White [Paperback]

WHITE IS ONE OF FOURTEEN FANSTASTIC ROSIE THOMAS BESTSELLERS BEAUTIFULLY REPACKAGED IN ARROW BOOKS --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

At the heart of this story set on the iron peaks of Everest and worked out against threats of weather and altitude, is the combative, passionate and ultimately tragic triangular relationship between two mountaineers, each driven by different demons but in love with Finch, the lovely young expedition doctor with her own history,

About Rosie Thomas...
Rosie Thomas was born and grew up in North Wales. She read English at Oxford, and after a spell in journalism and publishing began writing fiction after the birth of her first child. She has written fourteen best-selling novels, including Other People's Marriages, Every Woman Knows a Secret, and her latest Top Ten bestseller, White. Rosie is an adventurer and a mountaineer as well as a writer. She has climbed Mont Blanc, and last year joined an expedition to attempt Cho Oyu in Tibet, the sixth highest mountain in the world. She lives in London.

Praise for White

‘A story full of passion, heroism and all those things that keep you reading long after bedtime’ New Woman

'Terrific stuff...a real weepy' Sunday Times ‘Hugely enjoyable…Rosie Thomas writes with a beautiful, effortless prose, she shows a rare compassion and a real understanding of the nature of love’ The Times

‘Honest and absorbing, Rosie Thomas mixes the bitter and the hopeful with the knowledge that the human heart is far more complicated than any rule suggests.’ Mail on Sunday

'A master storyteller' Cosmopolitan

Rosie Thomas writes for magazines and newspapers as well as her fiction. When not writing she spends her time travelling and mountaineering. In 1997 she competed in the Peking to Paris Motor Rally, and she has climbed Mont Blanc as well as travelling to Everest and the Antarctic. (20030731) --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

The sun was overhead, a solid white eye in a harsh sky. As midday approached, the glare and the heat became unbearable and she stopped near a jumble of rocks that offered a narrow margin of shade. She held up her hand to Saddiq, her guide, and when he halted the two porters who followed in their tracks obediently shuffled to a stop as well. The older one immediately rolled the pack off his back and rummaged in the pouch around his waist for tobacco to fill his thin clay pipe. ‘I’d like to rest now, Saddiq. Maybe drink and eat some-thing?’ she said. The guide nodded. He had led the young American lady for two weeks, into the amphi-theatre contained by the high peaks on the border between China and Pakistan. The solitary white massif of K2 stood out hard and brilliant against the sky, directly behind them. The doctor lady had barely faltered in twelve days of walking. It was hardly suitable that a young, unmarried Western woman should be making her way alone in such places, Saddiq thought, even under the impeccable guidance and protection of a man such as himself, but he could find not fault with her strength or stamina. She had been as tough as any man and she had won his respect. If the lady wanted to call a rest stop now, high up here on the glacier and barely a morning’s walk down from K2 base camp, then she had earned the right to do so. The woman took off her own pack and sat down in the band of shade offered by the rocks. The glacier was a jumble of bare rocks, dirty ice, grit and wind-flayed snow. She stretched out her legs and rested her head against the stone, sighing as luxuriously as if it were a feather pillow. Her eyes fixed on the high peak. K2. Only the second highest, but a far tougher and more brutal climb than Everest. She had been as close to it, now, as she would ever get but it still drew her eyes and her imagination. She didn’t hear the porters murmuring together as they lit the stove to boil a pan of water. She was daydreaming as Saddiq super-vised the brewing of tea in a billycan and the pouring into her tin mug. But she heard the man’s voice so clearly that it cut into her head and settled into the chambers of her skull. Afterwards, long after he had finished, not only the words but the pure sound, the separate notes, vibrated minutely in her inner ear. He asked the abrupt question as if these were the first words he had uttered for long days. ‘Can I have some of that?’ It was a British voice, with a faint unplace-able secondary accent. In the following instant she looked to see where the voice came from and saw him with his back to the ring of mountains, and with the sun hard over his head. Her first impression was of a black beard masking a gaunt face with skin flayed raw by the weather. Saddiq straightened up and moved protectively in front of her. The porters stepped closer to the discarded packs. He saw their suspicious reaction. ‘I only want a drink. I’m thirsty.’ ‘Here.’ She scrambled to her feet. She held out her untasted tea. He took the tin mug in both hands, apparently warming them in spite of the sun’s heat. Then he drank, finishing the tea in a single long swallow. The tendons in his neck strained. She saw that he was very thin, almost emaciated. The man handed back the empty mug. ‘Thank you.’ ‘Would you like some more? Something to eat?’ Saddiq’s mouth pinched in a thin line. ‘What have you got to spare?’ ‘Dried fruit. Crackers. Canned and packet stuff. Not a big choice. We’re on our way out.’ The man passed one hand over his face. He was exhausted, she realised. She motioned to Saddiq to refill the mug. ‘Thank you,’ the man said again. His mouth was painfully cracked. ‘We can share,’ she said. Showing their disapproval with every movement, her com-panions went back to preparing food. The kerosene burner hissed at their feet. The man was carrying a huge pack on his back. She pointed to it. ‘Take it off. Sit down and rest.’ He did as he was told, absently, as if his whole attention was elsewhere. He sat down at a little distance, his back against a rock and his face turned to the mountains. He didn’t gaze at the high peak in the way that she had done, with awe and fascination. He stared at it blankly, as if he would look anywhere else if he could, knowing that his eyes would be dragged back to it whenever he tried to turn away. ‘Are you a climber?’ she attempted. ‘I was,’ the man said curtly. Nothing in him invited conver-sation and she made no more attempts. He took the plate of tinned tuna and reconstituted mashed potato that Saddiq passed to him via his client and ate. He cleaned the dish mechanically, without visible relish, eating because he knew that he must rather than with the pleasure of appetite. ‘Thank you,’ he said for the last time when he had finished everything. He drank another mug of black tea and accepted the fistful of dried apricots that she gave him. He tucked the fruit into a side pocket of his pack, then lifted the load once again. ‘Can we help you with anything else?’ she asked. ‘No. I have to get out, that’s all. I’m just getting out of here.’ He turned away, the pack tipping briefly side-ways on his back before he wearily shrugged it upright and secured the straps. She watched him go. For a man who was clearly close to his physical limits he moved very fast. Before Saddiq and his porters had cleared the remnants of the meal and dismantled the tiny stove, the man was no more than a speck on the blinding expanse of the glacier. ‘Dangerous fellow,’ Saddiq muttered. ‘No, I don’t think so. Desperate maybe, but not dangerous.’