Free Don't Get Me Wrong by Marianne Kavanagh Page A

always sells. Although I won’t see a penny of it, of course.”
    â€œIzzie and I are looking for a flat together.”
    Grace frowned. “You’re not living with Eva? Well, of course I understand that. Babies aren’t to everybody’s taste. All those wet nappies. And the crying. Half the time, there’s nothing wrong with them at all. They just want attention.” She shot Kim a sideways glance. “So go on, then.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Grace looked impatient. “Is it Harry’s?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œHasn’t she said?”
    â€œNot to me.”
    The last conversation had been the worst. Kim, her back toEva as she washed up the supper dishes, had tried to suggest that it wasn’t fair on the baby to keep its parentage secret. Surely everyone has the right to know who their father is. And what if there’s some kind of genetic disease that needs specialist treatment? Alcoholism? Depression? When she turned round, Eva was looking at her rather sadly. Kim, she said, I know you want everything neat and tidy. But life isn’t like that. It’s messy and unpredictable and out of control. This is best for me and the baby. I want you to accept that. And Kim, silenced by the expression in Eva’s eyes, felt ashamed.
    â€œI thought sisters were supposed to tell each other everything.”
    So did I.
    â€œIt seems the most likely explanation. That’s why she’s decided to keep it. At least Harry’s doing the honorable thing and paying for her living expenses. God knows we need more men like him, willing to take responsibility for their actions.”
    It could be anyone. A one-night stand. Someone married with children. The father of one of her guitar pupils. In her head, Kim saw a disparate group of men turning to face her, like suspects in a police lineup.
    And then she saw Harry, smiling.
    Grace clasped her hands together, like an angel praying. “They’re so right for each other, don’t you think? I love the way Harry laughs. Finds everything so amusing. And making a fortune in the City.” She sighed. “We’ll just have to hope they get together once the baby’s born. Set up home somewhere sweet and unpretentious. Like Chelsea.”
    Oh, thought Kim, flooded by silent rage, go back to Nice. Go and stalk some more faded socialites living on memories of past glamour. Because you’re not doing any good here. But I can’t say it out loud. Because I look at your face—at your fine cheekbones and your blue eyes and your white-blond hair—and all I see is Eva.
    â€œI hope she’s not expecting me to rush back when it’s born. I’m not really the grandmother type. And I don’t have any ties to London anymore.”
    Apart from two daughters who live here.
    â€œIt’s so shockingly rude these days. No courtesy. No one says good morning or holds the door open for you. So different from the Côte d’Azur. Although they do try to take advantage even there, you know. You have to be very firm. A gentleman came up to me on the Promenade des Anglais the other day and said, Would you do me the great honor of having lunch with me, madame, and I said no thank you, and he said, But I will be devastated if you don’t accept, accablé de chagrin , and I said, ‘ Monsieur, je suis trop pressée .’ Too busy. Perhaps I shouldn’t have let him down so gently. I should have said, That’s an outrageous suggestion. You’re a perfect stranger. I don’t go off and have lunch with just anybody.”
    That’s not what I remember.
    â€œBut it’s all gone from London, you know, that old-fashioned courtesy. No manners at all. Men spitting in the street. Young women lolling about, drunk, with their skirts up to their armpits. Although, from what I hear, it’s no better in the country. All those four-by-fours and sex parties. People with titles