’s idea of a “sip” is my idea of a great big glug, and her glass is finished in two mouthfuls. Okay. Maybe she’s a lush!
    Having drunk the champagne, she holds her glass for Alistair to take, which he does, smiling. An interesting insight into their relationship. She flings her little arms around me and gives me the three obligatory kisses. She barely touches my cheeks with her lips, but her hair fans my face. She smells of patchouli. I remember wearing that back in my teens . . . At the time it seemed very cool. Now the smell hits my gag reflex.
    She’s tiny. I’m a big, lumbering giant in her fluttering embrace. I hate myself. I hate my weight. I immediately try to rationalize. I’m about five-foot-four, on a tall day, but I’m what my mum used to call “well covered.” About thirty to sixty pounds overweight according to those devilish Body Mass Index things they’ve invented. Never been thin. Never will be. My boobs are too “fulsome.” And my hips too naturally rounded. An ex-boyfriend of mine once said I looked as though I’d been made in the Rachel Welch mold, but they’d turned me out before I had set properly, so I’d spread. I’m pretty sure he’d meant it as a compliment. It was early on in our relationship, after all. No, I’ll only ever be slim if I manage to give up everything I love. I love all the bad things too much. It doesn’t stop me being on some diet or other, pretty much constantly, but  . . .  well, you know how it is, right? So tiny people make me feel  . . .  well, disproportionate is one way of putting it. I have no thin friends. Thin people make me nervous. Like they’ll snap if I touch them. Much the same feeling I have around babies. I feel all this as Tamsin stands back and giggles, like a child.
    â€œOh, she’s nowhere near as big as you said she was,” she stage-whispers to Alistair. To be fair, Alistair blushes.
    I laugh as charmingly and operatically as I can and say, through gritted teeth, “Oh Alistair, you cheeky thing you!” You rude old bugger! I hate you!
    It’s the best I can manage. Don’t let my eyes show the hurt I am feeling. I finish my champagne and hold out my glass to Alistair as though challenging him to fill it again. He looks almost apologetic as he pours more champagne. But not quite. He smiles weakly, and clears his throat awkwardly. Got you!
    A buzzing sound rips through the air.
    Saved by the bell  . . .  damn! Alistair bends his head apologetically and makes for the kitchen, champagne bottle in one hand, his own glass in the other.
    â€œThis is for you,” I say to the tiny Tamsin. I hold out the parcel I’ve brought with me. Another attempt at getting people to like me! Everyone knows you’re supposed to take a gift to a birthday party, even if it’s one you don’t want to attend and you don’t know the person whose birthday it is. I’m holding out a box of candied