Читать книгу Future Popes of Ireland - Darragh Martin - Страница 11

The next morning, something of a holiday spirit remained. They slept in, skipped the Sunday Mass, left the sheets in a tangle around their limbs. Danny Doyle still had some film left in the camera from the day before, so of course he clicked.

‘You dirty pervert,’ she called.

He smiled and wound the film again.

‘You’ll never be able to develop this.’

She fixed her hair, posing now, legs twined around each other in the air, no hand outstretched. Lying naked on their bed. Something between a smile and a smirk. It was the last shot. The film started to rewind as he pressed down, making him worry that it might not come out.

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