Not That Sort of Girl Read Free

cooked?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘She didn’t see you?’
    ‘She didn’t see me.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘That was it. But later I met those boring fishing friends of Ned’s, Arthur and Milly, and they told me what a marvellous crab supper they had had chez Ned and Rose.’
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘And Milly said she was particularly impressed because usually she did not think Rose put herself out for them as they were so much more Ned’s friends than hers. Hadn’t much in common, was how she put it.’
    ‘How marvellous, how absolutely marvellous.’ Nicholas, who had been holding his breath, let it out in a gust, then leaned his head back against the closed front door and whinnied with laughter.
    Emily looked pleased, but Nicholas, recovering from his mirth, said, ‘If there were this side to Rose which was unknown to us during her married life …’
    ‘Forty-eight years.’
    ‘Yes, forty-eight years! How can we be sure we really knew her before she married? Was there a Rose we did not know? Have we ever known her?’
    ‘Of course we know her. We knew her as children, as we grew up. We knew the men, such as they were, who might have married her. We knew everything she did. She confided in us, we were her friends. We knew she was a cold fish. Not for Rose the adventures and risks we took. Rose is conventional, she always was, she played safe, got herself married to Ned Peel and all this.’ Emily nodded back at the house behind them, waved her arm towards Ned’s acres. ‘Find me a better example of her breed and upbringing.’
    ‘But,’ said Nicholas, ‘with your crab story, you have been suggesting otherwise.’
    ‘It must be the exception, the slip which proves the rule,’ said Emily, feeling a little annoyed with her brother.
    ‘All the same.’ Nicholas was intrigued. ‘I would give a lot to get back into the house and go through her things. There might be a ribboned packet of letters, a precious clue which would lead to the discovery of the Rose who would steal crabs, a Rose who has conned us.’
    ‘If you went through the house with a fine comb,’ scoffed Emily, ‘you would find everything in order, in its place. Ned’s farm accounts perfect, their income tax paid. You would find bundles of receipts but no love letters.’ Now Emily wished she had not presented well known old Rose to her brother in a new and intriguing light; she feared her tale of the crabs had in a sense boomeranged. ‘We know Rose,’ she said with conviction, permitting the smallest note of patronage into her tone.
    ‘Maybe you are right.’ Nicholas stood up. ‘It’s getting chilly, shall we go home?’ Probably, he thought, knowing his sister as well as he knew himself, the crab story never took place. It’s more likely Emily saw the load of crabs herself, was tempted to help herself and attributed a non-existent act to Rose. It is the sort of story I make up myself.
    ‘Come on,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Time to go home.’
    Emily took his hand, pulled herself up and walked with him hand-in-hand to their cars.
    As they walked, it occurred to Nicholas that Rose had deliberately let the telephone ring all through lunch to put a stop to conversation.

3
    ‘W OULD IT BE POSSIBLE to have a sandwich in my room?’ Rose asked, handing back the pen she had borrowed to sign the register. ‘Or is it too late?’
    The manager, who was also the owner of the hotel, flicked a quick glance at the book as he turned it back towards him, changing his mind as he did so as to which room to offer his guest.
    ‘Would a smoked salmon sandwich and a glass of wine be all right?’ (She looked exhausted.) ‘Half a bottle of Muscadet?’
    ‘Lovely.’
    ‘And a little fruit? Peaches, grapes? Brown bread or white? Coffee?’
    ‘Perfect. Brown, please, no coffee.’
    ‘I’ll lead the way.’ He picked up Rose’s bag. (Goodness, it looks tatty; I’ve been meaning to replace it for years.) ‘I will put you in a room on the ground floor. You look