Wedding Night: A Novel by Sophie Kinsella
Young people! With their hurrying and their worrying and their wanting all the answers now. They wear me out, the poor, harried things.
Don’t come back, I always tell them. Don’t come back.
Youth is still where you left it, and that’s where it should stay. Anything that was worth taking on life’s journey, you’ll already have taken with you.
Twenty years I’ve been saying this, but do they listen? Do they, hell. Here comes another of them now. Panting and puffing as he reaches the top of the cliff. Late thirties, I’d guess. Attractive enough, against the blue sky. Looks a bit like a politician. Do I mean that? Maybe a movie star.
I don’t remember his face from the old days. Not that that means anything. These days I barely even recall my own face when I glimpse it in the mirror. I can see this chap’s gaze raking the surroundings, taking in me sitting in my chair under my favorite olive tree.
“Are you Arthur?” he says abruptly.
“You must want a drink,” I say pleasantly. Always useful to steer the conversation in the direction of the bar early on.
“I don’t want a drink,” he says. “I want to know what happened.”
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