Read Online An Affair to Remember by Virginia Budd - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Virginia Budd
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it blowing up. She drags a comb through her hair, puts on a bit of lipstick, turns to check the car doors are locked…
“Can I be of help?” A tall man walks out of the wood, opens the gate where the rook was sitting. Her first impression; everything about him is reddish brown: brown hair, streaked with grey, brown face, arms, khaki denims, shirt. After that – recognition.
“Brian?” she hears herself ask in a voice not her own, “Brian?” Silence, while the gentle, cooling wind ruffles her hair and a blackbird whistles in the trees behind them.
Chapter 4
“Clarrie? Jack here. Look, love, I’m afraid I can’t make it tomorrow morning, something’s cropped up…”
“Oh God, Jack, what? Tomorrow morning’s the only time I can make it, Roman Living’s coming in the afternoon to discuss the way forward over them re-doing that bathroom they mucked up, and I’ll have to be there – Sel’s hopeless at dealing with people like that. Then we’ve got weekend visitors – I was so looking forward to seeing you.” Clarrie Woodhead is lying on her bed (imitation Louis XV, matching hangings and duvet cover in a fleur de lis pattern). She feels humiliated. He’s such a slob – what in heaven’s name does she see in him?
“Not my fault, darling.” The disappointment in her voice nearly gives Jack a hard on there and then. What a bird! “It’s the bloody office again. They want me back for a conference; something’s come up. What about tonight instead? I’ll be down your way early evening – I’m booked to pay a visit to old Carter at The Gables. Should be finished with him by seven o’clock – we could meet after for a quickie. –”
“For a ‘quickie’! You make it sound as you’re giving me a free handout – who the hell d’you think I am?”
“Oh come on, darling, don’t be like that,” Jack puts on his wheedling voice, “word of a lie; this isn’t my fault. Would I pass up a chance to see you – I mean would I? You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve clapped eyes on in years and – hang on a sec.” The line goes dead, except for some sort of knocking in the background. “Look, darling, must go, some turd’s banging on the box, but I’ll be waiting up at the Grove 7.30 pm. If you’re not there by 7.45 poor old Jack’ll drive sadly home and top himself – how’s that?”
“Don’t get your hopes up! The new sec’s arriving today, in fact she should have been here by now so I probably won’t make it. Anyway I must go, Sel’s on his way up. Bye.” At least she’s had the last word, not that that counted for much; so subtle a victory would cut no ice with Jack Fulton.
Clarrie Woodhead is small, dark and thirty-nine years old. She’s kept her figure and her looks and could be taken on a good day for someone in her twenties. She has beautiful eyes, peaty brown with long lashes, and an equally beautiful figure. Sel Woodhead’s women always have beautiful figures; it’s his trademark; they have to be highly intelligent as well (which Clarrie is). This is why, though perhaps not quite his type, he had warmed to Beatrice, who also has a beautiful figure, if you’re into Greek goddesses that is, and he is, although in Clarrie’s case she’s more your pocket Venus.
Clarrie loves, even admires her husband. The snag: sex between them is virtually non-existent. Hence of course her wasting her time on the likes of Jack Fulton. She had accepted Sel on those terms; as always, he had been honest with her. As far back as their first date, he had made it clear that sex had never really been one of his things. Too much else to do, he’d told her, also there’d been a nasty experience (he’d never explained what) at the north London primary school that as an underfed, undersized six year old he’d attended sometime in the 1930s. However, as far as Clarrie was concerned, despite the lack of sex, Sel had a lot to offer and they were both prepared to accept the fact
“Can I be of help?” A tall man walks out of the wood, opens the gate where the rook was sitting. Her first impression; everything about him is reddish brown: brown hair, streaked with grey, brown face, arms, khaki denims, shirt. After that – recognition.
“Brian?” she hears herself ask in a voice not her own, “Brian?” Silence, while the gentle, cooling wind ruffles her hair and a blackbird whistles in the trees behind them.
Chapter 4
“Clarrie? Jack here. Look, love, I’m afraid I can’t make it tomorrow morning, something’s cropped up…”
“Oh God, Jack, what? Tomorrow morning’s the only time I can make it, Roman Living’s coming in the afternoon to discuss the way forward over them re-doing that bathroom they mucked up, and I’ll have to be there – Sel’s hopeless at dealing with people like that. Then we’ve got weekend visitors – I was so looking forward to seeing you.” Clarrie Woodhead is lying on her bed (imitation Louis XV, matching hangings and duvet cover in a fleur de lis pattern). She feels humiliated. He’s such a slob – what in heaven’s name does she see in him?
“Not my fault, darling.” The disappointment in her voice nearly gives Jack a hard on there and then. What a bird! “It’s the bloody office again. They want me back for a conference; something’s come up. What about tonight instead? I’ll be down your way early evening – I’m booked to pay a visit to old Carter at The Gables. Should be finished with him by seven o’clock – we could meet after for a quickie. –”
“For a ‘quickie’! You make it sound as you’re giving me a free handout – who the hell d’you think I am?”
“Oh come on, darling, don’t be like that,” Jack puts on his wheedling voice, “word of a lie; this isn’t my fault. Would I pass up a chance to see you – I mean would I? You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve clapped eyes on in years and – hang on a sec.” The line goes dead, except for some sort of knocking in the background. “Look, darling, must go, some turd’s banging on the box, but I’ll be waiting up at the Grove 7.30 pm. If you’re not there by 7.45 poor old Jack’ll drive sadly home and top himself – how’s that?”
“Don’t get your hopes up! The new sec’s arriving today, in fact she should have been here by now so I probably won’t make it. Anyway I must go, Sel’s on his way up. Bye.” At least she’s had the last word, not that that counted for much; so subtle a victory would cut no ice with Jack Fulton.
Clarrie Woodhead is small, dark and thirty-nine years old. She’s kept her figure and her looks and could be taken on a good day for someone in her twenties. She has beautiful eyes, peaty brown with long lashes, and an equally beautiful figure. Sel Woodhead’s women always have beautiful figures; it’s his trademark; they have to be highly intelligent as well (which Clarrie is). This is why, though perhaps not quite his type, he had warmed to Beatrice, who also has a beautiful figure, if you’re into Greek goddesses that is, and he is, although in Clarrie’s case she’s more your pocket Venus.
Clarrie loves, even admires her husband. The snag: sex between them is virtually non-existent. Hence of course her wasting her time on the likes of Jack Fulton. She had accepted Sel on those terms; as always, he had been honest with her. As far back as their first date, he had made it clear that sex had never really been one of his things. Too much else to do, he’d told her, also there’d been a nasty experience (he’d never explained what) at the north London primary school that as an underfed, undersized six year old he’d attended sometime in the 1930s. However, as far as Clarrie was concerned, despite the lack of sex, Sel had a lot to offer and they were both prepared to accept the fact
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