Just For the Summer Read Online Free Page B

a fish for a brain.’
    ‘Rubbish,’ Clare lied briskly, avoiding Miranda’s exquisitely made-up eye in the mirror. ‘And anyway I don’t get much adult conversation, surrounded by you infants all day and Jack still in London. I’m looking forward to a party.’
    ‘Party! Fish-brain Liz, drunken Eliot and boring old Celia and Archie! You’re wasting your lovely frock!’ She was probably right, Clare thought, scrabbling in the crumbed depths of her handbag for a lipstick. It would probably be another of those well-behaved parties where there are just enough people so the conversation did not run out, but not so many that anyone could slope off without the others noticing. The opportunity to behave uncharacteristically dreadfully only arose at a vast gathering where only one’s own partner kept an eye on what one was up to and could easily be lied to later. Not that Clare had any practice at this, but she did read a lot.
    Clare blotted her inexpert lipstick and glared at herself in the mirror. Why am I thinking in this appalling way? she asked her reflection. It’s immoral, it’s unsisterly, it’s despicable. It was also fun. She put her hands each side of her face and pulled gently on the soft skin, flatteningout the lines and taking away a good ten years. It’s my age, she concluded.
    Now they were on the Lynchs’ terrace, by the pool. Clare had brought a tomato salad and a very large bottle of Beaujolais along with the beer. The Lynchs’ pool was splashy and noisy with small children. The older ones sprawled on deckchairs, renewing their holiday friendships, going over their recent exams and showing off as to who had done worst.
    Clare envied the Lynchs their domestic arrangements. Bringing plates (no cracks, everything matching) from the kitchen, she had had a quick look round at all the stuff, the dishwasher, the microwave, ice cream maker, food processor. Clare had a kitchen just like this back home in Barnes and she wondered as she stood amongst Liz’s paraphernalia why on earth she left it each year to rush to a cottage which was hardly better equipped than a campsite. If this was their summer place, what must the Lynch Hampstead homestead be like? Liz was so good at these things, she could give lessons. She had towels the right colours in the bathrooms, matching sets of bedlinen, complete canteens of cutlery, proper napkins, just like a new bride. She had lampshades that looked like they’d been chosen for the rooms they lit, not just moved from place to place haphazardly as and when they were needed like Clare’s. There were rugs that toned withthe pale sofas, which had frilled and tasselled cushions all in quiet earthy coordinated colours. Liz’s interior was designed, Clare’s cottage was left-over bits and pieces from London, items evicted from the Barnes house on their way to becoming jumble. Both houses were cleaned by Jeannie, though on a quick glance round, Clare suspected that Liz must be paying her more than she was. Clare would be willing to bet folding money that Jeannie had been round for a last minute flick with the duster just before Liz and Eliot arrived. And opened all the windows, no trace of mustiness here, no hint of damp. Clare, strolling down the lawn towards the pool terrace, could see Liz rearranging the salad. Liz was in Barbecue Outfit, too-short gingham dungarees, hair in plaits with outsize girly pink bows, white baseball cap and trainers. She looks like bloody Pollyanna, Clare thought, feeling uncomfortably over-smart in her simple cap-sleeved black linen shift. When she’d bought it the dress had seemed deliciously understated. Clare didn’t like clothes you had to live up to. Even the sales assistant had said, doubtfully, as if it was what she’d been trained to say, that she supposed it was the sort of thing that could be Dressed Up for Evenings. Now Clare simply felt sedate and matronly compared with the youthful, boylike figure of Liz, and she wondered if the