Foetal Attraction Read Online Free Page B

her pelt, Maddy could see that she was fashionably thin. So thin, in fact, she could have been attached to her own charm bracelet. Mind you, her bracelet was the only charming thing about her. ‘And this’, Gillian Cassells pointed towards the door, her nails snapping forth from a clenched fist like five lethal flick-knives, ‘is Imelda.’ A miniscule Filippino woman bobbed into view. ‘She’ll be appearing from time to time to do my washing-up for me.’ She sheathed her flick-knives. ‘I have delicate cuticles.’
    The Octavias and Clarissas and Saskias observed the late-comer dubiously. To Maddy’s cringing regret, Gillian shimmied on to the empty stool at her side. Having perched her pert posterior, she reached forward and crisply tore one clean white sheet of notepaper from Maddy’s pad. ‘I’m sure you don’t mind.’
    Maddy placed the notepad primly on her lap. ‘Be my bloody guest.’
    ‘An antipodean?’ Gillian slid her overly made-up eyes the length and breadth of Maddy’s attire. ‘Don’t tell me. Your clothes are still in storage?’
    ‘Pay attention, gels!’ Plum trilled. ‘One must soak the brains for twenty-four hours to get rid of any nasty bits.’ Maddy felt that this was the procedure from which Gillian Cassells’ grey matter could benefit immensely. When she imparted this helpful observation, Gillian uttered a little hiss of amusement and crossed her sheerly stockinged legs. ‘So, what kind of husband are
you
after?’
    Maddy’s face flushed with exasperation. ‘What?’
    ‘A cooking course is part of an Englishwoman’s dowry. Look around. Do any of these women look married to you?’
    Maddy put her head in her hands in mock shock. ‘Is this the nineties? Oh God, for a minute there I thought I was in some terrible Doris Day time warp.’
    Gillian narrowed her eyes with glee. ‘Oh, goodee. A feminist. What fun.’
    Maddy felt a spasm of irritation zigzag across her temples. Who was this terrible woman? She’d strutted straight out of the pages of the
Sloane Ranger Handbook
. Maddy had never met anyone quite as narcissistic. Gillian Cassells was the type to jump out of her own birthday cake. Maddy drummed her fingers on the stippled bench surface and resolutely ignored her new neighbour.
    ‘Do you know what feminism has achieved for women?’ Gillian baited. ‘Ulcers, coronaries and shorter life spans.’
    Maddy’s resolve melted like the butter in the demonstration saucepan. ‘Not to mention the vote, abortion, the freedom not to sit around waiting for Mr Right—’
    ‘Mister?’ Gilliam reeled back, scandalized. ‘My dear, who said anything about
Mister
? I’m not waiting for Mister Right, but Lord, Baron …
Marquis
Right, at the very least!’
    Maddy turned her back dismissively and tried to concentrate on the teacher’s instructions. Plum was wielding what looked like a judge’s gavel. With it she pounded the tangle of bicycle inner tubes until they resembled something they had recently run over. The smell of corrupt flesh was overwhelming.
    Gillian leant conspiratorially close and whispered hot in her earhole. ‘Seeing as you’re new to our shores, a little advice. A potential husband must have three qualities. A good background, a good school and – most importantly of all – cash flow.’
    ‘Excuse me, Zsa Zsa Gabor, but does the word “sponge” mean anything to you? “Gimme girl”, “gold digger”, “fortune hunter”?’
    Gillian snorted with approval. ‘Oh no. I’ve been a
mis
fortune hunter for most of my life. Honestly, if there’s an unemployed dishwasher within fifty miles, I’ll find him. Any man with a portrait of James Dean in needle-tracks on his inner thigh definitely has my name on him. But not any more. Oh, no. I’m changing tactics. Hence the acquisition of a cooking course certificate. Not so I can
cook
. But for prominent wall display . I’m trading in the “rough trade” for a man with holes in the backs of his hand-stitched