Jojo Moyes
See you soon
Charlie with love
Prologue
When he comes out of the bathroom, she wakes up. Leaning back on the pillows, she leafs through the travel brochures lying next to the bed. She's wearing one of his t-shirts long hair confused, bringing back thoughts of last night. He stands, enjoying the fleeting memory, and wipes his head with a towel.
She looks up from the booklet and pouts. She's probably a little old to pout, but they haven't been dating long enough for it to be annoying.
Do we really have to climb mountains or hang over gorges? This is our first real vacation together, and there is not a single route here where you won’t have to jump from somewhere or,” she shudders deliberately, “wear a fleece.”
She throws the booklets on the bed and stretches her tanned arms above her head. Her voice was slightly hoarse, evidence of a sleepless night.
How about a luxury spa in Bali? You can lie on the sand... bask for hours... relax during long nights...
I don't like this kind of vacation. I need something to do.
For example, jumping from a plane.
Try first, criticize later.
If you don’t mind, I still prefer to criticize,” she grimaces.
The slightly damp shirt sticks to his skin. He runs a comb through his hair and turns on cellular telephone, wincing at the sight of the list of messages that immediately begin to pop up on the small screen.
Okay, he says. - I have to go. Don't forget to have breakfast.
He leans over the bed to kiss her. She exudes warmth, perfume and unfeigned sexuality. He inhales the scent of the back of her neck and forgets himself for a moment when she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him down.
So are we going somewhere this weekend?
Depends on the deal. - He reluctantly frees himself. - For now everything is in limbo. I may have to go to New York. Anyway, how about a nice dinner somewhere on Thursday? Restaurant of your choice. - He reaches for the leather motorcycle gloves hanging on the door.
“Dinner,” she squints, “with or without Mr. Blackberry?”
I feel like a third wheel with Mr. Blackberry. - Pouty lips again. - It's like he's competing with me for your attention.
I'll turn off the sound.
Will Traynor! - she exclaims. - You should turn it off at least occasionally.
I turned it off last night, remember?
Only under pressure.
Is that what they call it now? - he grins.
He pulls on his gloves. Lissa finally loses her grip on his imagination. He throws his motorcycle jacket over his arm and blows her a kiss from the doorway.
There were twenty-two messages on his BlackBerry, the first one coming from New York at 3:42. Some kind of legal problem. He takes the elevator down to the underground parking lot, trying to get up to speed on the night's events.
Good morning, Mr. Traynor.
The guard emerges from his weatherproof cubicle, even though there is no weather here. Will sometimes wonders what he's doing there in the wee hours, looking at the CCTV and the shiny bumpers of £60,000 cars, always immaculately clean.
How's it going outside, Mick? - he asks, pulling leather jacket.
Nightmare. It's raining cats and dogs.
Seriously? - Will stops. - Is the motorcycle cancelled?
“Alas, sir,” Mick shakes his head. - Unless you want to put it on floats. Or crash.
Will looks at his motorcycle and pulls off his leather gloves. Despite what Lissa might think, he's not a risk-taker. He unlocks the trunk of the motorcycle, puts his gloves away, locks it, and tosses the keys to Mick, who skillfully catches them with one hand.
Slide it under my door, okay?
No problem. Call a taxi?
No need. Why do you need to get wet?
Mick presses the automatic grille button and Will steps outside, raising his hand in thanks. It's dark and thunder is roaring, but the roads of Central London are already clogged with cars, even though it's barely past seven. He turns up his collar and walks down the street towards the intersection where it’s easiest to catch a taxi. The roads are slippery from the water, gray reflections play on the mirror of the pavement.
He mentally curses as he spots other people in suits at the edge of the sidewalk. And when did all of London start waking up so early? The same thing occurred to everyone.
He's wondering where to stand when the phone rings. This is Rupert.
Already coming. I'm just trying to hail a taxi.
He sees a taxi with an orange light approaching on the opposite side of the street and heads towards it, hoping that no one else has noticed him. A bus rushes past, followed by a truck, its brakes squealing and drowning out Rupert's words.
I don’t hear anything, Rupi,” he shouts over the noise of the cars. Repeat.
He pauses for a moment at the traffic island, cars streaming by, orange lights flickering, and he raises his free hand, hoping the driver can see him through the pouring rain.
Call Jeff in New York. He is still awake, waiting for you. We've been trying to reach you all night.
What's happened?
Legal delay. Two articles of the contract... stall for time... signature... papers... - The voice is drowned in the noise of a passing car, tires rustling on the wet asphalt.
I don't understand anything.
The taxi driver noticed him. The car slows down and stops on the opposite side, throwing up a fountain of water. He notices a man a little further away who rushes towards the taxi, but stops in disappointment, realizing that Will will be there first. He feels a sense of petty triumph.
Look, let Kelly leave the papers on my desk,” he shouts. - I'll be there in ten minutes.
He looks around, bends his head and runs a few last steps to a taxi. “Blackfriars” is already on the tip of his tongue. Rain seeps between your collar and shirt. He'll be wet before he gets to the office, even though it's only a short walk. You may have to send your secretary for a new shirt.
And we still need to sort out this security check before Martin starts...
He looks up when he hears the screeching, insulting blare of a horn. He sees the side of a shiny black taxi ahead, the driver is already rolling down the window, and something not entirely visible at the edge of his field of vision, rushing towards him at incredible speed.
He turns and in that split second realizes that he is standing in his way and will not have time to get out of the way. In surprise, he unclenches his fingers, and the BlackBerry falls to the ground. He hears a scream, possibly his own. The last thing he sees is a leather glove, a face under a helmet, surprise in the man's eyes - mirror reflection his surprise. An explosion - and everything shatters into pieces.
There are one hundred and fifty-eight steps from the bus stop to the house, but they can stretch to one hundred and eighty if you are not in a hurry, for example if you are wearing platform shoes. Or shoes from a charity shop with butterflies on the toes but not enough heel support, which explains their amazing price of £1.99. I turned the corner onto our street - sixty-eight steps - and saw the edge of a house - a five-room duplex in a row of other four- and five-room duplexes. Dad's car was parked on the street, which meant he had not yet left for work.
Behind me, the sun was setting behind Stortfold Castle, a dark shadow like melting wax sliding down the hillside, trying to drown me. When we were kids, our long shadows would shoot out and the street would turn into a corral “O. TO.". On any other day I might have told you what happened on that road, where Dad taught me to ride a two-wheeler, where Mrs. Dougherty, with her wig gone, baked Welsh pancakes for us, where eleven-year-old Trina stuck her hand in the hedge and disturbed vespiary, after which we ran screaming all the way to the castle.
Thomas' tricycle lay overturned on the path. Closing the gate behind me, I dragged him under the porch and opened the door. The heat hit me like an airbag - mom can't stand the cold and keeps the heating on all year round. Dad is always throwing open the windows and whining that she will drive us to ruin. He says our heating bills are more than the GDP of a small African country.
Is that you, honey?
Yeah. - I hung my jacket on a peg, among other jackets.
Jojo Moyes
See you soon
Charlie with love
Prologue
When he comes out of the bathroom, she wakes up. Leaning back on the pillows, she leafs through the travel brochures lying next to the bed. She's wearing one of his t-shirts and her long hair is messy, bringing back thoughts of last night. He stands, enjoying the fleeting memory, and wipes his head with a towel.
She looks up from the booklet and pouts. She's probably a little old to pout, but they haven't been dating long enough for it to be annoying.
Do we really have to climb mountains or hang over gorges? This is our first real vacation together, and there is not a single route here where you won’t have to jump from somewhere or,” she shudders deliberately, “wear a fleece.”
She throws the booklets on the bed and stretches her tanned arms above her head. Her voice was slightly hoarse, evidence of a sleepless night.
How about a luxury spa in Bali? You can lie on the sand... bask for hours... relax during long nights...
I don't like this kind of vacation. I need something to do.
For example, jumping from a plane.
Try first, criticize later.
If you don’t mind, I still prefer to criticize,” she grimaces.
The slightly damp shirt sticks to his skin. He runs a comb through his hair and turns on his cell phone, wincing at the list of messages that immediately start popping up on the small screen.
Okay, he says. - I have to go. Don't forget to have breakfast.
He leans over the bed to kiss her. She exudes warmth, perfume and unfeigned sexuality. He inhales the scent of the back of her neck and forgets himself for a moment when she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him down.
So are we going somewhere this weekend?
Depends on the deal. - He reluctantly frees himself. - For now everything is in limbo. I may have to go to New York. Anyway, how about a nice dinner somewhere on Thursday? Restaurant of your choice. - He reaches for the leather motorcycle gloves hanging on the door.
“Dinner,” she squints, “with or without Mr. Blackberry?”
I feel like a third wheel with Mr. Blackberry. - Pouty lips again. - It's like he's competing with me for your attention.
I'll turn off the sound.
Will Traynor! - she exclaims. - You should turn it off at least occasionally.
I turned it off last night, remember?
Only under pressure.
Is that what they call it now? - he grins.
He pulls on his gloves. Lissa finally loses her grip on his imagination. He throws his motorcycle jacket over his arm and blows her a kiss from the doorway.
There were twenty-two messages on his BlackBerry, the first one coming from New York at 3:42. Some kind of legal problem. He takes the elevator down to the underground parking lot, trying to get up to speed on the night's events.
Good morning, Mr Traynor.
The guard emerges from his weatherproof cubicle, even though there is no weather here. Will sometimes wonders what he's doing there in the wee hours, looking at the CCTV and the shiny bumpers of £60,000 cars, always immaculately clean.
How's it going outside, Mick? - he asks, pulling on his leather jacket.
Nightmare. It's raining cats and dogs.
Seriously? - Will stops. - Is the motorcycle cancelled?
“Alas, sir,” Mick shakes his head. - Unless you want to put it on floats. Or crash.
Will looks at his motorcycle and pulls off his leather gloves. Despite what Lissa might think, he's not a risk-taker. He unlocks the trunk of the motorcycle, puts his gloves away, locks it, and tosses the keys to Mick, who skillfully catches them with one hand.
Slide it under my door, okay?
No problem. Call a taxi?
No need. Why do you need to get wet?
Mick presses the automatic grille button and Will steps outside, raising his hand in thanks. It's dark and thunder is roaring, but the roads of Central London are already clogged with cars, even though it's barely past seven. He turns up his collar and walks down the street towards the intersection where it’s easiest to catch a taxi. The roads are slippery from the water, gray reflections play on the mirror of the pavement.
He mentally curses as he spots other people in suits at the edge of the sidewalk. And when did all of London start waking up so early? The same thing occurred to everyone.
He's wondering where to stand when the phone rings. This is Rupert.
Already coming. I'm just trying to hail a taxi.
He sees a taxi with an orange light approaching on the opposite side of the street and heads towards it, hoping that no one else has noticed him. A bus rushes past, followed by a truck, its brakes squealing and drowning out Rupert's words.
Jojo Moyes' new novel Me Before You became a bestseller, creating a real sensation among readers.
Moyes talks about an ordinary, ordinary girl, Lou Clarke, her life is simple, logical and understandable. A job in a cafe that suits her; a young man whose feelings have quietly become a habit; And little house, where she lives with her family. But the usual way of life is changing. The girl is left without work and is forced to consider other options. The offer is received immediately. High paying job for six months, Lou agrees. New job involves caring for a young man who is now in a wheelchair after an accident.
The young man, Will Traynor, is a formerly active, energetic and successful businessman, for whom movement is life itself. But now, by the will of fate, he can hardly do without outside help in basic matters. The accident that occurred completely broke Will's will and took away his desire to live.
However, the acquaintance of the two young people invariably benefited everyone. Lou's simplicity and sometimes naivety always amused Will, made him happier and made him rethink many things. And Lu, in turn, learned a lot by being next to such a strong and different person.
“Me Before You” is a novel so unconventional that it is very, very difficult to appreciate it. It leaves a strong impression after reading, confusion, even shock. Issues of life and death are examined from many angles and the author pays sufficient attention to each opinion.
It is impossible to tear yourself away from the novel. Even the most cynical reader will be touched by the story of Lou and Will. What does this book teach? The phrase “Never say never” immediately comes to mind. Life, which we take for granted, is actually the most valuable gift. But the gift is so fragile that, when taken away, it inevitably affects each of our loved ones.
Moyes drew the lines between life and death so realistically that the reader can only wonder, admire and wait for the continuation.
On our literary website you can download the site Jojo's book Moyes "Me Before You" free in suitable for different devices formats - epub, fb2, txt, rtf. Do you like to read books and always keep up with new releases? We have big choice books of various genres: classics, modern fiction, literature on psychology and children's publications. In addition, we offer interesting and educational articles for aspiring writers and all those who want to learn how to write beautifully. Each of our visitors will be able to find something useful and exciting for themselves.
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Charlie with love
Prologue
2007
When he comes out of the bathroom, she wakes up. Leaning back on the pillows, she leafs through the travel brochures lying next to the bed. She's wearing one of his t-shirts and her long hair is messy, bringing back thoughts of last night. He stands, enjoying the fleeting memory, and wipes his head with a towel.
She looks up from the booklet and pouts. She's probably a little old to pout, but they haven't been dating long enough for it to be annoying.
Do we really have to climb mountains or hang over gorges? This is our first real vacation together, and there is not a single route here where you won’t have to jump from somewhere or,” she shudders deliberately, “wear a fleece.”
She throws the booklets on the bed and stretches her tanned arms above her head. Her voice was slightly hoarse, evidence of a sleepless night.
How about a luxury spa in Bali? You can lie on the sand... bask for hours... relax during long nights...
I don't like this kind of vacation. I need something to do.
For example, jumping from a plane.
Try first, criticize later.
If you don’t mind, I still prefer to criticize,” she grimaces.
The slightly damp shirt sticks to his skin. He runs a comb through his hair and turns on his cell phone, wincing at the list of messages that immediately start popping up on the small screen.
Okay, he says. - I have to go. Don't forget to have breakfast.
He leans over the bed to kiss her. She exudes warmth, perfume and unfeigned sexuality. He inhales the scent of the back of her neck and forgets himself for a moment when she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him down.
So are we going somewhere this weekend?
Depends on the deal. - He reluctantly frees himself. - For now everything is in limbo. I may have to go to New York. Anyway, how about a nice dinner somewhere on Thursday? Restaurant of your choice. - He reaches for the leather motorcycle gloves hanging on the door.
“Dinner,” she squints, “with or without Mr. Blackberry?”
I feel like a third wheel with Mr. Blackberry. - Pouty lips again. - It's like he's competing with me for your attention.
I'll turn off the sound.
Will Traynor! - she exclaims. - You should turn it off at least occasionally.
I turned it off last night, remember?
Only under pressure.
Is that what they call it now? - he grins.
He pulls on his gloves. Lissa finally loses her grip on his imagination. He throws his motorcycle jacket over his arm and blows her a kiss from the doorway.
There were twenty-two messages on his BlackBerry, the first one coming from New York at 3:42. Some kind of legal problem. He takes the elevator down to the underground parking lot, trying to get up to speed on the night's events.
Good morning, Mr Traynor.
The guard emerges from his weatherproof cubicle, even though there is no weather here. Will sometimes wonders what he's doing there in the wee hours, looking at the CCTV and the shiny bumpers of £60,000 cars, always immaculately clean.
How's it going outside, Mick? - he asks, pulling on his leather jacket.
Nightmare. It's raining cats and dogs.
Seriously? - Will stops. - Is the motorcycle cancelled?
“Alas, sir,” Mick shakes his head. - Unless you want to put it on floats. Or crash.
Will looks at his motorcycle and pulls off his leather gloves. Despite what Lissa might think, he's not a risk-taker. He unlocks the trunk of the motorcycle, puts his gloves away, locks it, and tosses the keys to Mick, who skillfully catches them with one hand.
Slide it under my door, okay?
No problem. Call a taxi?
No need. Why do you need to get wet?
Mick presses the automatic grille button and Will steps outside, raising his hand in thanks. It's dark and thunder is roaring, but the roads of Central London are already clogged with cars, even though it's barely past seven. He turns up his collar and walks down the street towards the intersection where it’s easiest to catch a taxi. The roads are slippery from the water, gray reflections play on the mirror of the pavement.
He mentally curses as he spots other people in suits at the edge of the sidewalk. And when did all of London start waking up so early? The same thing occurred to everyone.
He's wondering where to stand when the phone rings. This is Rupert.
Already coming. I'm just trying to hail a taxi.
He sees a taxi with an orange light approaching on the opposite side of the street and heads towards it, hoping that no one else has noticed him. A bus rushes past, followed by a truck, its brakes squealing and drowning out Rupert's words.
I don’t hear anything, Rupi,” he shouts over the noise of the cars. Repeat.
He pauses for a moment at the traffic island, cars streaming by, orange lights flickering, and he raises his free hand, hoping the driver can see him through the pouring rain.
Call Jeff in New York. He is still awake, waiting for you. We've been trying to reach you all night.
What's happened?
Legal delay. Two articles of the contract... stall for time... signature... papers... - The voice is drowned in the noise of a passing car, tires rustling on the wet asphalt.
I don't understand anything.
The taxi driver noticed him. The car slows down and stops on the opposite side, throwing up a fountain of water. He notices a man a little further away who rushes towards the taxi, but stops in disappointment, realizing that Will will be there first. He feels a sense of petty triumph.
Copyright © Jojo Moyes, 2012
This edition is published by arrangement with Curtis Brown UK and The Van Lear Agency
© A. Kilanova, translation, 2013
© Publishing Group “Azbuka-Atticus” LLC, 2013
Publishing House Inostranka ®
All rights reserved. No part of the electronic version of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including posting on the Internet or corporate networks, for private or public use without the written permission of the copyright owner.
© Electronic version books prepared by liters company (www.litres.ru)
Charlie with love
When he comes out of the bathroom, she wakes up. Leaning back on the pillows, she leafs through the travel brochures lying next to the bed. She's wearing one of his t-shirts and her long hair is messy, bringing back thoughts of last night. He stands, enjoying the fleeting memory, and wipes his head with a towel.
She looks up from the booklet and pouts. She's probably a little old to pout, but they haven't been dating long enough for it to be annoying.
– Do we really have to climb mountains or hang over gorges? This is our first real vacation together, and there is not a single route here where you won’t have to jump from somewhere or,” she shudders deliberately, “wear a fleece.”
She throws the booklets on the bed and stretches her tanned arms above her head. Her voice was slightly hoarse, evidence of a sleepless night.
– How about a luxury spa in Bali? You can lie on the sand... bask for hours... relax during long nights...
“I don’t like this kind of vacation.” I need something to do.
– For example, jumping from a plane.
– Try first, then criticize.
“If you don’t mind, I still prefer to criticize,” she grimaces.
The slightly damp shirt sticks to his skin. He runs a comb through his hair and turns on his cell phone, wincing at the list of messages that immediately start popping up on the small screen.
“Okay,” he says. - I have to go. Don't forget to have breakfast.
He leans over the bed to kiss her. She exudes warmth, perfume and unfeigned sexuality. He inhales the scent of the back of her neck and forgets himself for a moment when she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him down.
– So are we going somewhere this weekend?
- Depends on the deal. – He reluctantly frees himself. - For now everything is in limbo. I may have to go to New York. Anyway, how about a nice dinner somewhere on Thursday? Restaurant of your choice. “He reaches for the leather motorcycle gloves hanging on the door.
“Dinner,” she squints, “with or without Mr. Blackberry?”
“Mr. Blackberry makes me feel like a third wheel.” - Pouty lips again. “It’s like he’s competing with me for your attention.”
- I'll turn off the sound.
– Will Traynor! - she exclaims. – You should turn it off at least occasionally.
– I turned it off last night, remember?
- Only under pressure.
- Is that what they call it now? – he grins.
He pulls on his gloves. Lissa finally loses her grip on his imagination. He throws his motorcycle jacket over his arm and blows her a kiss from the doorway.
There were twenty-two messages on his BlackBerry, the first one coming from New York at 3:42. Some kind of legal problem. He takes the elevator down to the underground parking lot, trying to get up to speed on the night's events.
- Good morning, Mr. Traynor.
The guard emerges from his weatherproof cubicle, even though there is no weather here. Will sometimes wonders what he's doing there in the wee hours, looking at the CCTV and the shiny bumpers of £60,000 cars, always immaculately clean.
– How is it outside, Mick? – he asks, pulling on his leather jacket.
- Nightmare. It's raining cats and dogs.
- Seriously? – Will stops. – Is the motorcycle cancelled?
“Alas, sir,” Mick shakes his head. -Unless you want to put it on floats. Or crash.
Will looks at his motorcycle and pulls off his leather gloves. Despite what Lissa might think, he's not a risk-taker. He unlocks the trunk of the motorcycle, puts his gloves away, locks it, and tosses the keys to Mick, who skillfully catches them with one hand.
“Put it under my door, okay?”
- No problem. Call a taxi?
- No need. Why do you need to get wet?
Mick presses the automatic grille button and Will steps outside, raising his hand in thanks. It’s dark and thunder is roaring, but the roads of Central London are already clogged with cars, although it’s barely past seven. He turns up his collar and walks down the street towards the intersection where it’s easiest to catch a taxi. The roads are slippery from the water, gray reflections play on the mirror of the pavement.
He mentally curses as he spots other people in suits at the edge of the sidewalk. And when did all of London start waking up so early? The same thing occurred to everyone.
He's wondering where to stand when the phone rings. This is Rupert.
- Already coming. I'm just trying to hail a taxi.
He sees a taxi with an orange light approaching on the opposite side of the street and heads towards it, hoping that no one else has noticed him. A bus rushes past, followed by a truck, its brakes squealing and drowning out Rupert's words.
“I don’t hear anything, Rupi,” he shouts over the noise of the cars. - Repeat.
He pauses for a moment at the traffic island, cars streaming by, orange lights flickering, and he raises his free hand, hoping the driver can see him through the pouring rain.
– Call Jeff in New York. He is still awake, waiting for you. We've been trying to reach you all night.
- What's happened?
- Legal delay. Two articles of the contract... stall for time... signature... papers... - The voice is drowned in the noise of a passing car, tires rustling on the wet asphalt.
- I don’t understand anything.
The taxi driver noticed him. The car slows down and stops on the opposite side, throwing up a fountain of water. He notices a man a little further away who rushes towards the taxi, but stops in disappointment, realizing that Will will be there first. He feels a sense of petty triumph.
“Listen, let Kelly leave the papers on my desk,” he shouts. - I'll be there in ten minutes.
He looks around, ducks his head and runs the last few steps to the taxi. Blackfriars is already on the tip of his tongue. Rain seeps between your collar and shirt. He'll be wet before he gets to the office, even though it's only a short walk. You may have to send your secretary for a new shirt.
- And we still need to sort out this security check before Martin starts...
He looks up when he hears the screeching, insulting blare of a horn. He sees the side of a shiny black taxi ahead, the driver is already rolling down the window, and something not entirely visible at the edge of his field of vision, rushing towards him at incredible speed.
He turns and in that split second realizes that he is standing in his way and will not have time to get out of the way. In surprise, he unclenches his fingers, and the BlackBerry falls to the ground. He hears a scream, possibly his own. The last thing he sees is a leather glove, a face under a helmet, surprise in the man's eyes - a mirror image of his surprise. There is an explosion and everything shatters into pieces.
There are one hundred and fifty-eight steps from the bus stop to the house, but they can stretch to one hundred and eighty if you are not in a hurry, for example if you are wearing platform shoes. Or shoes from a charity shop with butterflies on the toes but not enough heel support, which explains their amazing price of £1.99. I turned the corner onto our street—sixty-eight steps—and saw the edge of a house—a five-room duplex in a row of other four- and five-room duplexes. Dad's car was parked on the street, which meant he had not yet left for work.
