A TAXI IS CHUGGING OUTSIDE in the road, and Tarquin ushers1 me inside. To be honest, I’m a bit disappointed it isn’t a chauffeur-driven limousine—but still. This is pretty good, too. Being whisked off in a taxi by one of Britain’s most eligible2 bache-lors to . . . who knows where? The Savoy? Claridges? Dancing at Annabel’s? Tarquin hasn’t told me yet where we’re going.
Oh God, maybe it’ll be one of those mad places where every-thing is served under a silver dome3 and there’s a million knives and forks and snooty waiters looking on, just waiting to catch you out.
“I thought we’d just have a nice quiet supper,” says Tarquin, looking over at me.
“Lovely,” I say. “Nice quiet supper. Perfect.”
Thank God. That probably means we’re not heading for silver domes4. We’re going to some tiny tucked-away place that hardly anyone knows about. Some little private club where you have to knock on an anonymous-looking door in a back street, and you get inside and it’s packed with celebrities5 sitting on sofas, behaving like normal people. Yes! And maybe Tarquin knows them all!
But of course he knows them all. He’s a multimillionaire, isn’t he?
I look out of the window and see that we’re driving past Harrods. And for just a moment, my stomach tightens6 painfully as I remember the last time I was here. Bloody7 suitcases. Bloody Luke Brandon. Huh. In fact, I wish he was walking along the road right now, so I could give him a careless, I’m-with-the-fifteenth-richest-single-man-in-Britain wave.
“OK,” says Tarquin suddenly to the taxi driver. “You can drop us here.” He grins at me. “Practically on the doorstep.”
“Great,” I say, and reach for the door.
Practically on the doorstep of where? As I get out I look around, wondering where on earth we’re going. We’re at Hyde Park Corner. What’s at Hyde Park Corner? I turn round slowly, and glimpse a sign—and suddenly I realize what’s going on. We’re going to the Lanesborough!
Wow. How classy is that? Dinner at the Lanesborough. But naturally. Where else would one go on a first date?
“So,” says Tarquin, appearing at my side. “I just thought we could get a bite to eat and then . . . see.”
“Sounds good,” I say, as we start walking.
Excellent! Dinner at the Lanesborough and then on to some glam nightclub. This is all shaping up wonderfully.
We walk straight past the entrance to the Lanesborough, but I’m not fazed by that. Everyone knows VIPs always go in through the back to avoid the paparazzi. Not that I can actually see any paparazzi, but it probably becomes a habit. We’ll duck into some back alley8, and walk through the kitchens while the chefs pretend they can’t see us, and then emerge in the foyer. This is so cool.
“I’m sure you’ve been here before,” says Tarquin apologeti-cally. “Not the most original choice.”
“Don’t be silly!” I say, as we stop and head toward a pair of glass doors. “I simply adore . . .”
Hang on, where are we? This isn’t the back entrance to anywhere. This is . . .
Pizza on the Park.
Tarquin’s taking me to Pizza Express. I don’t believe it. The fifteenth richest man in the country is taking me to bloody Pizza Express.
“. . . pizza,” I finish weakly. “Love the stuff.”
“Oh good!” says Tarquin. “I thought we probably didn’t want anywhere too flashy.”
“Oh no.” I pull what I think is a very convincing face. “I hate flashy places. Much better to have a nice quiet pizza together.”
“That’s what I thought,” says Tarquin, turning to look at me. “But now I feel rather bad. You’ve dressed up so nicely . . .” He pauses doubtfully, gazing at my outfit9. (As well he might. I didn’t go and spend a fortune in Whistles for Pizza Express.) “I mean, if you wanted to, we could go somewhere a bit smarter. The Lanesborough’s just around the corner . . .”
He raises his eyes questioningly, and I’m about to say “Oh, yes, please!” when suddenly, in a blinding flash, I realize what’s going on. This is a test, isn’t it? It’s like choosing out of three caskets in a fairy tale. Everyone knows the rules. You never choose the gold shiny one. Or even the quite impressive silver one. What you’re supposed to do is choose the dull little lead one, and then there’s a flash of light and it turns into a mountain of jewels. So this is it. Tarquin’s testing me, to see whether I like him for himself.
Which, frankly10, I find rather insulting. I mean, who does he think I am?
“No, let’s stay here,” I say, and touch his arm briefly11. “Much more relaxed. Much more . . . fun.”
Which is actually quite true. And I do like pizza. And that yummy garlic bread. Mmm. You know, now I come to think about it, this is quite a good choice.
As the waiter hands us our menus, I give a cursory12 flash down the list, but I already know what I want. It’s what I always havewhen I go to Pizza Express—Fiorentina. The one with spinach13 and an egg. I know, it sounds weird14, but honestly, it’s delicious.
“Would you like an aperitif15?” says the waiter, and I’m about to say what I usually do, which is Oh, let’s just have a bottle of wine, when I think, Sod it, I’m having dinner with a multi-millionaire here. I’m bloody well going to have a gin and tonic16.
“A gin and tonic,” I say firmly, and look at Tarquin, daring him to look taken aback. But he grins at me and says, “Unless you wanted champagne17?”
“Oh,” I say, completely thrown.
“I always think champagne and pizza is a good combination,” he says, and looks at the waiter. “A bottle of Moet, please.”
Well, this is more like it. This is a lot more like it. Champagne and pizza. And Tarquin is actually being quite normal.
The champagne arrives and we toast each other and take a few sips19. I’m really starting to enjoy myself. Then I spot Tarquin’s bony hand edging slowly toward mine on the table. And in a reflex action—completely without meaning to—I whip my fingers away, pretending I have to scratch my ear. A flicker20 of disappoint-ment passes over his face and I find myself giving a really fake, embarrassed cough and looking intently at a picture on the wall to my left.
I can do this, I tell myself firmly. Ican be attracted to him. It’s just a matter of self-control and possibly also getting very drunk. So I lift my glass and take several huge gulps22. I can feel the bubbles surging into my head, singing happily “I’m going to be a millionaire’s wife! I’m going to be a millionaire’s wife!” And when I look back at Tarquin, he already seems a bit more attractive (in a stoaty kind of way). Alcohol is obviously going to be the key to our marital23 happiness.
My head is filled with a happy vision of our wedding day. Me in some wonderful designer dress; my mum and dad looking on proudly. No more money troubles ever.Ever. The fifteenth richest man in the country. A house in Belgravia. Mrs. Tarquin Cleath-Stuart. Just imagining it, I feel almost faint with longing24.
I smile as warmly as I can at Tarquin, who hesitates—then smiles back. Phew. I haven’t wrecked25 things. It’s all still on. Now we just need to discover that we’re utter soul mates with loads of things in common.
“I love the—” I say.
“Do you—”
We both speak at once.
“Sorry,” I say. “Do carry on.”
“No,you carryon,” says Tarquin.
“Oh,” I say. “Well. . . I was just going to say again how much I love the picture you gave Suze.” No harm in complimenting his taste again. “I love horses,” I add for good measure.
“Then we should go riding together,” says Tarquin. “I know a very good livery near Hyde Park. Not quite the same as in the country, of course . . .”
“What a wonderful idea!” I say. “That would be such fun!”
There’s no way anyone’s getting me on a horse. Not even in Hyde Park. But that’s OK, I’ll just go along with the plan and then, on the day, say I’ve twisted my ankle or something.
“Do you like dogs?” asks Tarquin.
“I love dogs,” I say confidently.
Which is sort of true. I wouldn’t actually like to have a dog—too much hard work and hairs everywhere. But I like seeing Labradors running across the park. And cute little puppies. That kind of thing.
We lapse26 into silence, and I take a few sips of champagne.
“Do you likeEastEnders ?” I ask eventually. “Or are you a . . . aCoronation Street person?”
“I’ve never watched either, I’m afraid,” says Tarquin apolo-getically. “I’m sure they’re very good.”
“Well . . . they’re OK,” I say. “Sometimes they’re really good, and other times . . .” I tail off a bit feebly, and smile at him. “You know.”
“Absolutely,” exclaims Tarquin, as though I’ve said something really interesting.
There’s another awkward silence. This is getting a bit sticky.
“Are there good shops, where you live in Scotland?” I say at last. Tarquin pulls a little face.
“I wouldn’t know. Never go near shops if I can help it.”
“Oh right,” I say, and take a deep gulp21 of champagne. “No, I . . . I hate shops, too. Can’tstand shopping.”
“Really?” says Tarquin in surprise. “I thought all girls loved shopping.”
“Not me!” I say. “I’d far rather be . . . out on the moors27, riding along. With a couple of dogs running behind.”
“Sounds perfect,” says Tarquin, smiling at me. “We’ll have to do it sometime.”
This is more like it! Common interests. Shared pursuits.
And OK, maybe I haven’t been completely honest, maybe they aren’t exactly my interests at the moment. But they could be. Theycan be. I can easily get to like dogs and horses, if I have to.
“Or . . . or listening to Wagner, of course,” I say casually28.
“Do you really like Wagner?” says Tarquin. “Not everyone does.”
“Iadore Wagner,” I insist. “He’s my favorite composer.” OK, quick—what did that book say? “I love the . . . er . . . sonorous29 melodic30 strands31 which interweave in the Prelude32.”
“The Prelude to what?” says Tarquin interestedly.
Oh shit. Is there more than one Prelude? I take a gulp of champagne, playing for time, desperately33 trying to recall some-thing else from the book. But the only other bit I can remember is “Richard Wagner was born in Leipzig.”
“All the Preludes34,” I say at last. “I think they’re all. . . fab.”
“Right,” says Tarquin, looking a bit surprised.
Oh God. That wasn’t the right thing to say, was it? Change the subject. Change the subject.
Luckily, at that moment, a waiter arrives with our garlic bread, and we can get off the subject of Wagner. And Tarquin orders some more champagne. Somehow, I think we’re going to need it.
Which means that by the time I’m halfway35 through my Fiorentina, I’ve drunk almost an entire bottle of champagne and I’m . . . Well, frankly, I’m completely pissed. My face is tingling36 and my eyes are sparkling, and my arm gestures are a lot more erratic37 than usual. But this doesn’t matter. In fact, being pissed is agood thing—because it means I’m also delightfully39 witty40 and lively and am more-or-less carrying the conversation single-handedly. Tarquin is also pissed, but not as much as me. He’s got quieter and quieter, and kind of thoughtful. And he keeps gazing at me.
As I finish my last scraps41 of pizza and lean back pleasurably he stares at me silently for a moment, then reaches into his pocket and produces a little box.
“Here,” he says. “This is for you.”
I have to admit, for one heart-stopping moment I think, This is it! He’s proposing!
But of course, he’s not proposing, is he? He’s just giving me a little present.
I knew that.
So I open it, and find a leather box, and inside is a little gold brooch in the shape of a horse. Lots of fine detail; beautifully crafted. A little green stone (emerald?) for the eye.
Reallynot my kind of thing.
“It’s gorgeous,” I breathe in awe42. “Absolutely . . . stunning43.”
“It’s rather jolly, isn’t it?” says Tarquin. “Thought you’d like it.”
“Iadore it.” I turn it over in my fingers then look up at him and blink a couple of times with misty44 eyes. God, I’m drunk. I think I’m actually seeing through champagne. “This is so thought-ful of you,” I murmur45.
Plus, I don’t really wear brooches. I mean, where are you supposed to put them? Slap bang in the middle of a really nice top? I mean, come on. And they always leave great brooch-holes everywhere.
“It’ll look lovely on you,” says Tarquin after a pause—and suddenly I realize he’s expecting me to put it on.
Aaargh! It’ll ruin my lovely Whistles dress! And who wants a horse galloping46 across their tits, anyway!
“I must put it on,” I say, and open the clasp. Gingerly, I thread it through the fabric47 of my dress and clasp it shut, already feeling it pull the dress out of shape.
“It looks wonderful,” says Tarquin, meeting my gaze. “But then . . . you always look wonderful.”
I feel a dart48 of apprehension49 as I see him leaning forward. He’s going to try and hold my hand again, isn’t he? And probably kiss me. I glance at Tarquin’s lips—parted and slightly moist—and give an involuntary shudder50. Oh God. I’m not quite ready for this. I mean, obviously Ido want to kiss Tarquin, of course I do. In fact, I find him incredibly attractive. It’s just . . . I think I need some more champagne first.
“That scarf you were wearing the other night,” says Tarquin. “It was simply stunning. I looked at you in that, and I thought . . .”
Now I can see his hand edging toward mine.
“My Denny and George scarf!” I cut in brightly, before he can say anything else. “Yes, that’s lovely, isn’t it? It was my aunt’s, but she died. It was really sad, actually.”
Just keep talking, I think. Keep talking brightly and gesture a lot.
“But anyway, she left me her scarf,” I continue hurriedly. “So I’ll always remember her through that. Poor Aunt Ermintrude.”
“I’m really sorry,” says Tarquin, looking taken aback. “I had no idea.”
“No. Well . . . her memory lives on through her good works,” I say, and give him a little smile. “She was a very charitable woman. Very . . . giving.”
“Is there some sort of foundation in her name?” says Tarquin. “When my uncle died—”
“Yes!” I say gratefully. “Exactly that. The . . . the Ermintrude Bloomwood Foundation for . . . violinists,” I improvise51, catchingsight of a poster for a musical evening. “Violinists in Mozambique. That was her cause.”
“Violinists in Mozambique?” echoes Tarquin.
“Oh, absolutely!” I hear myself babbling52. “There’s a desperate shortage of classical musicians out there. And culture is so enrich-ing, whatever one’s material circumstances.”
I can’tbelieve I’m coming out with all this rubbish. I glance apprehensively53 up at Tarquin—and to my complete disbelief, he looks really interested.
“So, what exactly is the foundation aiming to do?” he asks.
What am I getting myself into here?
“To . . . to fund six violin teachers a year,” I say after a pause. “Of course, they need specialist training, and special violins to take out there. But the results will be very worthwhile. They’re going to teach people how to make violins, too, so they’ll be self-sufficient and not dependent on the West.”
“Really?” Tarquin’s brow is furrowed54. Have I said something that doesn’t make sense?
“Anyway,” I give a little laugh. “That’s enough about me and my family. Have you seen any good films recently?”
This is good. We can talk about films, and then the bill will come, and then . . .
“Wait a moment,” says Tarquin. “Tell me—how’s the project going so far?”
“Oh,” I say. “Ahm . . . quite well. Considering. I haven’t really kept up with its progress recently. You know, these things are always—”
“I’d really like to contribute something,” he says, interrupt-ing me.
What?
He’d like towhat ?
“Do you know who I should make the check payable55 to?” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket. “Is it the Bloomwood Foundation?”
And as I watch, paralyzed in astonishment56, he brings out a Coutts checkbook.
A pale gray Coutts checkbook.
The fifteenth richest man in the country.
“I’m . . . I’m not sure,” I hear myself say, as though from a great distance. “I’m not sure of theexact wording.”
“Well, I’ll make it payable to you, then, shall I?” he says. “And you can pass it on.” Briskly he starts to write.
Pay Rebecca Bloomwood.
The sum of.
Five . . .
Five hundred pounds. It must be. He wouldn’t just give five miserable57 . . .
Thousand pounds.
T. A. ]. Cleath-Stuart.
I can’t believe my eyes. Five thousand pounds, on a check, addressed to me.
Five thousand pounds, which belongs to Aunt Ermintrude and the violin teachers of Mozambique.
If they existed.
“Here you are,” says Tarquin, and hands me the check—and as though in a dream, I find myself reaching out toward it.
Pay Rebecca Bloomwood the sum of five thousand pounds.
I read the words again slowly—and feel a wave of relief so strong, it makes me want to burst into tears. The sum of five thousand pounds. More than my overdraft58 and my VISA bill put together. This check would solve all my problems, wouldn’t it? It would solve all my problems in one go. And, OK, I’m not exactly violinists in Mozambique—but Tarquin would never know the difference, would he?
And anyway, what’s ￡5,000 to a multimillionaire like Tarquin? He probably wouldn’t even notice whether I paid it in or not. Apathetic59 ￡5,000, when he’s got ￡25 million! If you work it out as a fraction of his wealth it’s . . . well, it’s laughable, isn’t it? It’s the equivalent of about fifty pence to normal people. Why am I even hesitating?
“Rebecca?”
Tarquin is staring at me—and I realize my hand is still inches away from the check.Come on, take it, I instruct myself firmly.It’s yours. Take the check and put it in your bag. With a heroic effort, I stretch out my hand further, willing myself to close my fingers around the check. I’m getting closer . . . closer . . . almost there . . . my fingers are trembling with the effort . . .
It’s no good, I can’t. I just can’t do it. I can’t take his money.
“I can’t take it,” I say in a rush. I pull my hand away and feel myself flushing. “I mean . . . I’m not actually sure the foundation is accepting money yet.”
“Oh right,” says Tarquin, looking slightly taken aback.
“I’ll tell you who to make a check payable to when I’ve got more details,” I say, and take a deep gulp of champagne. “You’d better tear that up.”
He slowly rips the paper, but I can’t look. I stare into my champagne glass, feeling like crying. Five thousand pounds. It would have changed my life. It would have solved everything. I would have written out checks immediately to Suze, to VISA, to Octagon . . . to all of them. Then I would have taken this check and presented it to Derek Smeath on Monday morning. Perhaps I wouldn’t have cleared every single penny of overdraft, but I would have made a start. A bloody good start.
Tarquin reaches for the box of matches on the table, sets the scraps of paper alight in the ashtray60, and we both watch as they briefly flame. Then he puts down the matches, smiles at me, and says, “Do excuse me a minute.”
He gets up from the table and heads off toward the back of the restaurant, and I take another gulp of champagne. Then I lean my head in my hands and give a little sigh. Oh well, I think, trying to be philosophical61. Maybe I’ll win ￡5,000 in a raffle62 orsomething. Maybe Derek Smeath’s computer will go haywire and he’ll be forced to cancel all my debts and start again. Maybe some utter stranger reallywill pay off my VISA bill for me by mistake.
Maybe Tarquin will come back from the loo and ask me to marry him.
I raise my eyes, and they fall with an idle curiosity on the Coutts checkbook, which Tarquin has left on the table. That’s the checkbook of the fifteenth richest unmarried man in the country. Wow. I wonder what it’s like inside? He probably writes enor-mous checks all the time, doesn’t he? He probably spends more money in a day than I spend in a year.
On impulse, I pull the checkbook toward me and open it. I don’t know quite what I’m looking for—really, I’m just hoping to find some excitingly huge amount. But the first stub is only for ￡30. Pathetic! I flip63 on a bit, and find ￡520. Payable to Arundel & Son, whoever they are. Then, a bit later on, there’s one for ￡7,515 to American Express. Well, that’s more like it. But I mean, really, it’s not the most exciting read in the world. This could be anybody’s checkbook. This could practically be mine.
I close it and push it back toward his place, and glance up. As I do so, my heart freezes. Tarquin is staring straight at me.
He’s standing64 by the bar, being directed to the other side of the restaurant by a waiter. But he isn’t looking at the waiter. He’s looking at me. As our eyes meet, my stomach lurches. Oh, damn.
Damn. What exactly did he see?
Quickly I pull my hand back from his checkbook and take a sip18 of champagne. Then I look up and pretend to spot him for the first time. I give a bright little smile, and after a pause he smiles back. Then he disappears off again and I sink back into my chair, trying to look relaxed.
OK, don’t panic, I instruct myself. Just behave naturally. He probably didn’t see you. And even if he did—it’s not the hugest crime in the world, is it, looking at his checkbook? If he asks me what I was doing, I’ll say I was . . . checking he’d filledin his stub correctly. Yes. That’s what I’ll say I was doing if he mentions it.
But he doesn’t. He comes back to the table, silently pockets his checkbook, and says politely, “Have you finished?”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, I have, thanks.”
I’m trying to sound as natural as possible—but I’m aware my voice sounds guilty, and my cheeks are hot.
“Right,” he says. “Well, I’ve paid the bill. . . so shall we go?”
And that’s it. That’s the end of the date. With impeccable courtesy, Tarquin ushers me to the door of Pizza on the Park, hails a taxi, and pays the driver the fare back to Fulham. I don’t dare ask him if he’d like to come back or go for a drink some-where else. There’s a coldness about my spine65 which stops me uttering the words. So we kiss each other on the cheek and he tells me he had a delightful38 evening, and I thank him again for a lovely time.
And I sit in the taxi all the way back to Fulham with a jumpy stomach, wondering what exactly he saw.
I say good-night to the taxi driver and reach for my keys. I’m thinking that I’ll go and run a hot bath and sit in it, and calmly try to work out exactly what happened back there. Did Tarquin really see me looking through his checkbook? Maybe he just saw me pushing it back toward his place in a helpful manner. Maybe he saw nothing at all.
But then why did he suddenly become all stiff and polite? He must have seen something; suspected something. And then he’ll have noticed the way I flushed and couldn’t meet his eye. Oh God, why do I always have to look so guilty? I wasn’t evendoing anything. I was just curious.
Perhaps I should have quickly said something—made some joke about it. Turned it into a lighthearted, amusing incident. But what kind of joke can you make about leafing through someone’sprivate checkbook? Oh God, I’m sostupid. Why did I ever touch the bloody thing? I should have just sat, quietly sipping66 my drink.
But in my defense67 . . . he left it on the table, didn’t he? He can’t be that secretive about it. And I don’tknow that he saw me looking through it, do I? Maybe I’m just paranoid.
As I put my key into the lock, I’m actually feeling quite posi-tive. OK, so Tarquin wasn’t that friendly just now—but he might have been feeling ill or something. Or maybe he just didn’t want to rush me. What I’ll do is, tomorrow I’ll send a nice chatty note to him, saying thanks again, and suggesting we go and see some Wagner together. Excellent idea. And I’ll mug up a bit about the Preludes, so that if he asks me which one again, I’ll know exactly what to say. Yes! This is all going to be fine. I need never have worried.
I swing the door open, taking off my coat—and then my heart gives a flip. Suze is waiting for me in the hall. She’s sitting on the stairs, waiting for me—and there’s a reproachful expres-sion on her face.
“Oh, Bex,” she says, and shakes her head. “I’ve just been speaking to Tarquin.”
“Oh right,” I say, trying to sound natural—but aware that my voice is a frightened squeak68. I turn away, take my coat, and slowly unwind my scarf, playing for time. What exactly has he said to her?
“I don’t suppose there’s any point asking youwhy ?” she says after a pause.
“Well,” I falter69, feeling sick. God, I could do with a cigarette.
“I’m notblaming you, or anything. I just think you should have . . .” She shakes her head and sighs. “Couldn’t you have let him down more gently? He sounded quite upset. The poor thing was really keen on you, you know.”
This isn’t quite making sense. Let him down more gently?
“What exactly—” I lick my dry lips. “What exactly did he say?”
“Well, he was only really phoning to tell me you’d left your umbrella behind,” says Suze. “Apparently one of the waiters came rushing out with it. But of course I asked him how the date had gone . . .”
“And . . . and what did he say?”
“Well,” says Suze, and gives a little shrug70. “He said you’d had a really nice time—but you’d pretty much made it clear you didn’t want to see him again.”
“Oh.”
I sink down onto the floor, feeling rather weak. So that’s it. Tarquin did see me leafing through his checkbook. I’ve ruined my chances with him completely.
But he didn’t tell Suze what I’d done. He protected me. Pretended it was my decision not to carry things on. He was a gentleman.
In fact—he was a gentleman all evening, wasn’t he? He was kind to me, and charming, and polite. And all I did, all through-out the date, was tell him lies.
Suddenly I want to cry.
“I just think it’s such a shame,” says Suze. “I mean, I know it’s up to you and everything—but he’s such a sweet guy. And he’s had a crush on you for ages! You two would go perfectly71 together.” She gives me a wheedling72 look. “Isn’t thereany chance you might go out with him again?”
“I . . . I honestly don’t think so,” I say in a scratchy voice. “Suze . . . I’m a bit tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”
And without meeting her eye, I get up and slowly walk down the corridor to my room.
BANK OF LONDON
LONDON HOUSE MILL STREET EC3R 4DW
Ms. Rebecca Boomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD
23 March 2000
Dear Ms. Boomwood:
Thank you very much for your application for a Bank of London Easifone Loan.
Unfortunately, “buying clothes and makeup” was not deemed a suitable purpose for such a substantial unsecured loan, and your application has been turned down by our credit team.
Thank you very much for considering Bank of London.
Yours sincerely,
Margaret Hopkins
? ENDWICH BANK ?
FULHAM BRANCH
3 Fulham Road
London SW6 9JH
Ms. Rebecca Bloomwood
Flat 2
4 Burney Rd.
London SW6 8FD
23 March 2000
Dear Ms. Bloomwood:
I am writing to confirm our meeting at 9:30 A.M. on Monday 26 March, here at our Fulham office. Please ask for me at reception.
I look forward to seeing you then.
Yours sincerely,
Derek Smeath
Manager
收听单词发音 |
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ushers
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| n.引座员( usher的名词复数 )；招待员；门房；助理教员v.引，领，陪同( usher的第三人称单数 ) | |
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eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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tightens
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| 收紧( tighten的第三人称单数 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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alley
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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cursory
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| adj.粗略的；草率的；匆促的 | |
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spinach
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| n.菠菜 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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aperitif
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| n.饭前酒 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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sips
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| n.小口喝，一小口的量( sip的名词复数 )v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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gulps
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| n.一大口（尤指液体）( gulp的名词复数 )v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的第三人称单数 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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melodic
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| adj.有旋律的，调子美妙的 | |
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strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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preludes
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| n.开端( prelude的名词复数 )；序幕；序曲；短篇作品 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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erratic
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| adj.古怪的，反复无常的，不稳定的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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improvise
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| v.即兴创作；临时准备，临时凑成 | |
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babbling
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| n.胡说，婴儿发出的咿哑声adj.胡说的v.喋喋不休( babble的现在分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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furrowed
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| v.犁田，开沟( furrow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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payable
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| adj.可付的，应付的，有利益的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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overdraft
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| n.透支，透支额 | |
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apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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ashtray
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| n.烟灰缸 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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raffle
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| n.废物，垃圾，抽奖售卖；v.以抽彩出售 | |
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flip
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| vt.快速翻动；轻抛；轻拍；n.轻抛；adj.轻浮的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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67
defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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squeak
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| n.吱吱声，逃脱；v.（发出）吱吱叫，侥幸通过；（俚）告密 | |
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69
falter
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| vi.(嗓音)颤抖，结巴地说；犹豫；蹒跚 | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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71
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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wheedling
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的现在分词 ) | |
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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