Transgressions Read Online Free PDF Page A

life.
    She held the cat in her arms while she bathed the wound, then made herself a cup of tea and let Millie sit for a while on her lap licking catnip paste off her fingers. She talked to it softly, sweet nothings, not paying much attention to what she said. “Silly animal. Your trouble is you never learned to fight when you were growing up. And now it’s too late to teach an old cat new tricks.” The fingers of her free hand stroked and tickled the little body, working through the fur, loosening a little fur ball here and there, her nails snagging on the edge of the odd, infected flea bite. Poor Millie. She had been rather neglected of late. Born and brought up in a flat where the only taste of life on the ground was the view from a third-floor window, she had never really taken to freedom, preferring the cozy darkness between the sofa and radiator to the wild seclusion of the garden borders or the great expanse of lawn. “There’s nothing to be scared of. You’re supposed to like the dark, you know. He’s just a fat tom with an inflated sense of himself. If you can’t win by brawn you should use cunning. That’s all we girls have got.”
    Millie stretched her body lazily under her touch, the pleasure clearly now outweighing the pain, and began to purr, a great motor of a sound, filling the night silence, rich and deep. See. All anybody needs is a little affection. She put her head back against the chair and allowed the animal’s sense of well-being to become her own. She thought about Tom and how hard it had been when they first split up, how each day had been about reinventing herself without him, and how long it had taken her to feel anywhere near normal again. She had done it though. And whatever happened there was no going back.
    She thought about work and the book. A year ago they wouldn’t even have offered it to her. But part of the fallout of these last months had been learning how to put herself forward more. After Tom moved out, she had redone her résumé and started calling people rather than waiting for them to call her. The pushiness had paid off. From trade conferences and the odd literary novella to bestselling crime and punishment.
    It hadn’t been that hard. Her Czech connections were good enough to ensure her advance warning of this particular novel and the contacts had paved the way for Charles at the book fair. As an old pal from university days, his gratitude had collided with his business sense and she had got herself an offer she couldn’t refuse.
     
    “I tell you, Elizabeth, it’s got your name written all over it.”
    “What? Six hundred pages of sex and violence? Thanks, Charles.”
    “No, you know what I mean. You’ll do a brilliant job. You sure you’ve got the time?”
    She had laughed. They had been sitting in a wine bar in Soho, acid colors, tubular chairs, and beautiful young men all around, and Charles was having trouble keeping his mind on the job. “Yes, I think I can squeeze it in.”
    “Great. But don’t go too hermitlike on it, will you. Have a bit of a life as well.”
    “Charles! Have you been talking to Sally?”
    “Certainly not. I’m persona non grata there at the moment. I tried to pick up the husband of her aromatherapist at a party.”
    She had laughed. “You have no shame.”
    “I know. After centuries of social repression it’s the least I can do. So, have I wooed you?”
    “Not really. But I’ll do it.”
    “Attagirl. I’ll make sure your name’s in bold type. And remember, the faster and the more American you can make it, the better the chances that I can flog your translation across the pond.”
    “It’s all right, Charles. I promise it won’t read like George Eliot.”
     

     
    S he had taken it because it was a challenge, but also because she knew she could live up to it. After all, she knew her thrillers. Had read and seen a million of them over the years. She liked them as a form, warmed to their coldness, the way they divided the