Red Rabbit - Tom Clancy [55]
"I'm allowed to have some cholesterol?" her husband asked in surprise.
"Once a week," Mrs. Dr. Ryan replied, imperiously. Tomorrow she'd serve him oatmeal.
"Sounds good to me, babe," Ryan said, with some pleasure.
"I know you'll get something bad for you at the office anyway."
"Mm?"
"Yeah, croissant and butter, probably. They're made entirely out of butter anyway, you know."
"Bread without butter is like a shower without soap."
"Tell me that when you get your first heart attack."
"My last physical, my cholesterol was… what?"
"One fifty-two," Cathy answered, with an annoyed yawn.
"And that's pretty good?" her husband persisted.
"It's acceptable," she admitted. But hers had been one forty-six.
"Thank you, honey," Ryan acknowledged, turning to the op-ed page of the Times. The letters to the editor here were a positive hoot, and the quality of the writing throughout the papers was superior to anything he found in the American print media. Well, they had invented the language over here, Ryan figured, and fair was fair. The turn of phrase here was often as elegant as poetry, and occasionally too subtle for his American eye to appreciate. He'd pick it up, he figured.
The familiar sound and pleasant smell of frying bacon soon permeated the room. The coffee—tempered with milk instead of cream—was agreeable, and the news wasn't of the sort to ruin breakfast. Except for the ungodly time, things were not all that bad, and besides, the worst part of waking up was already behind him.
"Cathy?"
"Yeah, Jack?"
"Have I told you yet that I love you?"
She ostentatiously checked her watch. "You're a little late, but I'll write that off to the early hour."
"What's your day look like, honey?"
"Oh, meet the people, look around at how things are laid out. Meet my nurses especially. I hope I get good ones."
"Is that important?"
"Nothing screws surgery up worse that a clumsy scrub nurse. But the people at Hammersmith are supposed to be pretty good, and Bernie says that Professor Byrd is about the best guy they have over here. He teaches at Hammersmith and Moorefields. He and Bernie go back about twenty years. He's been to Hopkins a lot, but somehow I've never bumped into him. Over easy?" she asked.
"Please."
Then came the sound of cracking eggs. Like Jack, Cathy believed in a proper cast-iron skillet. Harder to clean, perhaps, but the eggs tasted a lot better that way. Finally came the sound of the toaster lever being depressed.
The sports page—it was called "sport" (singular) over here—told Jack everything he'd ever need to know about soccer, which wasn't much.
"How'd the Yankees do last night?" Cathy asked.
"Who cares?" her husband countered. He'd grown up with Brooks Robinson and Milt Pappas and the Orioles. His wife was a Yankees fan. It was hard on the marriage. Sure, Mickey Mantle had been a good player—probably loved his mother, too—but he'd played in pinstripes, and that was that. Ryan rose and fixed the coffee for his wife, handing it over with a kiss.
"Thanks, honey." Cathy handed Jack his breakfast. The eggs looked a little different, as though the chickens had eaten orange corn to makes the yellows come out so bright. But they tasted just fine. Five satisfying minutes after that, Ryan headed for the shower to make room for his wife.
Ten minutes later, he was picking out a shirt—white cotton, buttondown—striped tie, and his Marine Corps tie pin. At 6:40, there was a knock at the door.
"Good morning." It was Margaret van der Beek, the nanny/governess. She lived just a mile away and drove herself. Recommended from an agency vetted by the SIS, she was a South Africa native, the daughter of a minister, thin, pretty, and seemingly very nice. She carried a huge purse. Her hair was napalm-red, which hinted at Irish ancestry, but it was apparently strictly South African—Dutch. Her accent was different