Free The Right Thing by Judy Astley Page B

like something that you heard on television when people were trying to sound West Country combined with posh.
    â€˜So who have we here?’ A light snapped on, leaving Amanda and Petroc blinking helplessly. Amanda squeaked and clung to Petroc, hiding her face in his shoulder as if it made her invisible.
    â€˜Shit. I’d forgotten,’ Petroc said, looking the amused man in the eyes and attempting a smile. ‘Are you George Moorfield?’
    George treated him to a sardonic grin. ‘And are you burglar or squatter or,’ and his head inclined towards Amanda who was now gazing at him with blatant interest, her mouth unprettily gaping, ‘just looking for somewhere private for a shag?’
    Amanda giggled and Petroc felt foolish and caught out. ‘I’m Petroc, Kitty and Glyn’s son. And I forgot you were here and I’m really sorry to have barged in. We’ll go now.’ He tugged on Amanda’s hand but she didn’t move.
    â€˜Are you really George Moorfield? I’ve read all your books. I think they’re wonderful, especially Framing Cain, ’ she gushed. Petroc sighed, sensing imminent defeat. George ran his fingers through his long sparse hair and gave her the kind of smile Petroc assumed he kept for charming intellectually uppity arts-programme interviewers.
    â€˜Why don’t you two come in and join me for a drink?’ he oozed at Amanda. ‘Tea or coffee though, as I’m off the other stuff for now.’
    â€˜I should get you back home. It’s getting late,’ Petroc tried lamely to claim her back. ‘And you’ve got to get up for the milking tomorrow, you said.’ She looked from him to George who put up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Up to you entirely. Or maybe you two would prefer to dash up the stairs and take advantage of room eight?’ Petroc glared but he continued, ‘After all that’s what you came here for, isn’t it? I do remember lust you know, even at my age. Especially at my age, come to think of it.’
    Amanda looked flustered and took hold of Petroc’s hand again. ‘I do have to get up early,’ she said, ‘so maybe we should just go.’
    The air was damp and chilly in the yard. Amanda climbed into the Mini, drew her legs up onto the seat and wrapped her arms round them. ‘George Moorfield!’ she sighed, ‘I’ve always really deeply admired him. When he writes about sex, it’s not like, you know, just prose. He does something with the words so it’s like sacred or something, even higher than poetic.’ It was the longest and most enthusiastic speech she’d come out with all day and Petroc felt depressed. The girl was clearly thrilled, but not by him. Well, not any more.
    Petroc tried starting the car, the engine whining over and over. Furious with the whole world, he shoved his foot hard down on the accelerator. The engine still wouldn’t turn over. ‘I haven’t read him,’ he said flatly. Didn’t intend to either, he thought, smarmy git. He tried the ignition again. ‘Shit, I think I’ve flooded it. Now we’ll have to wait.’
    â€˜Boring.’ Amanda was grumpy now. ‘Oh look he’s coming out again.’ She wound down her window and let in a blast of misty air.
    â€˜Having trouble? I could hear you not getting started.’ George Moorfield’s lion mane of grey hair was horribly close to Amanda’s face. Petroc scowled at him, sensing that ‘not getting started’ referred not just to the car. ‘Just a bit flooded, I’ll try again.’ He did and the engine whined miserably. ‘You’re flattening it,’ George pointed out helpfully. ‘But I’ve got to get home!’ Amanda fretted.
    Petroc groaned, knowing what was coming next, and it did, ‘No problem, I’ll run you there, if you just give me directions,’ the Great Author told her, opening the