The Swedish Girl Read Online Free PDF Page B

that folk described as Transatlantic. Her English was, of course, perfect and Kirsty had found herself warming to the Swedish girl’s hesitant but well-mannered attempts at making her new flatmate feel at ease.
    She’s never done this before, Kirsty told herself, watching as Eva smiled and listened to the three boys discussing their university courses. It was, Eva had admitted earlier, the first time she had been away from Sweden to study and now Kirsty found herself wondering if it was the girl or her father who had decided that buying this flat in Glasgow was a good idea.
    ‘How about you, Kirsty? What are you studying?’ One of the lads, Colin, had detached himself from the group and wandered over to her side. He was a nice-looking chap, pale faced with a slick of mousey brown hair that he kept flicking back from his forehead.
    ‘Oh, I’m doing a course in hospitality management at Caledonian,’ Kirsty replied. ‘So you’ll be all right for Sunday roasts,’ she laughed.
    ‘With Yorkshire puddings?’ he asked hopefully, smiling back.
    Kirsty grinned and nodded, liking the lad immediately and seeing something reassuring in his honest, open countenance. She felt herself relaxing for the first time since coming here. Colin would be okay, she thought to herself. He was… how would she describe her first impressions of this lad?
Safe
. Yes, that kind of summed him up and Kirsty was glad that one of the boys at least made her feel comfortable.
    ‘How about yourself?’ she asked, taking another sip of the bubbly stuff. (Flippin’ Nora! It
was
champagne!)
    Colin made a face. ‘Och, I’m doing the bog-standard Arts degree course. Managed to get into Junior Honours to do English Lit.’ He shrugged.
    Kirsty heard the self-deprecating tone and nodded again. It was typical of the Scots to make light of something big and this nice young man seemed no exception.
    ‘What d’you want to do after?’
    ‘Write,’ Colin replied immediately. ‘I’ve always wanted to be a writer. I’ve had a few things published, poetry and stuff…’ He tailed off, glancing round as though he hoped the other boys weren’t listening.
    ‘Great,’ Kirsty enthused. ‘Maybe you can show me them sometime?’
    ‘Yeah?’ Colin’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘If you like,’ he said. ‘But you know what I really want? To write a novel. I fancy travelling a bit. Australia, maybe. Pick up some work here and there.’
    Kirsty noticed the dreaminess in his eyes as he looked away from her. Yet it was a good dream, after all: jobs here were hard to come by and these days an Arts degree wasn’t a passport to a definite career.
    As the girl stood in a corner of the kitchen she had the advantage of watching the small group drinking their champagne by the big black kitchen table. Roger had already finished his drink and had put down the glass flute; now he was standing over the other pair, hands stuffed in his pockets, listening as Gary explained the connection between his late father and Henrik Magnusson. He’d be happier with a pint in his great fist, Kirsty thought as she observed the big red-haired lad, then wondered if Roger Dunbar would really fit in with the rest of them in this flat with its pretty furnishings. She caught him glancing over at her and for some reason this made Kirsty look down and blush as though he had guessed what she’d been thinking.
     
    Rodge folded the last of his clothes and tucked them into the bottom drawer. The room wasn’t at all bad, he mused, looking around. No dreadfully steep coombed ceilings to contend with, so there must still be a fair old bit of attic space somewhere up there. The bed was a decent size, too; that wee bed in his previous digs was something he had found hard to bear, his feet perpetually cold on winter mornings, thrust out of a duvet that never properly covered him up. He wandered over to the skylight window and opened it, gulping in the chill evening air. Someone down in the street