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

uncertain girl. The nose was a shade too long, he told himself; the mouth too wide. It would devalue her price at auction, but why was it that bidders did not stare after her in the street, and why had she ever let herself be touched by lesser persons than princes? Andrew could not fathom. She was edibly gorgeous, yet removed. Never looking at herself without anxiety. Never looking round and saying, What power I have.
    At the same time, he could not believe how he could have been so hurt by something as insubstantial as a letter. He was one person for whom the demise of the letter-writing habit in modern life was not a source of grief.
    The resurgence of fascination intrigued him. IsabelBurley had been nothing more than a promiscuous bitch who had wounded him and others. Gone through half the promising men in town and chucked them away. He had thought he would no longer mind in the least about that, and had arrived prepared to treat her with the distant courtesy of the professional he had become. He would have suffered no pain at all if he had not dwelt in those empty rooms first and she did not look first so impressive and then so … diminished. While Serena, bruised but plump and glowing, looked as if she was already guzzling on her daughter’s vitality.
    â€˜What did you do to her?’ George was asking, his voice dangerous.
    Isabel did not look at him. ‘I didn’t do anything, George. She did. She tried to grab the wheel and took the car off the road. I managed to get it back. No harm done.’
    Then she noticed Andrew. I am always the last to be noticed, Andrew thought.
    â€˜This chap says he’s come to look at the furniture,’ George muttered, dismissing him as Isabel’s responsibility.
    â€˜How lovely,’ Serena trilled, assuming the role of grand hostess. ‘You must come to our party.’ She was extending her hand and Andrew wondered if he was supposed to kiss it. ‘Do sit down, won’t you? I think it’s time for tea.’
    â€˜I think it’s time for brandy,’ said Isabel. ‘Hallo, Andrew. You haven’t changed a bit. You remember Andrew Cornell, Mother, don’t you?’
    It was a pointless question, but Andrew remembered Serena as a gracious, welcoming mother, smiling the extra-wide smile he saw now and which Isabel was coming to recognize as reserved purely for men. They were all smiling at each other. Except George.
    â€˜What’s all this about furniture?’ Isabel asked, breaking up the tableau. George shuffled. He took a clean handkerchief out of his pocket, wandered to the sink, ran it under cold water and took it back to where Serena had retreated to a chair. He placed it lovingly against the lump on her forehead, pressing the cool handkerchief to her skin, keeping her head steady by a gentle touch on the back of her neck. The action was practical, a reminder to those present of their priorities. It was also curiously intimate. It made Andrew shiver. Serena moaned. Isabel sighed. Andrew realized he had not yet opened his mouth to either of them.
    â€˜Your brother Robert,’ he began. ‘Worried about the insurance. I can come back another time.’
    â€˜Trust Robert,’ Isabel said. ‘Full of long-distance ideas. Come into the living room. We all spend far too much time in this kitchen.’
    You need help, he told himself, following the graceful curve of her back down the dark corridor towards the fading light of the living room. You need help in the way I have needed help. You have lost your pride. Somehow that reflection neutralized everything and made him calm again.
    â€˜George does the fires,’ she was saying chattily, rallying herself into some pretence of an ordinarysocial animal, albeit one who would never have her mother’s grace. The fire was laid with old-fashioned skill, he noticed. Newspapers, kindling wood, firelighters, arranged in order with coal on top. He now observed with