Free The Body of a Woman by Clare Curzon

think that Chloe had repudiated him and that, rejected, he’d then meant to use her stepmother to regain access. And yet why else such deliberate pursuit? - and it had been deliberate, she saw now; from the first, with that self-guying, stage-Gallic role he’d played to catch her attention at the cricket match.
    Holding the dress close Leila now became aware of its perfume. The whole wardrobe had smelled faintly of Chloë’s favourite Je Reviens - one of Uncle Charles’s unsuitable gifts last Christmas. The scent certainly didn’t come off her laundered school uniform. It was this filmy material that had perfumed the rest.
    Which suggested that Chloe had already worn it.
    Now that Leila examined it more closely she found a drawn thread puckering the fabric of one slim shoulder strap. And the hem had been amateurishly turned up to make it two inches shorter. Not even hemmed, but secured at distances of four or five inches with stationery staples.
    At some time Chloe must have gone out dressed in this seductive outfit and her parents had known nothing of it. Nor that she was experimenting with what could be cocaine.
    There seemed no end to the disasters that threatened to submerge her. For a short while Leila’s reason deserted her. In febrile shock she went round the house double-locking outer doors and closing windows, as if preparing for a high gale. She felt the house under siege, and herself gone to earth like a hunted beast.
    Shaking, she fetched a decanter and a tumbler from the
dining room and went back upstairs. In her own room she slid beneath the duvet. One outstretched arm encountered Aidan’s folded pyjamas and she recoiled, dragged herself from the bed and fled to the ochre and terracotta stage-set of Chloë’s room. Nothing, herself included, was normal any more. She was become part of the surreal.
    There she closed Chloë’s dark curtains and turned on the overhead light - at eleven o’clock on a bright summer morning. It was insane and she dimly acknowledged it. She shed all her clothes and slid between the cool sheets, poured brandy into the chattering glass, then lay shivering, despite a temperature already in the eighties.
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    It was the doorbell’s shrilling that half-woke her. Still confused by the brandy she stumbled downstairs. The brain inside her skull felt swollen, pressing hotly behind her eyes. It beat at each step and her balance was uncertain. In the hall she clung to the newel post to steady herself, gasping as she bruised her naked breasts.
    She was aware enough to seize a raincoat from the lobby and cover herself before opening the front door. It was then she recalled the danger: that Pascal could have come after her.
    Someone she didn’t know was standing there - a young man in shirtsleeves and chinos. He was trying not to notice her dishevelled appearance. ‘What is it?’ she demanded.
    He had to explain twice over because she didn’t grasp his connection with the library. Then it appeared that he worked there and he’d called here on his way home.
    So it was evening now. And yes, she did remember him after all. He had been the serious one usually date-stamping or working at the computer keyboard.
    It seemed the book was for her daughter. Chloë must have left it behind: one from her list for exam work. By mistake it
had been put back on the shelves where a helpful browser had reported something of Chloë’s inside. Then a librarian remembered a student laying it down to riffle through her tote bag. She could have gone off without it.
    The young man hoped it wasn’t too late to be helpful with her work. It must be the end of term soon.
    â€˜Yes, yes. Thank you.’ It was too complicated to explain that Chloë was away, having been allowed, like other pupils, to slope off early once her own exams were over.
    The young man wanted to linger and chat but she shut the door firmly on him and relocked