Back Grasshopper
Chapters (41)
  1. Cover Page
  2. Title Page
  3. Praise
  4. Author’s Note
  5. Chapter 1
  6. Chapter 2
  7. Chapter 3
  8. Chapter 4
  9. Chapter 5
  10. Chapter 6
  11. Chapter 7
  12. Chapter 8
  13. Chapter 9
  14. Chapter 10
  15. Chapter 11
  16. Chapter 12
  17. Chapter 13
  18. Chapter 14
  19. Chapter 15
  20. Chapter 16
  21. Chapter 17
  22. Chapter 18
  23. Chapter 19
  24. Chapter 20
  25. Chapter 21
  26. Chapter 22
  27. Chapter 23
  28. Chapter 24
  29. Chapter 25
  30. Chapter 26
  31. Chapter 27
  32. Chapter 28
  33. Chapter 29
  34. Chapter 30
  35. Chapter 31
  36. Chapter 32
  37. Chapter 33
  38. Chapter 34
  39. Also by Barbara Vine
  40. About the Author
  41. Copyright Page

That house was astounding inside, open-plan, minimalist, and bleak. The living room, marble-floored and islanded with pieces of furniture shaped like bright-colored grubs or mollusks, was cut off diagonally by a gallery rail and its ceiling ended at the same point and angle. Above was soaring space that terminated as far as I could see in a turret of glass. It might have been warm up there in the turret, but it was very cold down here. I looked for candles, once Liv’s undisputed accessory, but couldn’t see any. Lamps were everywhere, standards that were glass funnels on steel stems apparently growing out of the floor, wall lights like champagne flutes and wall lights like Roman vases, and two great chandeliers, the modern sort that you see in international hotels (I don’t stay in them, I rewire them) that look like glaciers or frozen waterfalls. Mr. Clarkson must be doing very well for himself.

I wasn’t sure at that point whether to enlighten his wife or not. Perhaps “enlighten” isn’t the word, for by now I was sure she knew me just as I knew her. It might be better to do the job, whatever it was, and leave. Get down to Paddington Basin where I had a meeting at midday with the Clerk of Works. She didn’t look at me and I realized that she hadn’t looked at me after that first amazed stare.

“I don’t know if you can do it,” she said, and for the first time I heard the accent that was once so familiar, the sing-song rhythm of the Swede speaking English. Her English was perfect now, but she was nervous. “I mean, maybe I should have got the original electricians back. But they’ve disappeared, they’re not in the phone book. It’s the switches, they don’t work— well, they don’t do what they’re supposed to. I mean, there are supposed to be thirty-two ways of having the lights on in this room, but when you push those buttons you just get a lot of bright light.”

It wasn’t for me to ask who the hell would want thirty-two light-level variations. The rich are different. They have more money. So no doubt they want as much or as little light as they are prepared to pay for. As that went through my head, I also thought that the way I was going, it might not be too long before I was rich myself.