I PUT MY KEY IN THE LOCK and slowly open the door of the flat. It seems like about a million years since I was here last, and I feel like a completely different person. I’ve grown up. Or changed. Or something.
“Hi,” I say cautiously into the silence, and drop my bag onto the floor. “Is anyone—”
“Bex!” gasps1 Suze, appearing at the door of the sitting room. She’s wearing tight black leggings and holding a half-made denim2 photograph frame in one hand. “Oh my God! Where’ve you been? What have you been doing? I saw you onMorning Coffee and I couldn’t believe my eyes! I tried to phone in and speak to you, but they said I had to have a financial problem. So I said, OK, how should I invest half a million? but they said that wasn’t really . . .” She breaks off. “Bex, what happened?”
I don’t reply straight away. My attention has been grabbed by the pile of letters addressed to me on the table. White, official-looking envelopes, brown window envelopes, envelopes marked menacingly “Final Reminder3.” The scariest pile of letters you’ve ever seen.
Except somehow . . . they don’t seem quite so scary anymore.
“I was at my parents’ house,” I say, looking up. “And then I was on television.”
“But I phoned your parents! They said they didn’t know where you were!”
“I know,” I say flushing slightly. “They were . . . protecting me from a stalker.” I look up, to see Suze staring at me in utter incomprehension. Which I suppose is fair enough. “Anyway,” I add defensively, “I left you a message on the machine, saying not to worry, I was fine.”
“I know,” wails5 Suze, “but that’s what they always do in films. And it means the baddies have got you and you’ve got a gun jammed against your head. Honestly, I thought you were dead! I thought you were, like, cut up into a million pieces somewhere.”
I look at her face again. She isn’t kidding, she really was worried. I feel awful. I should never have vanished like that. It was completely thoughtless and irresponsible and selfish.
“Oh, Suze.” On impulse, I hurry forward and hug her tightly. “I’m really sorry. I never meant to worry you.”
“It’s OK,” says Suze, hugging me back. “I was worried for a bit—but then I knew you must be all right when I saw you on the telly. You were fantastic, by the way.”
“Really?” I say, a tiny smile flickering7 round the corners of my mouth. “Did you really think so?”
“Oh yes!” says Suze. “Much better than whats-his-face. Luke Brandon. God, he’s arrogant8.”
“Yes,” I say after a tiny pause. “Yes, I suppose he is. But he was actually quite nice to me afterward9.”
“Really?” says Suze indifferently. “Well, you were brilliant, anyway. Do you want some coffee?”
“Love some,” I say, and she disappears into the kitchen.
I pick up my letters and bills and begin slowly to leaf through them. Once upon a time, this lot would have sent me into a blind panic. In fact, they would have gone straight into the bin11, unread. But you know what? Today I don’t feel a flicker6 of fear. Honestly,how could I have been so silly about my financial affairs? How could I have been so cowardly? This time I’m just going to face up to them properly. I’m going to sit down with my checkbook and my latest bank statements, and sort methodically through the whole mess.
Staring at the clutch of envelopes in my hand, I feel suddenly very grown-up and responsible. Farsighted and sensible. I’m going to sort my life out and keep my finances in order from now on. I’ve completely and utterly12 changed my attitude toward money.
Plus . . .
OK, I wasn’t actually going to tell you this. ButMorning Coffee is paying me absolute loads.Loads. You won’t believe it, but for every single phone-in I do, I’m going to get—
Oh, I’m all embarrassed now. Let’s just say it’s . . . it’s quite a lot!
I just can’t stop smiling about it. I’ve been floating along ever since they told me. So the point is, I’ll easily be able to pay all these bills off now. My VISA bill, and my Octagon bill, and the money I owe Suze—and everything! Finally,finally my life is going to be sorted.
“So, why did you just disappear like that?” asks Suze, coming back out of the kitchen and making me jump. “What was wrong?”
“I don’t really know,” I say with a sigh, putting the letters back down on the hall table. “I just had to get away and think. I was all confused.”
“Because of Tarquin?” says Suze at once, and I feel myself stiffen13 apprehensively14.
“Partly,” I say after a pause, and swallow. “Why? Has he—”
“I know you’re not that keen on Tarkie,” says Suze wistfully, “but I think he still really likes you. He came round a couple of nights ago and left you this letter.”
She gestures to a cream envelope stuck in the mirror. With slightly trembling hands I take it. Oh God, what’s he going to say? I hesitate, then rip it open, and a ticket falls onto the floor.
“The opera!” says Suze, picking it up. “Day after tomorrow.” She looks up. “God, it’s lucky you came back, Bex.”
My dear Rebecca,I’m reading incredulously.Forgive my reticence15 in contacting you before. But the more I think about it, the more I realize how much I enjoyed our evening together and how much I would like to repeat it.
I enclose a ticket forDie Meistersingerat the Opera House. I shall be attending in any case and if you were able to join me, I would be delighted.
Yours very sincerely,
Tarquin Cleath-Stuart.
“Oh, Bex, you must go!” says Suze, reading over my shoulder. “You’ve got to go. He’ll be devastated16 if you don’t. I really think he likes you.”
I look at the ticket, for two nights’ time. “Gala Performance,” it says, and I feel a sudden excitement. I’ve never been to an opera gala! I could wear that divine Ghost dress which I’ve never had a chance to wear, and I could put my hair up, and meet lots of amazing people . . .
And then, abruptly17, I stop. However much fun it would be—it wouldn’t be fair or honest to go. I’ve hurt Tarquin enough.
“I can’t go, Suze,” I say, thrusting the letter down. “I’ve . . . I’ve got plans that night.”
“But what about poor Tarkie?” says Suze, crestfallen18. “He’s so keen on you . . .”
“I know,” I say, and take a deep breath. “But I’m not keen on him. I’m really sorry, Suze . . . but that’s the truth. If I could change the way I felt . . .”
There’s a short silence.
“Oh well,” says Suze at last. “Never mind. You can’t help it.” She disappears into the kitchen and emerges a minute later with two mugs of coffee. “So,” she says, handing me one, “what are you up to tonight? Shall we go out together?”
“Sorry, I can’t,” I say, and clear my throat. “I’ve got a business meeting.”
“Really?” Suze pulls a face. “What a bummer!” She sips19 at her coffee and leans against the door frame. “Who on earth has busi-ness meetings in the evening, anyway?”
“It’s . . . it’s with Luke Brandon,” I say, trying to sound uncon-cerned. But it’s no good, I can feel myself starting to blush.
“Luke Brandon?” says Suze puzzledly. “But what—” She stares at me, and her expression slowly changes. “Oh no. Bex! Don’t tell me . . .”
“It’s just a business meeting,” I say, avoiding her eye. “That’s all. Two businesspeople meeting up and talking about business. In a . . . in a business situation. That’s all.”
And I hurry off to my room.
Business meeting. Clothes for a business meeting. OK, let’s have a look.
I pull all my outfits21 out of the wardrobe and lay them on the bed. Blue suit, black suit, pink suit. Hopeless. Pinstriped suit? Hmm. Maybe overdoing24 it. Cream suit . . . too weddingy. Green suit . . . isn’t that bad luck or something?
“So what are you going to wear?” says Suze, looking in through my open bedroom door. “Are you going to buy something new?” Her face lights up. “Hey, shall we go shopping?”
“Shopping?” I say distractedly. “Ahm . . . maybe.”
Somehow today . . . Oh, I don’t know. I almost feel too tense to go shopping. Too keyed up. I don’t think I’d be able to give it my full attention.
“Bex, did you hear me?” says Suze in surprise. “I said, shall we go shopping?”
“Yes, I know.” I glance up at her, then reach for a black top and look at it critically. “Actually, I think I’ll take a rain check.”
“You mean . . .” Suze pauses. “You mean youdon’t want to go shopping?”
“Exactly.”
There’s silence, and I look up, to see Suze staring at me.
“I don’t understand,” she says, and she sounds quite upset. “Why are you being all weird26?”
“I’m not being weird!” I give a little shrug27. “I just don’t feel like shopping.”
“Oh God, there’s something wrong, isn’t there?” wails Suze. “I knew it. Maybe you’re really ill.” She hurries into the room and reaches for my head. “Have you got a temperature? Does anything hurt?”
“No!” I say, laughing. “Of course not!”
“Have you had a bump on the head?” She wiggles her hand in front of my face. “How many fingers?”
“Suze, I’m fine,” I say, thrusting her hand aside. “Honestly. I’m just . . . not in a shopping mood.” I hold a gray suit up against myself. “What do you think of this?”
“Honestly, Bex, I’m worried about you,” says Suze, shaking her head. “I think you should get yourself checked out. You’re so . . . different. It’s frightening.”
“Yes, well.” I reach for a white shirt and smile at her. “Maybe I’ve changed.”
It takes me all afternoon to decide on an outfit22. There’s a lot of trying on, and mixing and matching, and suddenly remembering things at the back of my wardrobe. (Imust wear those purple jeans sometime.) But eventually I go for simple and straightforward28. My nicest black suit (Jigsaw29 sale, two years ago), a white T-shirt (M&S), and knee-high black suede30 boots (Dolce & Gabbana, but I told Mum they were from BHS. Which was a mistake, because then she wanted to get some for herself, and I had to pretend they’d all sold out). I put it all on, screw my hair up into a knot, and stare at myself in the mirror.
“Very nice,” says Suze admiringly from the door. “Very sexy.”
“Sexy?” I feel a pang31 of dismay. “I’m not going for sexy! I’m going for businesslike.”
“Can’t you be both at once?” suggests Suze. “Businesslikeand sexy?”
“I . . . no,” I say after a pause, and look away. “No, I don’t want to.”
I don’t want Luke Brandon to think I’ve dressed up for him, is what I really mean. I don’t want to give him the slightest chance to think I’ve misconstrued what this meeting is about. Not like last time.
With no warning, a surge of fresh humiliation32 goes through my body as I remember that awful moment in Harvey Nichols. I shake my head hard, trying to clear it; trying to calm myself. Why the hell did I agree to this bloody33 dinner, anyway?
“I just want to look as serious and businesslike as possible,” I say, and frown sternly at my reflection.
“I know, then,” says Suze. “You need some accessories. Some businesswoman-type accessories.”
“Like what? A Filofax?”
“Like . . .” Suze pauses thoughtfully. “OK. Wait there—”
I arrive at the Ritz that evening five minutes after our agreed time of seventy-thirty, and as I reach the entrance to the restau-rant, I see Luke there already, sitting back looking relaxed and sipping34 something that looks like a gin and tonic35. He’s wearing a different suit from the one he was wearing this morning, I can’t help noticing, and he’s put on a fresh, dark green shirt. He actu-ally looks . . . Well. Quite nice. Quite good-looking.
Not that businessy, in fact.
And, come to think of it, this restaurant isn’t very businessy, either. It’s all chandeliers and gold garlands and soft pink chairs, and the most beautiful painted ceiling, all clouds and flowers. The whole place is sparkling with light, and it looks . . .
Well, actually, the word that springs to mind isromantic.
Oh God. My heart starts thumping36 with nerves, and I glancequickly at my reflection in a gilded37 mirror. I’m wearing the black Jigsaw suit and white T-shirt and black suede boots as originally planned. But now I also have a crisp copy of theFinancial Times under one arm, a pair of tortoiseshell glasses (with clear glass) perched on my head, my clunky executive briefcase38 in one hand and—Suze’s pièce de résistance—an AppleMac laptop in the other.
I’m about to back away and see if I can quickly deposit the briefcase in the cloakroom (or, to be honest, just put it down on a chair and walk away), when Luke looks up, sees me, and smiles. Damn. So I’m forced to go forward over the plushy carpet, trying to look as relaxed as possible, even though one arm is clamped tightly to my side, to stop theFT from falling on the floor.
“Hello,” says Luke as I arrive at the table. He stands up to greet me, and I realize that I can’t shake his hand, because I’m holding the laptop. Flustered40, I plunk my briefcase on the floor, transfer the laptop to the other side—nearly dropping theFT as I do so—and, with as much poise41 as possible, hold out my hand.
A flicker of amusement passes over Luke’s face and he sol-emnly shakes it. He gestures to a chair, and watches politely as I put the laptop on the tablecloth42, all ready for use.
“That’s an impressive machine,” he says. “Very . . . high tech.”
“Yes,” I reply, and give him a brief, cool smile. “I often use it to take notes at business meetings.”
“Ah,” says Luke, nodding. “Very organized of you.”
He’s obviously waiting for me to switch it on, so experimen-tally I press the return key. This, according to Suze, should make the screen spring to life. But nothing happens.
Casually43 I press the key again—and still nothing. I jab at it, pretending my finger slipped by accident—andstill nothing. Shit, this is embarrassing. Why do I ever listen to Suze?
“Is there a problem?” says Luke.
“No!” I say at once, and snap the lid shut. “No, I’ve just—Onsecond thought, I won’t use it today.” I reach into my bag for a notebook. “I’ll jot44 my notes down in here.”
“Good idea,” says Luke mildly. “Would you like some cham-pagne?”
“Oh,” I say, slightly thrown. “Well. . . OK.”
“Excellent,” says Luke. “I hoped you would.”
He glances up, and a beaming waiter scurries45 forward with a bottle. Gosh, Krug.
But I’m not going to smile, or look pleased or anything. I’m going to stay thoroughly46 cool and professional. In fact, I’m only going to have one glass, before moving on to still water. I need to keep a clear head, after all.
While the waiter fills my champagne47 flute48, I write down “Meeting between Rebecca Bloomwood and Luke Brandon” in my notebook. I look at it appraisingly49, then underline it twice. There. That looks very efficient.
“So,” I say, looking up, and raise my glass. “To business.”
“To business,” echoes Luke, and gives a wry50 smile. “Assuming I’m stillin business, that is . . .”
“Really?” I say anxiously. “You mean—after what you said onMorning Coffee? Has it gotten you into trouble?”
He nods and I feel a pang of sympathy for him.
I mean, Suze is right—Luke is pretty arrogant. But I actually thought it was really good of him to stick out his neck like that and say publicly what he really thought about Flagstaff Life. And now, if he’s going to be ruined as a result . . . well, it just seems all wrong.
“Have you lost . . . everything?” I say quietly, and Luke laughs.
“I wouldn’t go that far. But we’ve had to do an awful lot of explaining to our other clients this afternoon.” He grimaces51. “It has to be said, insulting one of your major clients on live televi-sion isn’t exactly normal PR practice.”
“Well, I think they should respect you!” I retort. “For actuallysaying what you think! I mean, so few people do that these days. It could be like . . . your company motto: ‘We tell the truth.’ ”
I take a gulp52 of champagne and look up into silence. Luke’s gazing at me, a quizzical expression on his face.
“Rebecca, you have the uncanniest knack53 of hitting the nail right on the head,” he says at last. “That’s exactly what some of our clients have said. It’s as though we’ve given ourselves a seal of integrity.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling rather pleased with myself. “Well, that’s good. So you’re not ruined.”
“I’m not ruined,” agrees Luke, and gives a little smile. “Just slightly dented54.”
A waiter appears from nowhere and replenishes55 my glass, and I take a sip20. When I look up, Luke’s staring at me again.
“You know, Rebecca, you’re an extremely perceptive56 person,” he says. “You see what other people don’t.”
“Oh well.” I wave my champagne glass airily. “Didn’t you hear Zelda? I’m ‘finance guru meets girl next door.’ ” I meet his eye and we both start to laugh.
“You’re informative57 meets approachable.”
“Knowledgeable meets down-to-earth.”
“You’re intelligent meets charming, meets bright, meets . . .” Luke tails off, staring down into his drink, then looks up.
“Rebecca, I want to apologize,” he says. “I’ve been wanting to apologize for a while. That lunch in Harvey Nichols . . . you were right. I didn’t treat you with the respect you deserved. The respect you deserve.”
He breaks off into silence and I stare down at the tablecloth, feeling hot with indignation. It’s all very well for him to say thisnow, I’m thinking furiously. It’s all very well for him to book a table at the Ritz and order champagne and expect me to smile and say “Oh, that’s OK.” But underneath58 all the bright banter59, I still feel wounded by that whole episode.
“My piece inThe Daily World had nothing to do with thatlunch,” I say without looking up. “Nothing. And for you to insinu-ate that it did . . .”
“I know,” says Luke, and sighs. “I should never have said that. It was a . . . a defensive4, angry remark on a day when, frankly60, you had us all on the hop23.”
“Really?” I can’t help a pleased little smile coming to my lips. “I had you all on the hop?”
“Are you joking?” says Luke. “A whole page inThe Daily World on one of our clients, completely out of the blue?”
Ha. I quite like that idea, actually. The whole of Brandon C thrown into disarray61 by Janice and Martin Webster.
“Was Alicia on the hop?” I can’t resist asking.
“She was hopping25 as fast as her Pradas would let her,” says Luke drily. “Even faster when I discovered she’d actually spoken to you the day before.”
Ha!
“Good,” I hear myself saying childishly—then wish I hadn’t. Top businesswomen don’t gloat over their enemies being told off. I should have simply nodded, or said “Ah” meaningfully.
“So, did I have you on the hop, too?” I say, giving a careless little shrug.
There’s silence, and after a while I look up. Luke’s gazing at me with an unsmiling expression, which makes me feel suddenly light-headed and breathless.
“You’ve had me on the hop for quite a while, Rebecca,” he says quietly. He holds my eyes for a few seconds while I stare back, unable to move—then looks down at his menu. “Shall we order?”
The meal seems to go on all night. We talk and talk and eat, and talk, and eat some more. The food is so delicious I can’t say no to anything, and the wine is so delicious I abandon my plan of drinking a businesslike single glass. By the time I’m toyinglistlessly with chocolate feulliantine, lavender honey ice cream, and caramelized pears, it’s about midnight, and my head is start-ing to droop62.
“How’s the chocolate thing?” says Luke, finishing a mouthful of cheesecake.
“Nice,” I say, and push it toward him. “Not as good as the lemon mousse, though.”
That’s the other thing—I’m absolutely stuffed to the brim. I couldn’t decide between all the scrummy-sounding desserts, so Luke said we should order all the ones we liked the sound of. Which was most of them. So now my stomach feels as though it’s the size of a Christmas pudding, and just as heavy.
I honestly feel as if I’ll never ever be able to get out of this chair. It’s so comfortable, and I’m so warm and cozy63, and it’s all so pretty, and my head’s spinning just enough to make me not want to stand up. Plus . . . I don’t want it all to stop. I don’t want the evening to end. I’ve hadsuch a good time. The amazing thing is how much Luke makes me laugh. You’d think he’d be all serious and boring and intellectual, but really, he’s not. In fact, come to think of it, we haven’t talked about that unit trust thingy once.
A waiter comes and clears away all our pudding dishes, and brings us each a cup of coffee. I lean back in my chair, close my eyes, and take a few delicious sips. Oh God, I could stay here forever. I’m actually feeling really sleepy by now—partly because I was so nervous last night aboutMorning Coffee, I hardly slept at all.
“I should go,” I say eventually, and force myself to open my eyes. “I should go back to . . .” Where do I live, again? “Fulham. To Fulham.”
“Right,” says Luke after a pause, and takes a sip of coffee. He puts his cup down and reaches for the milk. And as he does so, his hand brushes against mine—and stops still. At once I feel my whole body stiffen. I can’t even blink, in case I break the spell.
OK, I’ll admit it—I kind of put my hand in his way.
Just to see what would happen. I mean, he could easily movehis hand back if he wanted to, couldn’t he? Pour his milk, make a joke, say good-night.
But he doesn’t. Very slowly, he closes his hand over mine.
And now I really can’t move. His thumb starts to trace patterns on my wrist, and I can feel how warm and dry his skin is. I look up and meet his gaze, and feel a little jolt64 inside me. I can’t tear my eyes away from his. I can’t move my hand. I’m com-pletely transfixed.
“That chap I saw you with in Terrazza,” he says after a while, his thumb still drawing leisurely65 pictures on my skin. “Was he anything—”
“Just . . . you know.” I try to give a careless laugh, but I’m feeling so nervous it comes out as a squeak66. “Some multimillion-aire or other.”
Luke stares intently at me for a second, then looks away.
“Right,” he says, as though closing the subject. “Well. Perhaps we should get you a taxi.” I feel a thud of disappointment, and try not to let it show. “Or maybe . . .” He stops.
There’s an endless pause. I can’t quite breathe. Maybe what? What?
“I know them pretty well here,” says Luke at last. “If we wanted to . . .” He meets my eyes. “I expect we could stay.”
I feel an electric shock go through my body.
“Would you like to?”
Unable to speak, I nod my head.
“OK, wait here,” says Luke. “I’ll go and see if I can get rooms.” He gets up and I stare after him in a daze67, my hand all cold and bereft68.
Rooms. Rooms, plural69. So he didn’t mean—
He doesn’t want to—
Oh God. What’swrong with me?
We travel up in the lift in silence with a smart porter. I glance a couple of times at Luke’s face, but he’s staring impassivelyahead. In fact, he’s barely said a word since he went off to ask about staying. I feel a bit chilly70 inside—in fact, to be honest, I’m half wishing they hadn’t had any spare rooms for us after all. But it turns out there was a big cancellation71 tonight—and it also turns out that Luke is some big-shot client of the Ritz. When I commented on how nice they were being to us, he shrugged72 and said he often puts up business contacts here.
Business contacts. So is that what I am? Oh, it doesn’t make any sense. I wish I’d gone home after all.
We walk along an opulent corridor in complete silence—then the porter swings open a door and ushers73 us into a spectacularly beautiful room, furnished with a big double bed and plushy chairs. He places my briefcase and AppleMac on the luggage rail, then Luke gives him a bill and he disappears.
There’s an awkward pause.
“Well,” says Luke. “Here you are.”
“Yes,” I say in a voice which doesn’t sound like mine. “Thanks . . . thank you. And for dinner.” I clear my throat. “It was delicious.”
We seem to have turned into complete strangers.
“Well,” says Luke again, and glances at his watch. “It’s late. You’ll probably be wanting to . . .” He stops, and there’s a sharp, waiting silence.
My hands are twisted in a nervous knot. I don’t dare look at him.
“I’ll be off, then,” says Luke at last. “I hope you have a—”
“Don’t go,” I hear myself say, and blush furiously. “Don’t go yet. We could just . . .” I swallow. “Talk, or something.”
I look up and meet his eyes, and something fearful starts to pound within me. Slowly he walks toward me, until he’s standing74 just in front of me. I can just smell the scent75 of his aftershave and hear the crisp cotton rustle76 of his shirt as he moves. My whole body’s prickling with anticipation77. Oh God, I want to touch him. But I daren’t. I daren’t move anything.
“We could just talk, or something,” he echoes, and slowly lifts his hands until they cup my face.
And then he kisses me.
His mouth is on mine, gently parting my lips, and I feel a white-hot dart78 of excitement. His hands are running down my back and cupping my bottom, fingering under the hem10 of my skirt. And then he pulls me tightly toward him, and suddenly I’m finding it hard to breathe.
It’s pretty obvious we’re not going to do much talking at all.
收听单词发音 |
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gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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denim
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| n.斜纹棉布；斜纹棉布裤，牛仔裤 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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wails
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| 痛哭，哭声( wail的名词复数 ) | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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arrogant
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afterward
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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utterly
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stiffen
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| v.(使)硬，(使)变挺，(使)变僵硬 | |
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apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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devastated
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| v.彻底破坏( devastate的过去式和过去分词)；摧毁；毁灭；在感情上（精神上、财务上等）压垮adj.毁坏的；极为震惊的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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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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sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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outfits
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| n.全套装备( outfit的名词复数 )；一套服装；集体；组织v.装备，配置设备，供给服装( outfit的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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overdoing
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| v.做得过分( overdo的现在分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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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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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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jigsaw
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| n.缕花锯，竖锯，拼图游戏；vt.用竖锯锯，使互相交错搭接 | |
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suede
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| n.表面粗糙的软皮革 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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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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sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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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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thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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briefcase
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| n.手提箱，公事皮包 | |
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overdid
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去式 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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flustered
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| adj.慌张的；激动不安的v.使慌乱，使不安( fluster的过去式和过去分词) | |
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poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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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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jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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scurries
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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appraisingly
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| adv.以品评或评价的眼光 | |
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wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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dented
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| v.使产生凹痕( dent的过去式和过去分词 )；损害；伤害；挫伤（信心、名誉等） | |
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replenishes
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| 补充( replenish的第三人称单数 )； 重新装满 | |
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perceptive
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| adj.知觉的，有洞察力的，感知的 | |
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informative
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| adj.提供资料的，增进知识的 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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disarray
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| n.混乱，紊乱，凌乱 | |
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droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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cozy
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| adj.亲如手足的，密切的，暖和舒服的 | |
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jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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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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daze
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| v.(使)茫然，(使)发昏 | |
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bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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plural
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| n.复数；复数形式；adj.复数的 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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cancellation
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| n.删除，取消 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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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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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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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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