Free The Body of a Woman by Clare Curzon Page B

out, but as she opened the front door she saw Aidan’s car turn into the driveway, blocking the way out for her own.
    He’d said he’d be gone for two days, hadn’t he? And that must have been three or four days ago. She seemed to have lost all account of time.
    Whatever, he wasn’t in the sweetest of tempers. As he passed her in the hall he stopped and stared suspiciously. He sniffed. ‘You’ve been drinking. I hope you let someone else drive you home.’
    It was easier to let him think she’d just come in. ‘Of course,’ she said, dumped her shoulder-bag and made again for the kitchen. The smell of toast there was less conspicuous than the brandy but she opened a window straight away. A few minutes later he followed her in and demanded, ‘What’s for dinner?’
    â€˜Breasts of lamb,’ she invented quickly. It seemed to have almost Freudian aptness but her womanising husband missed it.
    â€˜You’re earlier than I expected,’ she told him, ‘so they’re not marinaded yet. We’ll be eating at eight.’
    He hardly seemed to hear what she said, and certainly hadn’t picked up on her uncustomary sharpness. ‘I’ll be in
the lounge,’ he said shortly. ‘You can bring me some coffee through.’
    Drawing-room, she corrected him silently: you’re in the wrong house. You aren’t at your little bimbo’s semi now.
    It amazed her how strong her distaste for him had suddenly become, and what pleasure surged up from such petty rebellion. It seemed she had passed over an invisible line, and instead of the expected guilt at adultery it brought her a kind of angry release.
    At least for that she could thank Pascal.
    She wondered how far rebellion could take her; whether she would become like one of those vengeful wives who cut up their husbands’ suits, poured away their vintage claret and slashed their car tyres. Perhaps, some day; but for the present there were more serious worries to occupy her. And in comparison Aidan’s affaires seemed of little importance.
    What most rankled was his utter inability to understand or help with whatever fix his young daughter had landed herself in. She could never even suggest to him that anything was amiss in Chloë’s life. It would only send him berserk, raging at Leila herself.
    She continued to play the distant housewife, allowing rancour to build silently inside throughout their meal, fortifying her. When the hall phone shrilled she was on her way to the kitchen with her hands full of dishes and all her tension flooded back.
    He beat her to it, anxious to prevent her taking the call. His body language gave him away, hunched with his back towards where he guessed she must be standing. Then the loosening up, the turning to include her: ‘It’s Chloe; she’s calling from Granny’s.’
    After a few meaningless words he handed the receiver across. ‘Mum,’ her stepdaughter greeted her, ‘how’re things? Is the heatwave still on? It’s terrific here. I’ve been swimming in the sea with the boy from the apartment opposite, name of Roger but pronounced Ro-zhay; a bit of a prune actually.’ She
was talking fast to prevent her stepmother squeezing a word in.
    Leila attempted to hold her voice steady. ‘Hello, love. Yes, it’s been baking. Someone dropped by to see you this evening. Remember that serious young man from the library? He brought a book you left behind there.’
    There was silence at the far end of the line and she tried to picture the girl’s face. ‘He seemed disappointed you weren’t here.’
    â€˜Yeah; think I know the one you mean. Rather sweet really. What book was it?’
    â€˜A Martin Amis. I didn’t know you were into that gloomy stuff.’
    â€˜Nor did I. I guess he made it up for an excuse. Philip, I mean. If so, that’s quite enterprising. For him, that