Free The Gatecrasher by Sophie Kinsella Page B

suppose.”
    “The Tillings have got eight bedrooms,” volunteered Antony. “And a snooker room.”
    “There you are.” Richard grinned. “Trust Antony to be on the ball.”
    Antony said nothing. He found the sight of Fleur across the table from him unsettling. Was this woman really going out with his dad? She was gorgeous. Gorgeous! And she made his dad look different. When the two of them had arrived the night before, all smart and glamorous looking, they’d looked as if they came from someone else’s family. His dad didn’t look like his dad. And Fleur certainlydidn’t look like anyone’s mum. But she wasn’t a floosie, either, thought Antony. She wasn’t a dolly-bird. She was just . . . beautiful.
    Reaching for his cup, Richard saw Antony staring at Fleur with undisguised admiration. And in spite of himself, he felt a little dart of pride. That’s right, my boy, he felt like saying. Life’s not over for me yet. At the back of his mind ran guilty thoughts like a train: remembered images of Emily sitting just where Fleur now sat; memories of family breakfasts with Emily’s tinkling laugh rising above the conversation. But he stamped on them every time they surfaced; refused to allow his sentimentality to get the better of him. Life was for living; happiness was for taking; Fleur was a wonderful woman. Sitting in the bright sunshine, there seemed nothing more to it than that.
     
    After breakfast, Richard disappeared to get ready for golf. As he had explained to Fleur, today was the Banting Cup. Any other Saturday, he would have forgone golf to show her around the place. But the Banting Cup . . .
    “Don’t worry,” Fleur had said at once. “I’ll be fine.”
    “We can meet up for a drink afterwards,” Richard had added. “Gillian will bring you down to the clubhouse.” He’d paused, and his brow had wrinkled. “Do you mind?”
    “Of course not,” Fleur had said, laughing. “I’ll have a lovely morning on my own.”
    “You won’t be on your own!” Richard had said. “Gillian will look after you.”
    Now Fleur eyed Gillian thoughtfully. She was taking clean plates from the dishwasher and stacking them in a pile. Every time she bent down she gave a little sigh; everytime she stood up she looked as though the effort might kill her.
    “Lovely plates,” said Fleur, getting up. “Simply beautiful. Did you choose them?”
    “What, these?” said Gillian. She looked at the plate in her hand as though she hated it. “Oh no. Emily chose them. Richard’s wife.” She paused, and her voice became harsher. “She was my sister.”
    “I see,” said Fleur.
    Well, it hadn’t taken long to get on to that subject, she thought. The dead, blameless wife. Perhaps she had underestimated this Gillian. Perhaps the attack would begin now. The pursed lips, the hissed threats.
You’re not welcome in my kitchen
. She stood, watching Gillian and waiting. But Gillian’s face remained impassive; pale and pouchy like an undercooked scone.
    “Do you play golf?” said Fleur eventually.
    “A little.”
    “I don’t play at all, I’m afraid. I must try to learn.”
    Gillian didn’t reply. She had begun to put the plates back on the dresser. They were hand-painted pottery plates, each decorated with a different farmyard animal. If they were going to be displayed, thought Fleur, they should at least go the right way up. But Gillian didn’t seem to notice. Each plate went back on the dresser with a crash, until the top shelf and half the second shelf were filled with animals at assorted angles. Then all of a sudden the animals came to an end and she began to fill the rest of the shelves with blue and white patterned china. No! Fleur wanted to exclaim. Can’t you see how ugly that looks? It would take two minutes to make it look nice.
    “Lovely,” she said, as Gillian finished. “I adore farmhouse kitchens.”
    “It’s difficult to keep clean,” said Gillian glumly. “All these tiles. You chop vegetables