【有声英语文学名著】CHAPTER ONE(8)

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What, this you mean?‘ She squeezed his hand. "Oh, I expect so. Don‘t know yet, do I? 

Ask me in the morning. Why, have you?‘

He pressed his mouth against the top of her head. "ourse not,‘ he said, and thought  this 

must never, ever happen again.

Pleased with his answer, she curled closer into him. "We should get some sleep.‘

What for? Nothing tomorrow. No deadlines, no work . . .‘

Just  the  whole  of  our  lives,  stretching  ahead  of  us,‘  she  said  sleepily,  taking  in  the 

wonderful  warm,  stale  smell  of  him  and  at  the  same  time  feeling  a  ripple  of  anxiety  pass 

across her shoulders at the thought of it: independent adult life. She didn‘t feel like an adult. 

She was in no way prepared. It was as if a fire alarm had gone off in the middle of the night 

and  she  was  standing  on  the  street  with  her  clothes  bundled  up  in  her  arms.  If  she  wasn‘t 

learning, what was she doing? How would she fill the days? She had no idea.

The trick of it, she told herself, is to be courageous¹ and bold and make a difference. Not 

change the world exactly, just the bit around you. Go out there with your double-first, your 

passion  and  your  new  Smith  Corona  electric  typewriter  and  work  hard  at . . .  something. 

Change  lives  through  art  maybe.  Write  beautifully.  Cherish  your  friends,  stay  true  to  your 

principles, live passionately³ and fully² and well. Experience new things. Love and be loved if 

at all possible. Eat sensibly. Stuff like that.

 

It wasn‘t much in the way of a guiding philosophy, and not one you could share , least of 

all with this man, but it was what she believed. And so far the first few hours of independent 

adult life had been alright. Perhaps in the morning, after tea and aspirin⁴, she might even find 

the  courage  to  ask  him  back  to  bed.  They‘d  both  be  sober  by  then,  which  wouldn‘t  make 

things any easier, but she might even enjoy it. The few times that she‘d gone to bed with boys 

she had always ended up giggling⁵ or weeping and it might be nice to try for something in 

between.  She  wondered  if  there  were  condoms  in  the  mustard  tin.  No  reason  why  there 

shouldn‘t  be,  they  were  there  last  time  she  looked:  February  1987,  Vince,  a  hairy-backed 

Chemical Engineer who had blown his nose on her pillowcase. Happy days, happy days . . .

It  was starting to  get bright outside.  Dexter could see the pink of the new day seeping⁶ though the heavy winter curtains that came with the rented room. Careful not to wake her, he 

stretched his arm across, dropped the end of his cigarette into the mug of wine and stared up 

at the ceiling.

 

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