Free The Gatecrasher by Sophie Kinsella Page A

the shiny meringue, and began to munch.

Chapter 5
    Breakfast had been laid in the conservatory.
    “What a lovely room,” said Fleur politely, looking at Gillian’s face, searching for eye contact. But Gillian was looking down at her plate. She had not once met Fleur’s eye since she and Richard had arrived the night before.
    “We like it,” said Richard cheerfully. “Especially in the spring. In the summer, it sometimes gets too hot.”
    There was another silence. Antony put down his teacup and everyone seemed to listen intently to the little tinkle.
    “We built the conservatory about . . . ten years ago,” continued Richard. “Is that right, Gillian?”
    “I expect so,” said Gillian. “More tea, anyone?”
    “Yes please,” said Fleur.
    “Right. Well I’ll make another pot, then,” said Gillian, and she disappeared into the kitchen.
    Fleur took a bite of toast. Things were going rather well, she thought, despite the uneaten roast lamb and pavlova. It had been the boy, Antony, who had confronted them the night before, almost as soon as they had got inside the door, and informed them that Gillian had spent all day cooking.Richard had looked horror-struck, and Fleur had put on a most convincing show of dismay. Fortunately, no-one seemed to blame her. Equally fortunately, it was obvious this morning that no-one was going to mention the matter again.
    “Here you are.” Gillian had returned with the teapot.
    “Wonderful,” said Fleur, smiling into Gillian’s unreceptive face. It was going to be easy, she thought, if all she would have to deal with were awkward silences and a few resentful glares. Glares didn’t bother her at all; neither did raised eyebrows; neither did sidelong comments. That was the blessedness of preying on the reserved British middle classes, she thought, sipping at her tea. They never seemed to talk to one another; they never wanted to rock the boat; they seemed almost more willing to lose all their money than to undergo the embarrassment of a direct confrontation. Which meant that for someone like her, the way was clear.
    She looked curiously at Gillian. For someone who presumably had access to funds, Gillian was wearing particularly hideous clothes. Dark green trousers—slacks, Fleur supposed they would be called—and a blue embroidered cotton shirt with short, workmanlike sleeves. As she leaned over with the teapot, Fleur glimpsed Gillian’s upper arms—solid slabs of white, opaque, almost dead-looking skin.
    Antony’s clothes were a bit better. Fairly standard jeans and a rather nice red shirt. It was a shame about his birthmark. Had they not been able to treat it? Possibly not, because it stretched right across his eye. If he’d been a girl, of course, he’d have been able to wear makeup . . . Other than that, thought Fleur, he was a handsome boy. He took after his father.
    Fleur’s gaze flitted idly over to Richard. He was leaning back in his chair, looking out of the conservatory into the garden, with an apparent look of contentment on his face, as though he were beginning a holiday. As he felt her eyes on him, he glanced up and smiled. Fleur smiled back. It was easy to smile at Richard, she thought. He was a good man, kind and considerate, and not nearly as dull as she had first feared. These last few weeks had been fun.
    But it was money she needed, not fun. She hadn’t persevered so hard in order to end up with a limited income and holidays in Majorca. Fleur gave an inward sigh, and took another sip of tea. Sometimes the effort of pursuing money quite exhausted her; sometimes she began to think that Majorca would not be so bad after all. But that was weakness. She hadn’t come so far simply to give up. She would achieve her goal. She
had
to achieve it. Apart from anything else, it was the only goal she had.
    She looked up at Richard and smiled.
    “Is this the largest house on the Greyworth estate?”
    “I don’t think so,” said Richard. “One of the largest, I