Read Online The Body of a Woman by Clare Curzon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Clare Curzon
Ads: Link
her grandmother, she was deep into deceit, concealing her whereabouts from her family; perhaps planning her flight to Montreux with a grown-up lover. Or waiting there alone, and writing back to demand why he hadnât caught up with her?
It had to be Pascal she was involved with. And now this new discovery must surely mean that he was her supplier.
Everything had suddenly changed, yet again lurched into a Kafkaesque distortion. She saw now that searching sheâd been looking for something different, proof that Chloëâs link with the man was less serious; some innocent reason for her writing. It would have been disturbing enough because unsuspected, but hurtful on a personal level only because Leila herself had been attracted, and deceived, by him. Sheâd not have needed to see Chloe and herself in the same predicament.
Now that she knew for certain that the child was in moral danger she must search more thoroughly. She began again, desperately.
Nothing new in the drawers, which yielded only underclothes, with school uniform strictly segregated. The sliding doors of her wardrobe re-opened on to the same hanging garments; on the floor the same games gear and files of school notes, lacrosse and hockey sticks; a box with microscope and slides; shoes neatly lined up in pairs; stationery for personal correspondence and for printer.
Nothing. Leila sat back on her heels. If Chloe had anything relating to her secret life she would have taken it away with her. So what had she actually packed in her single suitcase? Which of her clothes were missing?
As Leilaâs hands brushed along them a hanger clattered and some filmy material cascaded down. She bent to pick it up and saw that at the top it was still attached to the hanger. A full-length evening dress.
She lifted it out. It was of semi-transparent silk chiffon and low cut, panelled on the bias. Weird purples, black and poison green merged into each other under a glittering tracery of silver thread. Quite fabulous.
She laid the dress on the bed and stared at it; imagined Chloe spellbound by its fantasy. And she had never spoken of it, kept to herself what must have been a very thrilling, personal gift, because no way would her pocket money ever have stretched to this.
Leila felt sick at how easily the girl had been bought: with drugs and a fabulous dress.
But she was a greater fool herself, when it took no more than a Centre Court ticket and a river trip to have her convinced that Pascal was in love with her! And herself with him. That had been enough to destroy a lifetimeâs belief in a wifeâs due loyalty. Something inside seemed to shrivel at the thought. âGod,â she moaned, âwhat a pathetic fool!â
She heard the squeal of the garden gate. Someone was approaching the house by the front path. From behind the curtain she looked down and saw Pascal loping towards the front porch. So at last he had thought up some scheme of damage limitation.
She wasnât ready for him. He shouldnât find her here.
He rang three times with long pauses between. Even when his footfalls had died away she stayed crouched beside Chloëâs bed, the fabric of the abominable dress crumpled in one fist. She let time pass before standing up, and found she had stiffened.
She straightened and took stock. One thing about the dress now puzzled her: that it was still here. That and the powder, whatever it was.
If Chloe had special plans for Montreux, why hadnât she
taken these things with her? It was unaccountable, on a level with Pascal himself having stayed behind.
She had thought she knew her stepdaughter. Was it just possible that the extravagant gift of the dress had embarrassed her and sheâd sense enough to see through the motive behind it? Handing it back might have been awkward, involving seeing the man again. The letter from abroad could be her way of explaining how she felt.
No, it was a wilful stretching of imagination to
It had to be Pascal she was involved with. And now this new discovery must surely mean that he was her supplier.
Everything had suddenly changed, yet again lurched into a Kafkaesque distortion. She saw now that searching sheâd been looking for something different, proof that Chloëâs link with the man was less serious; some innocent reason for her writing. It would have been disturbing enough because unsuspected, but hurtful on a personal level only because Leila herself had been attracted, and deceived, by him. Sheâd not have needed to see Chloe and herself in the same predicament.
Now that she knew for certain that the child was in moral danger she must search more thoroughly. She began again, desperately.
Nothing new in the drawers, which yielded only underclothes, with school uniform strictly segregated. The sliding doors of her wardrobe re-opened on to the same hanging garments; on the floor the same games gear and files of school notes, lacrosse and hockey sticks; a box with microscope and slides; shoes neatly lined up in pairs; stationery for personal correspondence and for printer.
Nothing. Leila sat back on her heels. If Chloe had anything relating to her secret life she would have taken it away with her. So what had she actually packed in her single suitcase? Which of her clothes were missing?
As Leilaâs hands brushed along them a hanger clattered and some filmy material cascaded down. She bent to pick it up and saw that at the top it was still attached to the hanger. A full-length evening dress.
She lifted it out. It was of semi-transparent silk chiffon and low cut, panelled on the bias. Weird purples, black and poison green merged into each other under a glittering tracery of silver thread. Quite fabulous.
She laid the dress on the bed and stared at it; imagined Chloe spellbound by its fantasy. And she had never spoken of it, kept to herself what must have been a very thrilling, personal gift, because no way would her pocket money ever have stretched to this.
Leila felt sick at how easily the girl had been bought: with drugs and a fabulous dress.
But she was a greater fool herself, when it took no more than a Centre Court ticket and a river trip to have her convinced that Pascal was in love with her! And herself with him. That had been enough to destroy a lifetimeâs belief in a wifeâs due loyalty. Something inside seemed to shrivel at the thought. âGod,â she moaned, âwhat a pathetic fool!â
She heard the squeal of the garden gate. Someone was approaching the house by the front path. From behind the curtain she looked down and saw Pascal loping towards the front porch. So at last he had thought up some scheme of damage limitation.
She wasnât ready for him. He shouldnât find her here.
He rang three times with long pauses between. Even when his footfalls had died away she stayed crouched beside Chloëâs bed, the fabric of the abominable dress crumpled in one fist. She let time pass before standing up, and found she had stiffened.
She straightened and took stock. One thing about the dress now puzzled her: that it was still here. That and the powder, whatever it was.
If Chloe had special plans for Montreux, why hadnât she
taken these things with her? It was unaccountable, on a level with Pascal himself having stayed behind.
She had thought she knew her stepdaughter. Was it just possible that the extravagant gift of the dress had embarrassed her and sheâd sense enough to see through the motive behind it? Handing it back might have been awkward, involving seeing the man again. The letter from abroad could be her way of explaining how she felt.
No, it was a wilful stretching of imagination to
Similar Books
