crevice of tuna and scallops with caviar and fennel, crayfish ravioli with artichokes, sea bass braised in wild asparagus and cucumber, assiete of roast lamb, goats’ cheese soufflé, rhubarb and strawberry crumble and a bottle of ’77 Margaux. The second basket contained three designer suits, silk underwear and pyjamas and an inflatable water bed. The third basket was crammed with DVDs, games, the latest model X-Box, a laptop and a selection of upmarket lifestyle magazines. “I’ve always maintained,” Theo said happily, “that the hallmark of a civilised society is how they look after the poor.”
She helped him unpack and ate most of the ravioli. Then she looked at him. “It’s nice of you to give Uncle Bill a bottle,” she said.
He shrugged. “Terms and conditions apply.”
“What terms and conditions?”
“Ah.”
She frowned, then grinned. “Anyway,” she said, “it was a nice thought.”
“I dragged him into it,” Theo replied. “You too. Just out of interest, though.”
“Yes?”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“You brought me here.”
“Why would I have done that?”
She gave him a beautiful smile. “I told you,” she said. “I realised Max wasn’t for me. That made me ask myself where my true feelings lie. So, here I am.”
He nodded slowly. “You honestly expect me to believe that.”
“Of course. After all, you chose this version of reality. You wanted to find true love. Admittedly, it was only your third priority, which some people might find just a tad insulting. Still, there it is. Your wish is the multiverse’s command.” She edged a little closer. “What were you thinking of doing about it?”
Theo yawned. Far below in the valley, thin wisps of smoke were rising from the hearths where the villagers were cooking his dinner. Presumably, if he went beyond the mountains, sooner or later he’d come to the radioactive wastelands left behind by the explosion of the VVLHC, but he couldn’t work up the energy to feel guilty about that. And the morning and the evening were the eighth day. “Not sure,” he said. “Like I said, I’m going to stay here and think about stuff for a while. Then I’ll know.”
“Oh, wonderful.” She pulled a face. “So you expect me to hang around waiting for you while you do your hermit-on-a-mountaintop gig. That’s so—”
“I don’t recall asking you to wait for me.”
“You implied it. Find true love, you said, and your subconscious press-ganged me. And now I’ve got to hang around for five years. Not meaning to be nasty or anything, but what part of the concept of free will are you having difficulty with?”
“Free will,” Theo said, “is only meaningful in context.”
“Huh? What context?”
“… ‘With every personal injury claim over $995’. For a limited period only. Oh, and terms and conditions apply. They always do.”
She sighed. “So you do expect me to go back home and wait patiently for you.”
“Yes.” He grinned. “YouSpace, remember? I’ll be back about three seconds after you. You can wait that long, can’t you?”
“I’m not sure. Don’t push your luck.”
He shrugged. She stuck her tongue out and vanished.
He sat for a while, watching the plumes of smoke and hoping they didn’t mean that the simple peasants had overdone the tournedos Rossini. Then he got up, found the third basket and tipped it upside down. As he’d anticipated, there was something left at the very bottom which they’d overlooked earlier. A lump hammer and a cold chisel. And now for a Word from our sponsors.
He took them in his hands, sat down facing the rock and tried to think of something suitable.
extras
About the Author
Charlie Hopkinson
TOM HOLT was born in London in 1961. At Oxford he studied bar billiards, ancient Greek agriculture and the care and feeding of small, temperamental Japanese motorcycle engines, interests that led him, perhaps inevitably, to qualify as a solicitor and emigrate to Somerset, where he specialized in death and taxes for seven years before going straight in 1995. Now a full-time writer, he lives in Chard, Somerset, with his wife, one daughter and the unmistakable scent of blood, wafting in on the breeze from the local meat-packing plant.
For even more madness and TOMfoolery go to www.tom-holt.com.
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Table of Contents
By Tom Holt
COPYRIGHT
Dedication
Part One: In The Beginning Was The Misprint
Part Two: Message In A Bottle
Part Three: Somewhere Over The Doughnut
Part Four: Doughnut Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Part Five: One Empty San Miguel Bottle To Bring Them All And In The Darkness Bind Them
Extras
About the Author