Odd Girl Out Read Online Free Page B

you?’
    ‘Darling, it’s so silly, but still in Lucerne. But only for a moment. We’re setting off for Paris, but I wanted to know that my darling girl was safely ensconced with you
before we go.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘ Arabella. I told her to go straight down to you. Isn’t she there?’
    ‘She hasn’t got in touch with us; with me, anyway,’ he added, wondering, if she had been supposed to, why on earth not.
    ‘Oh – I expect she’ll just turn up then. Do tell me when she does. We’ll be at the Ritz tonight. It is so maddening – the way she doesn’t tell
anyone what she is doing until after you’ve found that she’s done it.’
    A Swiss operator broke in with a lot of unintelligible information. Over this, Clara said, ‘She’s simply longing to stay with you. But longing. And you are an angel to
have her. Only do be firm. Don’t let her exploit you.’
    ‘How do you mean?’
    ‘You know, darling – like I always do. She’s only twenty-two. Far too young to be that sort of nuisance. Anyway, let me know. Must fly now. Bye now darling. Call me in
Paris.’
    The line went dead. He put back the receiver thoughtfully. A wave of responsibility engulfed him. What ought he to do? Logic, and a faint sense of grievance, came next: how could he do
anything if he hadn’t the slightest idea where the girl was? Loyalty, and what he considered to be his unique understanding of Clara, ended the brief procession of his thoughts: the girl was
clearly yet another example of the younger generation, thoughtless, irresponsible and selfish. Clara was simply being – as he felt she always really was – marvellous about her. There
was nothing to be done, he decided with some satisfaction. This was his favourite conclusion about most things, and like most people’s favourite anything, he was not able to indulge himself
as often as he would have liked. Better get on with the booklet about Lea Manor. A large number of competent photographs had been taken, and it was now his business to choose which were most
suitable for reproduction and to write – from his measured and statistical notes – an appealing text. There were seven hundred acres of reasonable dairy-farming land, and three
farmhouses let with a fair return. But the house itself had dry rot, wood-worm, no proper damp-course, archaic plumbing, and what even an Eskimo would have regarded as laughable central heating.
Although, probably, like so many of those primitive people, they were a damn sight better at essentials than was generally supposed. Sometimes he wished that he had travelled more: had a wider
experience of life. Then he thought of his charming and comfortable house so admirably run by the admirably satisfactory Anne, and knew that one could not have everything, and that on the whole he
would rather be him. At least he could depend upon her, and his work, and what was going to happen from one week to the next. He smiled, because this sounded drab and only he knew that it
wasn’t, and pressed the buzzer for Miss Hathaway to bring in the pictures of Lea Manor.
    When she had stopped crying, Janet yelled to the kids to shut up, and climbed wearily up from the dark little room on the ground floor to what had been – and presumably
was to start being again – her bedroom with Henry. In front of her dressing-table, she looked at herself. She had not washed her hair since he had left, and by God, it looked like it. She
looked at least thirty-five, she thought despairingly (in fact she was twenty-four, and had the kind of face – like most people – that does not take kindly to chronic unhappiness). The
trouble was that she did not any longer love Henry: he’d been too much of a bastard for too long for that: but the children and lack of money had eroded her appearance and her
personality so that she could easily see why he did not love her. If he could be like he used to be; if he even pretended that I was all right for a bit, Pd get