Read Online Let's Dance by Frances Fyfield - Free Book Online Page A

someone to take him. Bedrooms were private places: people kept their secrets there rather than in desks. He could invade only the public domain, and even that was beginning to feel intrusive.
    â€˜Excuse me, but what the hell do you think you’re doing?’
    He turned to find himself looking at a small, faintly familiar and very belligerent red-headed man carrying a stick in one hand, resting the knob in the other palm, flanked by a dog. The voice of inquiry was challenging but polite, although the position of the stick and the square-legged stance of the man left Andrew fairly sure that the benefit of doubt he was being granted was only temporary. The stick was not for decoration. Beside the man, the dog looked redundant. Petal did not bark in the afternoon.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ Andrew said pleasantly. ‘I came to see Mrs Burley or her daughter. Perhaps I should have waited outside, but the door was unlocked.’
    George clicked his tongue. ‘They’ve gone to the shops. What was it you wanted?’ He still held the stick, reluctant to relinquish authority.
    Andrew shrugged. ‘Nothing that can’t wait. Only Mrs Burley’s son asked us to look at the furniture, check the insurance. After that fire, you know.’ He produced a card.
    â€˜Oh.’ George was disarmed, also curious. ‘She’s got some nice things, Mrs Burley.’
    â€˜Yes. Yes, she has. Valuable things.’
    â€˜They’re all old things,’ said George, dismissively. ‘Worth a bob or two, I expect, but not much. And she won’t be having any more fires. Not with me around.’
    George decided he did not dislike this harmless-looking man with thin legs under the suit: there wasnone of the air of understated threat with which George was so familiar, but still he wanted him out of the room.
    â€˜I can fix you a cup of tea if you come into the kitchen. No one eats in here any more.’
    â€˜And who are you?’ Andrew asked meekly, following him.
    â€˜I’m George. I walk the dog and look after Serena. Mrs Burley.’ George said this with a note of defensive pride.
    â€˜Who does the cleaning?’
    â€˜Nobody much at the moment. Oh, Miss Burley moves things around, but Mrs Burley did most of it herself. She’s not mad, you know.’
    The back door stood open, so they heard the car above the sound of the boiling kettle. Music blared as the doors opened, then ceased abruptly. There was the sound of one weary voice, one angry one. Serena was framed in the doorway, crushing her hat. There was a lump on her forehead; her mascara extended past it into her hairline; she staggered slightly. George leapt to her side, clucking anxiety. She gave him the full force of her smile.
    â€˜Hello, my lovely. I hit my head, didn’t I?’
    Andrew did not know the format of this household, nor its hierarchy. He could only interpret the look George gave Serena as one of tender affection and the glance thrown in Isabel’s direction as one of murder, which Isabel, three steps behind and clearly struggling for self-control, failed to notice. Her face was blotched:she looked like someone suddenly familiar with defeat. And she was still beautiful. Andrew forgot to notice the complexities and palpable tension of this trio as he stared at Isabel, last seen, how long ago would it be, a dozen years or more, the memory largely ignored in the interim, as if it could ever go away. The long brown hair with the oriental sheen, tied at the nape of her elegant neck, the perfect, slender figure over which she had agonized even then, and the huge, deep-set eyes which defined her face. A house is only as good as what you put in it: Andrew’s father said that to customers. Isabel would give credit and dimension to the most unpromising of rooms. She could be hired to lean against furniture, like a model posed against an impossibly expensive car. Good bones: she would always look like an