CAUSE CELEB HELEN FIELDING PDF

Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability. The Penguin Putnam Inc. And with special thanks to Richard Curtis. CHAPTER One It used to seem extraordinary to me that someone like Henry could actually exist, extraordinary that a person could be transported into an environment so alien to his own, and remain so utterly unaffected by his surroundings.

Author:Kigashakar Grodal
Country:Central African Republic
Language:English (Spanish)
Genre:Photos
Published (Last):19 August 2014
Pages:12
PDF File Size:19.48 Mb
ePub File Size:10.36 Mb
ISBN:451-3-80611-464-5
Downloads:36954
Price:Free* [*Free Regsitration Required]
Uploader:Kiganris



Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability. The Penguin Putnam Inc. And with special thanks to Richard Curtis. CHAPTER One It used to seem extraordinary to me that someone like Henry could actually exist, extraordinary that a person could be transported into an environment so alien to his own, and remain so utterly unaffected by his surroundings.

It was as if he had been coated with a very strong sealant, the sort of thing they use to paint on oceangoing yachts. Never mind the old malnutrition—you go for the view. It was a quiet time, the hour before the heat became intolerable, with the silence broken only by the rooster and Henry, who was incapable of shutting up except when he was asleep. I was particularly annoyed by Henry that morning, because I suspected he had started an affair with one of our more emotionally fragile nurses, Sian.

She was sitting next to him now, giving him a look you could have spread on a piece of toast. Sian was a sweet-natured girl who had joined us two months ago, after returning early from night shift to find her husband of eighteen months in bed with a Turkish minicab driver. Her therapy was being continued via correspondence. Betty was talking about food as usual. Mind you, I say that.

Bread-and-butter pudding. Oooh, lovely, with raisins and a bit of nutmeg. I wonder if Kamal could do us a bread-and-butter pudding if we made that biscuit tin into an oven?

I got up from the table, walked outside and sighed. How the tiny irritations of life filled the mind out here, keeping the big horrors at bay.

I dipped a cup into the water pot, and walked to the edge of the hill to brush my teeth. Our compound was behind me, with its round mud huts, showers, latrines and the cabana where we took our meals.

Before me was the sandy basin which housed Safila camp, a great scar in the desert. The light was very soft at that time, the sun pale, just clearing the horizon. Clustered over a pattern of hummocks and paths, leading down to the point where the two blue rivers met, were the huts which housed the refugees. Five years ago, during the great mid-eighties famine, there were sixty thousand of them, and a hundred a day were dying. Now twenty thousand remained. The rest had gone back over the border to Kefti, to the mountains and the war.

A gust of hot wind made the dry grasses rustle. I was bothered by more than Henry that morning. A rumor was circulating in the camp about a locust plague back in Kefti, which was threatening the harvest. There were often scare stories in the camp of one kind or another: it was hard to know what to believe.

Sounds were beginning to rise from the camp now, goats being herded, laughter, children playing, contented sounds. Once, the great swathe of cries which rose to us here were those which went with starvation and death. I bit the side of my thumb, and tried not to remember. Footsteps were coming from the cabana. Henry was sauntering across the compound and back to his hut. He was wearing his favorite T-shirt, which featured a motif set out like a multiple choice questionnaire for relief workers.

Henry had ticked b , which was a joke since his family owned half of northeast England. In London in the summer of I was afflicted by a crush, which is a terrible thing to happen to a woman. I was what was known as a puffette: a publicist in a publishing company, Ginsberg and Fink. I wiggled around in short skirts, legs in sheer black tights crossing and uncrossing in meetings, then kept going on and on about people not being interested in my mind.

Funny how at twenty-five you worry about not being taken seriously and take being a sex object for granted. Later you take being taken seriously for grant ed, and worry about not being a sex object. Our company chairman, Sir William Ginsberg, liked to put together little gatherings of the arty and the talented from all walks of life, not revealing to the guests in advance who the other guests would be.

For all the ill-informed like me these gatherings were a total nightmare. You feared to ask anyone what they did lest they turned out to be the author of Love in the Time of Cholera, or one of the Beach Boys. He employed several young girls and always used to invite one or two of us along because of our fine minds, presumably. I spent the evenings in a state of awed nervousness, saying very little. But I liked meeting these creative interesting people.

I wanted to fit in. This was the first time I had been invited to a large-scale party, and I was most excited. A uniformed attendant checked my name on a list and swung open the dark wooden door into a burst of light. The room was golden and all-a-glitter, the black-tied guests spilling down an ornamental staircase in the center of the room, and leaning on the gilt balustrades of the higher level.

It was bizarre being in a room full of celebrities—you felt as if you knew everyone, but nobody knew you.

I set off towards the table where drinks were being served, catching snatches of conversation as I squeezed my way along. The most gorgeous girl in the world. Oh, dear heaven, you look absolutely divine. Absolutely convinced of it. Give me a kiss, my darling, do. Dinsdale had recently written his memoirs for us. He had a worried face, was queer as a coot, and unfailingly kind.

But let us get you one! Let us get you one at once! The most gorgeous man in the world. Dear boy, dear boy. You look absolutely divine. You know, I did love your whatever it was you did the other night. You looked so exquisitely clever and pretty. Do you know Oliver Marchant? How were you supposed to answer this question with famous people? The most gorgeous girl in the world, dear boy, absolute goddess. Dinsdale looked flummoxed for a moment. He was long, lean and dark in a navy suit with an ordinary tie, not a bow tie, loosened at the neck.

I noticed very precisely the way his black hair fell against his collar, the half shadow on his chin. On my way. I turned to Oliver, to find he was now talking to a gray-haired newsreader. The newsreader had his teenage daughter with him. How are you, Sarah? They all seem to know each other. Do they all know each other? It has more open membership. But, actually, it is more like a club with its rules. You have to know the form.

How is the Lorca coming along? I had often bent with her over her dinner party celebrity lists, which were like a Dow Jones index of fame, with artists, actors, writers, journalists, moving up and down, depending on fashion, acts of God, or their own greediness for exposure. Lady Hilary seemed to have embraced this index as a yardstick for her entire life.

I once heard her discuss, without irony, why a certain name was not a particularly good one to drop. Even her closest women friends would be invited to dinner parties with Sir William only when their value was up, otherwise it was lunch alone with her. Oliver was continuing with the Famous Club theory.

Everyone was laughing by this time. Sir William appeared, booming behind us, startling everyone. Oliver was seated behind me in the box. I spent the entire performance in a state of almost unbearable arousal. I fancied I could feel his breath on my neck and back in my low-cut dress. At one point his hand brushed my skin as if by accident.

I almost died. I stood surveying the emptying Albert Hall as everyone left the box, trying to calm down. I heard someone moving down the steps behind me. It was him. He bent and kissed the nape of my neck.

BABYERSTAUSSTATTUNG LISTE PDF

Cause Celeb

But after four years working in Nambula, a fictional country in Northern Africa, there is a famine coming and Rosie turns back to Oliver and his famous friends to get the food they desperately need. Plot summary[ edit ] Rosie Richardson works in marketing at a publisher , when she starts dating Oliver Merchant, and falls in love with him. Oliver is the host of the TV show called SoftFocus where they tackle mostly cultural and political topics. Their relationship is formed by his erratic behaviour, like one day telling her he loves her and then not calling for days. When Rosie has to go to Nambula on a business trip, the poverty and general environment shock her into the realisation that she wants to spend her life doing something meaningful.

JRC JSB-196GM PDF

Helen Fielding

.

EEEE EEEE EEEE TAO LIN PDF

.

LIEBESLIED BODO WARTKE NOTEN PDF

.

Related Articles