Hot Blood. CHARLOTTE LAMB
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“You gave me an ultimatum. Either I marry you or we stop seeing each other.”
“It wasn’t an ultimatum!”
“We both know what you meant, don’t we? Either I marry you or you won’t sleep with me again.”
Kit stared back, her face clenched in misery and anger.
“Yes, that’s what I said,” she agreed. “I want a man who loves me enough to want to live with me, a man who loves me enough to be ready to make a commitment to me…. Obviously that man isn’t you!”
Dear Reader,
In this book I deal with the sin of Sloth. Sometimes when you’ve been under a terrible strain, it is vital to take time out, to let your physical and emotional bruises heal before getting back into life’s struggles.
But there’s another form of laziness. I picture this as the two-toed sloth, a comical, cuddly, furry animal, lumbering along a branch upside down, taking forever to get anywhere. It’s a rather lovable creature and we all know someone who is prone to move like that, refusing to hurry, or make decisions, reluctant to take responsibility, putting off until tomorrow what they should do today. You can hurt someone you love, who loves you, by being slow to show how you feel; you might even lose them altogether.
Charlotte Lamb
Hot Blood
Charlotte Lamb
THE film ended suddenly and the house lights came up before Kit had time to pull herself together. She scrabbled in her bag for a handkerchief, her head bent so that her silvery hair half hid the tears streaming down her face.
She didn’t want anyone to notice her. She felt stupid, sitting here in floods of tears over an old black and white movie made before most of the audience had even been born!
Kit was a film buff, obsessed with the cinema and with the techniques of filming; it was her hobby. She had a camcorder and often spent a weekend filming landscapes or recording amateur productions at the little local theatre in town. She particularly loved old black and white films. They had so much more atmosphere; a tension and power that films shot in colour simply didn’t have, and possessed a sense of the past—nostalgia—which she found irresistible.
When the Classic Film Club had opened at this small cinema, once known as the Flea Pit but now modernised and given the grandiose name of the Imperial—although everyone still called it the Flea Pit—Kit had immediately become a member. She wasn’t so much interested in seeing the films themselves, which were mostly available on video now, but the club also had monthly lectures by film critics, directors, and actors; occasionally it even got hold of a rare old film which you wouldn’t get on video.
People began pushing past her, hurrying to get home or into the Chinese restaurant across the road, which was always busy at this time of night.
‘Excuse me!’ they said impatiently, and Kit struggled to her feet to let them get by, trying to make herself very small, which wasn’t difficult because she was only five feet two. She mumbled apologies, still clutching her handkerchief, pretending to be blowing her nose.
Only when the last one had filed past did she turn to follow, and that was when she realised that there was one other person still sitting in the row, in the seat next to her.
He was sitting sideways, arms folded, watching her, his long legs crossed, one foot swinging rhythmically, and he clearly had no intention of moving.
When their eyes met he murmured conversationally, as if they were old friends, ‘I haven’t seen a woman cry over a film for years. First time you’ve seen Camille?’
Kit felt herself go pink, and rather crossly nodded. Had he been watching her for long? She had been so engrossed in the film that she hadn’t even noticed who was sitting next to her.
Giving him a rapid inspection, for a disconcerting instant she felt she knew him. There was something distinctly familiar about the set of his head, the rough brown hair silvered here and there by time, and the smiling, charming blue eyes. Or did he just resemble someone else? Who? She frowned, trying to remember, but the fleeting recognition had slipped away. Oh, well, maybe she’d come up with a name later.
‘Is it the first time you’ve seen it too?’ she asked, curious about him. He didn’t look the type to love lushly romantic films, but then men could be deceptive. She had once had a short affair with a guy who had looked big and strong and dependable, and had been old enough to be all three, but had turned out to be tied to his mother’s apron strings, incapable of doing a thing for himself, and about as tough as a paper hankie.
He gave her a charming, lazy smile. ‘I can’t remember how many times I’ve seen Camille. I’m a big Garbo fan. Are you? I’ve seen all her films over and over again but this one is my favourite. Have you read the book or seen the opera?’
Kit laughed until she saw from his face that he hadn’t been joking. ‘You mean there really is an opera?’ she asked, her green eyes wide, glittering and sharp like shards of broken green glass in sunlight.
‘La Traviata—have you ever seen that?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve heard of it, of course, but I’m not that keen on opera. I’ve never seen La Traviata, although I have heard the music quite often.’
‘Oh, you’d love this