Free Bella by Jilly Cooper Page B

in.’
    ‘Over my dead body,’ she hissed, snatching her hand away from him.
    Then the inevitable happened. Steve and Angora were no longer there.
    Lazlo gave Rupert and Bella a lift. The top of the car was down, the night all warm, and Bella looked up at the endless stars, trying to convince herself her life wasn’t over.
    Rupert put his arm round her.
    ‘Don’t maul me,’ she yelled, suddenly at breaking point.
    There was a shocked silence. Rupert went white. ‘Take it easy, darling,’ he said gently.
    ‘I’m sorry, love,’ said Bella, a moment later taking his hand.
    But in the driving mirror, she saw a glint of satisfaction in Lazlo’s eyes.

Chapter Nine
    As a result of hangovers, none of them had gone down to the country until late on the day after Gay’s wedding. They all felt jaded. The only answer seemed to start drinking again.
    It was Angora, probably at Lazlo’s instigation, who suggested they play table-turning. Everyone, except Bella, agreed with alacrity. A polished table and a glass were found; the lights were dimmed.
    At first the glass produced no messages for anyone; then, chided by Chrissie that the spirits would not work unless they stopped fooling about, they started to concentrate.
    The glass hovered a bit, then spelt out that Lazlo was going on a journey, which impressed everyone because he was flying to Zurich tomorrow night, and it told Angora she was due for measles.
    Then it spelt Mabel.
    ‘We don’t know anyone called Mabel,’ said Angora.
    ‘Yes, we do,’ said Steve. ‘Bella, of course.’
    ‘Bella?’ said Rupert in surprise. ‘But she’s Isabella.’
    ‘No, she’s not. I’ve known her longer than you and her name’s not Bella. She was born Mabel Figge, to be exact.’
    Bella blushed scarlet.
    Angora gave a crow of joy. ‘You’re never called Mabel Figge!’ And she went off into peals of laughter. Chrissie grinned delightedly.
    ‘Shut up, Angora!’ snapped Rupert. ‘Let’s go on with the message for Bella.’
    They all put their fingers on the glass.
    ‘G-o h-o-m-e’ it spelt out slowly. Then, suddenly, taking on a life of its own, it veered round the table, spelling out ‘T-w-o t-i-m-i-n-g g-o-l-d d-i-g-g-e-r.’
    There was a long pause.
    Then Bella screamed, ‘Someone’s pushing that glass!’
    ‘Darling,’ Rupert protested, ‘it’s only a game.’
    ‘And you can shut up!’ she shouted at him, and, jumping to her feet, she caught her bag on the edge of the table. Everything cascaded on to the floor, her mirror breaking.
    ‘And I hope it brings you all seven hundred years’ bad luck!’ she screamed.
    She gave a sob and fled upstairs, locking herself in her bedroom and lying on her bed, crying just loudly enough for people to hear.
    Later, Rupert came upstairs and banged on her door until she let him in.
    ‘You’re over-reacting,’ he said. ‘They’re only teasing.’
    ‘Throwing darts into a maddened bull, more likely,’ she stormed.
    He started kissing her; then followed the inevitable row because he wanted to make love to her. Suddenly, the fight went out of her.
    ‘Oh well, go on if you must, I don’t care,’ she said listlessly.
    Rupert stared at her for a minute.
    ‘Thanks,’ he said coldly, ‘but I never accept charity,’ and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
    It was early dawn when she finally fell asleep, and late dawn when she woke up, head splitting, gravel behind her eyes.
    Desperate for aspirins, she got up and wandered down the passage to the bathroom she shared with Angora.
    There were no pills in the cupboard, only bath salts and cologne. She weighed herself on the scales. God, she was putting on weight. She must stop all this misery eating.
    She got off the scales and turned them up seven pounds. That would screw up Angora and her flaming slimming diets.
    On the way back, she paused outside Angora’s bedroom. The door was ajar. She peered in, uneasily breathing in the smell of French cigarettes,