The Body of a Woman by Clare Curzon Read Free Book Online

‘Go on, admit to everyone that Acrefield’s where you live. Next year we’ll see you out there with your pads strapped on, showing what a Blue can do.’
    â€˜You know I detest all sports,’ Aidan muttered. ‘And anyway our house has a name, not a number.’
    â€˜You really are -’ the plump girl asked, ‘the new folks at Knollhurst?’
    â€˜Yes,’ Leila admitted happily. ‘And now we can meet our neighbours.’
    â€˜Wohnderfoool,’ said Pascal, savouring the word. ‘You leeve on the sehm side of the road as myself. Welcohm to the loozairs.’
    They were toasted with flat lager, plied with leftover sausage rolls and the offer of sandwiches drily curling under the scorching sun.

    â€˜A true village community,’ boomed Charles, enjoying Aidan’s embarrassment at being surrounded by locals he’d had every intention of staying aloof from.
    â€˜Look, we have to get back. I’ve things to do,’ Aidan reminded Leila tetchily.
    Charles beamed back at him. ‘If you must. I think I’ll stay on for a bit; circulate and get to meet folks, don’t y’know. So thanks for a great lunch, and we’ll pick you both up Tuesday at eleven on the dot. Best bibs and tuckers, eh? Cheerio then.’
    â€˜Tuesday,’ Leila agreed, kissed them both warmly and followed in her husband’s wake. Tuesday would be fun. Tuesday meant the thrill of Ascot, and forecasts promised that the good weather would continue unbroken.
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    â€œSwish” was what the fashion-blind Janey had called the expensive suit. Three years old now, it was still Leila’s favourite, folded away in tissue paper between the rare special occasions when she graced it. And now, with the invitation to Ascot, already she’d be wearing it twice in four days.
    Its pale shade was the same “apricot creme” that filled the hand-made Belgian chocolates at the shop. The jacket was long and beneath it the short, floaty skirt’s handkerchief points drew attention to slim legs and delicate matching sandals.
    The fine straw hat, however, was new this year, wide-brimmed and translucent. A classic: nothing idiotic or eye-catching.
    Anyway it was Janey who would turn heads, with her strange assembly of charity shop cast-offs. One sure bet was that she and her outfit would later feature in some glossy colour magazine, falsely attributed to one of the famous way-out designers.
    Owning one leg of a horse that was running in the three o’clock, Charles was persona grata in the saddling enclosure, chatting almost knowledgeably with jockey and trainer. Although the syndicate’s newest member he was the only
one present that day. The chestnut gelding, satin-coated and inclined to prance, was drawn number four.
    â€˜It won’t win,’ Charles forecast breezily, ‘but we should back it as encouragement. Good lad, that jockey. He’ll give it what it takes. Meanwhile let’s get back to our box for some strawberries and bubbly.’
    On the way they encountered a knot of Charles’s City friends, then the crowd opened as the royal party came through.
    â€˜Ello,’ said a voice above Leila’s hat and she looked up to recognize Pascal of the cricket field. Today, elegance personified, he was escorting two exquisite young women, one on each arm. He detached them and reached for Leila’s hand.
    â€˜Oh, hello. We were admiring my uncle’s horse. Number four,’ she gabbled, for some reason feeling shy at the encounter.
    â€˜Then we mohst certainly back eet.’
    â€˜No, I didn’t mean that.’ She felt her face flushing, caught at a loss among these sophisticates. Now they would imagine Charles owned the whole horse.
    â€˜Yoor ohncle?’
    â€˜Yes, he —’ She looked around, discovered his party had moved on and that she was stranded alone. ‘Look, I’m so sorry. I have to catch them