Read Online Undercurrent by Frances Fyfield - Free Book Online

the little brute said she wanted a blonde mummy next time, that was what she would have.

    No. Not blonde. That was Francesca's colour. It might remind her.

    Coffee; too early for a drink as long as it was daylight. She looked into the refrigerator, anxiously, checking supplies. A piece of cold chicken, a bottle of cheap Bulgarian wine, a dozen kinds of the yoghurt that Tanya loved, enough for a meal, later. Gone were the days of finer foods, all ending, as they had begun, with Francesca. When the doorbell rang, she made a quick, furious check of the tea and coffee supply, and hoped to heaven it was no one she owed the politeness of hospitality.

    As if there was anyone to who she owed nothing, or any time when she could refuse to answer the door, or fail to explain why it was her daughter was asleep in the afternoon. Because we get up so early, see ?
    On her way across the carpet (worn, but subject to rigorous cleaning; must not let anyone imagine standards were slipping) she flipped the switch to the radio, filling the flat with the calm music of Classic FM. Made her look as if she was in control; relaxed; in command, not someone waiting for inspection.

    Maggie, looking bloody brilliant, in the way she did. A ripe, well proportioned figure in just the right kind of warm, lightweight coat, slimline trousers, neat little boots which combined practicality with a touch of elegance, and a somewhat breathless Hello! Just wondered if everything was all right. . . Bitch. Hate her. Coming round for a sympathy fix, the sort which was given but never solicited, making Angela feel deficient.

    It was hard accepting solicitude from someone who never seemed to need it. Angela knew what she was going to say before she said it; the words were already assembled like something wrapped for the post. Hello! Maggie, nice to see you, come on in, won't you ? the smile on the face ready glued like the stamp on the parcel, hoping she really was just passing.

    'I was just passing,' Maggie said: the way you did when you lodged in the other direction. The just passing stuff was nosy neighbour code and it was bad manners to be seen to doubt it. 'On my way out,' Maggie continued. 'And I'm late already. I just thought I'd bring you these. . .' Now this was better already; an immediate announcement of no intention to stay. Angela liked that kind of visitor and she smiled with extra special warmth as she accepted the flowers. Winter blooms, on closer inspection, snowdrops wrapped in brown paper, not long picked and artfully bound. Angela never knew what to do with flowers. These were tasteful, without being edible.

    'I was thinking of sending some to Francesca,' Maggie was saying. 'Only then I remembered they wouldn't let her have them. Don't know why. Infectious or something, some new rule.'

    'Bastards,' Angela said with real feeling. 'Bastards.' She squared her shoulders, put the proffered flowers on the chair by the door with a nod of thanks she did not feel. 'I've got to dry my hair. Why don't you go and look at Tanya? She's fast asleep, poor love.'

    It was important that she make this child accessible to anyone who wanted to see her. She must always answer the door and behave politely, make it clear there was absolutely nothing to hide.
    Maggie crossed the floor of the living room into the bedroom with long-legged speed. Angela heard the muted ahhh of appreciation as she stood by the bed, and almost liked her for that. No one could be all that bad if they loved the child. She liked Maggie all the more when she was back within the minute, adjusting her scarf, ready for the off without a single suggestion of lingering longer.

    She had a ski hat with darling little tassels bursting from the crown, poking out of her bag. It matched her brown boots, would look perfect over her voluminous, well dressed hair. There was a pale scarf at her neck, too; she would never get cold. Sheer, naked dislike returned. They stood by the door. Maggie had opened it,