Intimate Strangers [antikvár]

^oioguE April 1993 By the time Maggie had shovelled the baby into a dry sleepsuit and was snapping the last button, she heard the front door slam, and Oliver's feet bounding up the staircase. She was unbuttoning her jeans as Oliver strode into their bedroom. Her husband was as fair as she was, a tall man with rangy good looks and a lazy grin, which he now directed towards his son and heir. "Where have you been?" Maggie hated sounding accusatory, but did so more often than she would have cared to admit. "Pub." He picked up Arthur and swimg him into the air. "How are you, old chap? Not exacdy dormant, I see." Arthur beat the air with his arms, delighted by the prospect of a late-night romp with his father. "I went with the Brig. He twdsted my arm, Mags. Honest injun. We were only gone half an hour." "Only half an hour? What was v^rong, Ol? Did they run out of beer? No pretty barmaid around tonight? Nothing to tempt you?" "Stop bitching, Mags. It was business. Charles and Lucy were there, and Edward. They all sent their love. Didn't they, Wart? Oh yes they did. Oodles of love to Mummy." He laid the baby back on the bed, and began tickling the velvet soles of his feet. "Oh, he's never going to go back to sleep if you start doing that. He was barely awake when I brought him in. He'd be asleep now if the bloody answering machine had been on. The phone woke him up." Maggie sat on the edge of the bed in her bra and pants and pulled off her socks, glowering at her husband. "Your machine," he said jauntily.