Free Enough to Kill a Horse by Elizabeth Ferrars

‘Anyway, everything seems to be a mess – my poor party particularly.’
    ‘And I wish you’d stop dropping hints about Susan,’ Kit said, going towards the door, the bottle of aspirins held in a clenched hand as if it were a bomb that he was preparing to throw. ‘There never was anything on Susan’s side, except that she quite liked me. D’you think I’d have let you invite her today or that she’d have agreed to come, if there’d been more than that?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ Fanny said. ‘I don’t know what people are capable of. Sometimes I feel I don’t know anything about them.’
    ‘You might be right at that,’ Kit said and walked out.
    Fanny went on pulling the comb through her hair. She went on looking at herself. She went on searching for something in her own reflection that at the moment she could not find there. Then she dabbed clumsily at her face with a powder-puff, reached for a bottle of perfume, put rather too much of it on her neck and her wrists, got to her feet with a sigh and went downstairs.
    She found Basil alone in the sitting room. He was reading some sort of scientific textbook while Martin the cat purred on his stomach and Spike the dog dozed before the fire. The room had been made ready for the party. Glasses and bottles were set out on a table. Saucers of salted almonds, olives and such things had been placed in strategic positions. Jean’s armful of almond blossom filled the window.
    Basil glanced up from his book and said at once, ‘From the look of you, you could do with a drink before people start coming.’
    Fanny dropped into a chair, saying, ‘Bless you, my darling. What in this world would I do without you?’
    Without consulting her, he brought her a whisky and soda.
    She took a gulp of it, coughed and said hoarsely, ‘Not that anyone’s likely to come. Laura’s got a bad headache and has gone to lie down. I don’t know if that’s because of the quarrel you said she was having with Kit, or because of Susan, but whichever it is, she’s keeping out of the way. And Kit’s in a stinking temper.’
    ‘With her?’
    ‘With me. I said too much as usual.’
    ‘Well, if only the Mordues would think up some good reason for not coming,’ Basil said, ‘we’d have a nice quiet evening.’
    ‘Where’s Clare?’ Fanny asked.
    ‘Changing her dress. Which reminds me, I’d better go and change too.’
    ‘You look all right to me.’ To Fanny he always looked as if his shirt had just been laundered, his suit just pressed, his shoes just polished. This result he mysteriously achieved without any effort that was apparent to her and without any help from her. But he had his firm code, also mysterious to her, of what he must wear at what time and it was useless for her to try to interfere with it. He made no reply to her now, but, suddenly in a hurry, went out.
    Fanny swallowed some more of her drink and found herself beginning to feel better. Another few gulps, she thought, and she would probably be feeling quite human. The room looked charming and felt very peaceful. If only, as Basil had suggested, nobody at all would come and he, she, and Clare could have a nice quiet evening together with all those bottles and the good things to eat, it would really be the best possible thing that could happen.
    The bell rang.
    Fanny started to her feet. She had not heard the creak of the garden gate that usually warned her of visitors, or the sound of any footsteps on the path, so that the shrill sound of the bell had caught her by surprise. She swallowed the rest of her drink hurriedly, put the used glass down in an inconspicuous place, and went to open the door.
    An elderly man, tall, stooping and white-haired, stood in the doorway.
    ‘I’m afraid I’m rather early,’ he said, smiling hesitantly.
    The smile did Fanny a world of good. In an instant she was delighted that there was going to be a party, that guests were arriving.
    ‘You couldn’t be too early, Sir Peter,’ she