Читать книгу Sweet Talking Money - Harry Bingham - Страница 16

Over on the university campus, a phone rings in the surrounding silence. Cameron Wilde, working late, answers it.

‘Cameron Wilde.’

‘Dr Wilde, it’s Bryn Hughes.’

‘Brandon …’

‘Bryn. Bryn Hughes. A patient of yours.’ Still no recognition. Bryn gave her the help she needed. ‘I came to you with flu and you punched me in the chest.’

‘Oh. Sure. You were the guy who said he wasn’t stressed.’

‘Right. It was around then you started hitting me … I was calling to say that you totally sorted me out. One day in bed, then as right as rain.’

‘As right as what?’

‘Rain. A British expression. Something to do with our love of bad weather, I suppose.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘I wanted to thank you. Perhaps I could take you out to dinner somewhere. That is,’ he added, joking, ‘if you know anywhere which doesn’t serve coffee, alcohol, sugar, fats, additives or dairy.’

‘No, sorry.’ Her no was flat, no hint of apology.

‘No?’

‘No. I don’t know anywhere. Uh … you could eat at my place if you wanted. Did you mean tonight?’

‘Yes. Tonight. Unless you’re doing anything.’

‘No. Sure. Fine.’

And shortly Bryn was in a cab crossing Boston, watching the darkened winter streets pass by, feeling as he hadn’t done for years.

For the first time since his life had smashed upon the rocks, here was an edge of excitement, a tiny nibble of adventure, a step into the unknown. He sat forward in his seat, unaccountably excited by what lay ahead.