Читать книгу Puzzled - Seraphima Bogomolova - Страница 8

London, UK, 24 December

I put Christmas dishes out on the table, place snowy starched napkins by our plates and light up candles.

We sit down. Nicolas takes a bottle of red wine in his hands.

‘Why are you alone this Christmas?’ he asks, inserting an opener into the cork.

‘I’m not alone, I’m with you.’

Nicolas looks up at me.

‘Are you flirting with me?’

‘No, just poking fun at you. But seriously, I just thought that, for a change, I could spend Christmas here in London.’ I say.

‘What about New Year’s Eve? Set for Russia?’ he asks.

‘Missed again. French Riviera.’

‘Didn’t know you had friends there.’ he says, his eyebrows arching in surprise.

‘I don’t. At least, no one I can call that really. Just couple of people I’m acquainted with.’

Abruptly, he pulls the cork out and spills some wine on his jeans. I throw my napkin to him. He catches it and starts vigorously rubbing the stain, only making it worse.

‘Here,’ I say, pushing salt to him, ‘spice it up, it should work better.’

‘I doubt it.’ Nicolas says gloomily.

‘Oh, really?’ I smile, ‘any evidence to proof otherwise?’

He sends me a glaring look and throws my napkin back at me.

‘Any good toasts in store?’ he asks, pouring the wine into our glasses.

I think for a second then say: ‘Let’s drink to sparkles in the eyes, to soft vibrations of the heart, to gentle kisses in the moonlight, to tight embraces of the loved ones. In other words, to love, the one that is heavenly, but true and real.

‘Beautifully said, I have nothing to add’.

We raise our glasses and bring them together. Clinking, they meet in a crystal kiss.