Read Online The Elephant Girl (Choc Lit) by Henriette Gyland - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Henriette Gyland
Ads: Link
huh?’
The challenge was still there, and Helen backed down. There was time for revenge another day. She’d find a way to make Fay’s life miserable, and then she’d make sure Fay knew why.
Suddenly Fay smiled, losing ten years in an instant. ‘Trust Winston to only give you half the picture. You’re standing right in front of it. For what it’s worth.’
Chapter Five
Taken aback, Helen blinked. Was Fay having her on? Was it possible for a fabricated excuse to turn to gold like this?
Fay didn’t seem to notice her surprise. ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘See if you like the room. Jason will be back soon. He deals with the official stuff. He’ll fill you in.’
She began to hoist the shopping bag up the steps to the front door, pausing on every step, with the strain showing in her face after each heave.
Without rationalising it, Helen put her hand on the trolley handle. ‘Here, let me help.’
‘No!’
Helen withdrew as if she’d been slapped.
‘Sorry,’ said Fay. ‘It’s not you. It’s a matter of principle. As long as I can haul this thing up the steps every day, I can persuade myself I’m not getting old. Silly, isn’t it?’
‘No, not really,’ Helen murmured, surprised she was chatting with this murderess.
Fay unlocked the door and beckoned Helen inside a spacious hallway. Despite the cracked floor tiles and yellowed and stained wallpaper, you could see the house had once been a grand family home, but two world wars and economic decline had reduced it to a humble state.
Running her hand over the wall, Helen didn’t see the neglect. Instead she saw the house as a gentle giant, patiently waiting until someone lavished tender loving care on it.
‘I like it,’ she said.
‘Wait until you see the kitchen. It’s ancient. This way.’
The back of the house opened up into a large kitchen which doubled as a communal living room. Mismatched kitchen units on the walls provided a frame for a large scuffed dining table in the centre with a collection of odd chairs around it. A pepper grinder stood between two old wine bottles which served as candle holders. Years of use had created a multicoloured-wax drip pattern, red, green, white, blue and even black. A stack of unwashed dishes stood on the kitchen counter next to a chipped ceramic sink with some antiquated plumbing which might possibly be original. At the end of the room a set of double doors led into an untended garden with a dilapidated shed leaning against the fence at the back.
From a battered sofa a young woman was watching TV with a black cat on her chest and a ginger one by her feet, but she put the cats down when she saw them come in, switched off the TV, and began to help Fay with the shopping.
She had blonde dreadlocks, tattoos on her arms and silver rings through her nose, eyebrow and bottom lip, and she stared unashamedly at Helen.
‘Another one of your strays, Fay?’
‘No, this is …’ Fay frowned at Helen. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’
‘I didn’t give it.’
The girl with the dreadlocks snorted with laughter.
‘It’s Helen. Helen … Stephens.’ She’d almost lied about her name before remembering that Fay would never have heard it before. Yelena Stephanov had died with her mother. Helen Stephens had been born at age five, when Aggie put her in foster care.
Opening the fridge, Fay sent her a sideways glance. ‘Are you sure I don’t know you?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘There’s something very familiar about you. You weren’t at New Hall, by any chance?’
‘No.’
‘Holloway?’
Helen shook her head, puzzled by this line of questioning. ‘I get that a lot. Apparently I look like Sheryl Crow.’
‘Perhaps. Anyway, this is Charlie. Helen’s interested in the room,’ she added for Charlie’s benefit.
‘Lucky you,’ said Charlie. ‘So where did they bang you up, then?’
She was saved from answering as the door opened and a man came in. Her eyes wandered from his trainers and
The challenge was still there, and Helen backed down. There was time for revenge another day. She’d find a way to make Fay’s life miserable, and then she’d make sure Fay knew why.
Suddenly Fay smiled, losing ten years in an instant. ‘Trust Winston to only give you half the picture. You’re standing right in front of it. For what it’s worth.’
Chapter Five
Taken aback, Helen blinked. Was Fay having her on? Was it possible for a fabricated excuse to turn to gold like this?
Fay didn’t seem to notice her surprise. ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘See if you like the room. Jason will be back soon. He deals with the official stuff. He’ll fill you in.’
She began to hoist the shopping bag up the steps to the front door, pausing on every step, with the strain showing in her face after each heave.
Without rationalising it, Helen put her hand on the trolley handle. ‘Here, let me help.’
‘No!’
Helen withdrew as if she’d been slapped.
‘Sorry,’ said Fay. ‘It’s not you. It’s a matter of principle. As long as I can haul this thing up the steps every day, I can persuade myself I’m not getting old. Silly, isn’t it?’
‘No, not really,’ Helen murmured, surprised she was chatting with this murderess.
Fay unlocked the door and beckoned Helen inside a spacious hallway. Despite the cracked floor tiles and yellowed and stained wallpaper, you could see the house had once been a grand family home, but two world wars and economic decline had reduced it to a humble state.
Running her hand over the wall, Helen didn’t see the neglect. Instead she saw the house as a gentle giant, patiently waiting until someone lavished tender loving care on it.
‘I like it,’ she said.
‘Wait until you see the kitchen. It’s ancient. This way.’
The back of the house opened up into a large kitchen which doubled as a communal living room. Mismatched kitchen units on the walls provided a frame for a large scuffed dining table in the centre with a collection of odd chairs around it. A pepper grinder stood between two old wine bottles which served as candle holders. Years of use had created a multicoloured-wax drip pattern, red, green, white, blue and even black. A stack of unwashed dishes stood on the kitchen counter next to a chipped ceramic sink with some antiquated plumbing which might possibly be original. At the end of the room a set of double doors led into an untended garden with a dilapidated shed leaning against the fence at the back.
From a battered sofa a young woman was watching TV with a black cat on her chest and a ginger one by her feet, but she put the cats down when she saw them come in, switched off the TV, and began to help Fay with the shopping.
She had blonde dreadlocks, tattoos on her arms and silver rings through her nose, eyebrow and bottom lip, and she stared unashamedly at Helen.
‘Another one of your strays, Fay?’
‘No, this is …’ Fay frowned at Helen. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’
‘I didn’t give it.’
The girl with the dreadlocks snorted with laughter.
‘It’s Helen. Helen … Stephens.’ She’d almost lied about her name before remembering that Fay would never have heard it before. Yelena Stephanov had died with her mother. Helen Stephens had been born at age five, when Aggie put her in foster care.
Opening the fridge, Fay sent her a sideways glance. ‘Are you sure I don’t know you?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘There’s something very familiar about you. You weren’t at New Hall, by any chance?’
‘No.’
‘Holloway?’
Helen shook her head, puzzled by this line of questioning. ‘I get that a lot. Apparently I look like Sheryl Crow.’
‘Perhaps. Anyway, this is Charlie. Helen’s interested in the room,’ she added for Charlie’s benefit.
‘Lucky you,’ said Charlie. ‘So where did they bang you up, then?’
She was saved from answering as the door opened and a man came in. Her eyes wandered from his trainers and
Similar Books
