Читать книгу Not fairy tales онлайн
9 страница из 60
In the far corner, by the lacquered white truffle decorated with gold monograms and scrolls, her mother sat, enthusiastically sorting out another pile of purchases that had been delivered. Countless vials, jars and tubes of cosmetics piled up on the small tabletop like a fragrant pink mountain. Overlapping blouses and skirts, fur coats and kerchiefs, jackets and lace panties hung on the back of a chair and on a movable coat rack. Against this motley mass the delicate, perhaps even haggard figure of the golden-haired woman was almost invisible. At her feet and around her were also crowded bags and boxes: shoes, dishes, gadgets, and other «fun» junk from the TV store; with any luck a couple of books might be found. And there are wrappers and ribbons, paper, cellophane, pieces of fiber and foam, receipts and labels everywhere.
Una shook her head disapprovingly: how do they manage to litter everything so much in just a couple of days?
«Mom, Dad, hi! You’re all sitting here like owls.»
Mammy turned around briskly on her brightly decorated perch – just like a bird, smiled exaggeratedly and waved her hand.