Читать книгу Witty Ways. A Collection of Short Stories with a Twist - Artsun Akopyan - Страница 4

Jane got out of the car and looked at her watch. It was nearly six. In half an hour Mark would come back from work. She had to hurry up to be able to cook dinner in time.

She opened the rear door of the car, snatched out the bag filled with food and quickly went towards the house along the path paved with colour flagstones and bisecting the small garden planted with roses. Now she didn’t have a minute to enjoy the odour and the view of these beautiful flowers. If the table wasn’t laid by the moment Mark washed his hands, the catastrophe would be unavoidable. He’d start walking up and down the kitchen and stuffing his mouth with everything catching his eye – chips, sweets, the remains of the day-before-yesterday apple pie. As a result, all the floor would be littered with crumbs. Jane wouldn’t have any time to scrub the kitchen clean till tomorrow. By that time the crumbs would have dried up and crunch under foot, which Jane hated.

Unlocking the front door, she entered the hall, put the bag onto the chest of drawers and began unbuttoning her raincoat. Fortunately, she wouldn’t have to waste her time on thinking over what to cook. It had become a habit with her long ago to create a menu in the evening for the next day. Today she was going to make mushroom soup for the first course, fish cutlets and salad for the second. Any gourmet would enjoy everything – or nearly everything – she cooked. Probably that was one of the main reasons of her popularity with middle-aged unmarried men. No one of them had ever wanted to break off relations with her.

She took off her raincoat and hung it on a hook. Suddenly it seemed to her that besides the odour of roses that got into the hall when she had opened the door, there was something else in the air – seemingly, a perfume. Standing motionless, she took a sniff. There could be no doubt. It was a delicate French perfume – probably quite an expensive sort. Jane had never used anything like that. She grew cold. What if Mark had got a secret lover?

She looked around. There was no trace – like a forgotten comb or pin – of a strange woman in the hall. Slowly, Jane went to the kitchen beating her heels against the floor as loudly as she could. Mark and his girlfriend could still be in the house. Jane didn’t want to catch them with their pants down. It would make her feel embarrassed.

There was no perfume in the kitchen. Of course, it could have simply blown away as the kitchen window was wide open. On the floor there were a few biscuit crumbs. Jane remembered very well that in the morning, after Mark had gone to work, she swept the floor carefully. It meant Mark came here later being hungry. Probably he hadn’t had lunch in the cafe near his office – usually he went there during his lunch time. Judging by the positions of the crumbs, he ate biscuits standing near the window— and maybe his woman, too. Jane felt blood started to hammer in her temples.

She left the kitchen and opened the bathroom door. There was a terrible mess. Water was running from the tap as someone hadn’t tightened it up; the loo lid was open; there was a piece of tooth paste, half an inch long, on a sink brim; the towel hanging on a rail was creased in a loathsome manner. Mark could have left the bathroom in such disorder only if he had been in a great hurry. Where did he hurry to? To the bedroom where the woman had been waiting for him?

Jane’s palms became moist, hammering in the temples strengthened. She closed her eyes for a moment. Whatever or whoever she found in the bedroom, she should be absolutely quiet; otherwise she might have a heart attack.

She went and peeped into the bedroom. There was neither Mark nor his lover in it. His bed was in perfect order, all the subjects were on their places. Jane sighed with relief. Suddenly it occurred to her that there might have been no woman in the house at all. Mark could have come home for lunch because, for example, he had forgotten his wallet here. It had happened once or twice before. And the perfume could have got into the hall from the street. Some women spray so much of it onto their body that it can be felt miles away.

Calming down a little, Jane proceeded to the living-room. Opening the door, she was rooted to the spot. There was a thin cognac bottle and two glasses on the coffee table. Next to the bottle there was an empty chocolate wrapper and some biscuits on a saucer. Chocolate and biscuit crumbs were scattered on the table, on the leather sofa and on the floor – eleven or twelve crumbs altogether. Slowly, Jane approached the table and saw a faint print of lipstick on one of the glasses; then she smelt a slight odour of the French perfume in the air.