by J. Maclaren-Ross, Hamish Hamilton, 1961
Thanks to Deidre
“ ‘Your change, sir,’ the barmaid called after him. ‘You
forgot your change,’ but he was already thrusting his way through the
wet macintoshes towards the green headscarf and the dull gold curls bent over
a woman’s weekly magazine in the stall indicated.” (p. 108)
“ Even in her waterproof, with the glamour of her shape concealed, he could see what the barmaid meant: her face had the wan beauty of some hunted heroine in a sophisticated spy drama… and perhaps, who knew, this was how she saw her life.” (p. 108)
“ The smell of rubber from her waterproof overlaid the slightly salt smell of her skin, which was fast becoming as familiar as it once had been: this was not a long kiss, but the scented taste of her newly made-up mouth awoke again the thirst he felt for her, and the swift cool thrust and flutter of her tongue was a promise that it would be slaked when, not much later, he’d be allowed at last to drink his fill from the open trumpet of her lips.” (p. 154)
“ Through the glass of the phone booth he looked back and smiled to see
her waterproof figure signaling hopefully to a passing car that bore not the
faintest resemblance to a taxi.”
(p. 155)
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