A Ghost in the Machine Read Online Free Page B

in the glove compartment.”
    â€œYou’re way ahead of me.”
    â€œTell him to chuck it.”
    Judith made her way reluctantly into the hall, marvelling at the casual ease with which the solution had been offered. It wasn’t Ashley’s fault. He had no idea how difficult, desperate even, their plight had become. He thought his wife had given up her Aylesbury office and laid off her clerk purely so she could work from home and look after him. But that was only part of it.
    The heart of the problem was that, until Ashley’s illness had been properly diagnosed, his insurance would not pay out and the disability allowance people had also dug their heels in. And Judith could not afford to keep them both and also pay rent for an office and wages.
    An unforeseen by-product of the decision to work from home had been a suggestion from one high-profile customer that, as her overheads would now be so much lower, his fees should be reduced. Instead of explaining the circumstances behind her decision, worry and nervous strain provoked a quick, sharply worded refusal. He transferred his account elsewhere.
    The foot-and-mouth crisis in British farming took its toll and several of her agricultural clients chose this year to give up. Then there was the young couple with a thriving specialist food business who decided, with advice and support from the Internet, to go it alone.
    So there was no question, thought Judith, watching the neatly perforated pages of immaculately printed lies falling softly into her in-tray, of telling slimy Alec to chuck it.
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    Meanwhile, at a much more glamorous residence just a few miles south in the village of Bunting St. Clare, the Lathams had arrived back from Carey Lawson’s interment.
    Gilda began to undo a glittery black lace coat, which was practically splitting apart under the strain of trying to decently constrain her massive bust. You could almost hear it sighing with relief as the buttons popped. Underneath lay several acres of taffeta, ruched rather in the manner of an Austrian blind: a dress as wide as it was short. Flesh coloured, it appeared briefly, to her husband’s startled gaze, horribly like a crumpled version of the real thing. She pirouetted slowly.
    â€œHow do I look?”
    â€œA credit to your mortician, my love.”
    â€œDon’t mumble. I’ve told you before.” She pulled down the hem of her dress. It sprang up again. She sighed. “If that wasn’t a waste of a beautiful afternoon perhaps you’d tell me what is?”
    Recognising his wife’s remark as an opening salvo rather than a serious question Andrew did not immediately reply. He was a man with a headful of turbulent thoughts – gross, violent, implacable – and a mouthful of ever-ready platitudes – polite, conciliatory, gutless. Sometimes these two achievements coincided, as they did now.
    â€œI’m sorry you didn’t enjoy it, sweetheart.”
    Define the waste of a beautiful afternoon. Well, there was dragging the Mountfield over the bloody lawn while the trouble and strife lay in an overstuffed hammock crushing chocolate brazils between her fearsome mandibles and telling you your stripes weren’t straight. Or there was having a highly expensive lunch out with a partner very much not of your choice, who masticated with her mouth open, gobbling three-quarters of every course before complaining that it tasted peculiar and sending it back to the kitchen. But actually the worst, the very, very worst waste of a beautiful afternoon Andrew Latham dare not entertain in his mind even for a second for fear the thought might be catching.
    â€œAnd what did I say before we left?” asked Gilda.
    â€œDoes my bum look big in this?”
    â€œThere you go again. Mumbling.” She was removing a hatpin as long as a skewer with a lump of amber stuck on the end. “I said, they won’t want any of your pathetic, quote, jokes,