The Radleys Read Online Free PDF Page B

it down and is now swil ing white wine around her mouth to rinse out the taste.
    Lorna is very worried. “Is something wrong? Is it too hot?”
    He hadn’t smel ed it. The odor must have been lost amid the chili and everything else, but the pungent, foul taste is so strong on his tongue that he is choking before it even reaches his throat.
    He stands up, his hand over his mouth, and turns away from them.
    “Christ, Lorna,” says Mark, aggression hardening his voice. “What have you done to the man?”
    “Garlic!” Peter can’t help but cry, between chokes, as if cursing the name of an undefeated enemy. “Garlic! How much is in it?” He rubs his finger over his tongue, trying to rub the wretchedness off. Then he remembers his wine. He grabs his glass. Glugging back, and through the blur of his watery eyes, he sees Lorna looking forlorn as she stares at the remains of her the blur of his watery eyes, he sees Lorna looking forlorn as she stares at the remains of her offending starter in its bowl.
    “There’s some in the dressing, and a bit in the marinade. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you—”
    Practiced, casual, Helen is quick on the vol ey: “Peter’s a bit al ergic to garlic. He’l survive, I’m sure. He’s like that with shal ots too.”
    “Oh,” says Lorna, genuinely perplexed. ‘That’s strange. It’s such a useful antioxidant.’
    Peter picks up his napkin and coughs into the white fabric. He keeps the last of the wine in his mouth, swil ing it around like mouthwash. Eventual y he swal ows that too.
    “So sorry,” he says, placing the empty glass on the table. ‘Real y. I’m so sorry.’
    His wife looks at him with a mix of sympathy and disapproval, as she pops a dressing-free green leaf into her mouth.

    Copeland

    “Are you going away this year?” Helen asks her guests.
    Mark nods. “Probably. Sardinia maybe.”
    “The Costa Smeralda,” adds Lorna, gazing at Peter and circling a finger around the edge of her wine glass.
    “Oh, Sardinia !” Helen says, as a rare happiness rushes through her. “Sardinia is beautiful. We flew there for a night once, didn’t we, Peter?”
    Her guests look confused. “A night ?” asks Mark, almost with suspicion. “What, you just spent a night there?”
    Helen realizes her mistake. “I meant we flew there at night,” she says, as her husband raises his eyebrows in a let’s-see-how-you-get-out-of-this-one fashion. “It was beautiful, flying into Cagliari . .
    . with al the lights and everything. Of course, we stayed there for a week. I mean, we’re into short-stay, but going there and back in one night would be pushing it!”
    She laughs, slightly too hard, then stands up to bring in the next course. A garlicless pork casserole, which she vows she wil eat without making any unnecessary faux pas.
    I should talk about the book I’m reading , Helen thinks to herself. That should be safe. After all, we never had a wild night flying to Mao’s China.
    But she doesn’t have to worry about what to say, as Mark spends the whole of the main course boring everyone about property.
    “I bought it at the bottom of the market, so it was a win-win for me,” he says, of a place he’s bought on Lowfield Close. Then he leans over the table as if about to reveal the secrets of the Holy Grail. “The trouble with buying to rent is that you can choose your properties but you can’t always choose your tenants.”
    “Right,” says Helen, realizing Mark expects some kind of affirmation.
    “And the first and only guy who wanted to rent it out has been a total disaster. Total disaster.”
    Peter is only half listening. He is too busy trying to fight off thoughts about Lorna as he chews away on his pork. He tries not to catch her eye and to stay focused on his plate and the vegetables and the sauce.
    “A disaster?” asks Helen, stil doing her level best to sound interested in what Mark is saying.
    Mark nods, solemnly. “Jared Copeland. Do you know