The Blood Diamond Read Free

Her heavy eyebrows seemed to meet in the middle; simian! It was like her to be different, to keep her eyebrows bushy; with her dark hair falling in natural and now untidy waves to her shoulders, they made her pale face pallid; distinctive, some said; she had even agreed with them.
    How would she like to live with a face like this opposite her at the table?
    She snatched up a pair of tweezers . . .
    Â 
    â€˜At least I’m no longer a hairy ape,’ she said, five minutes later, and laughed at herself again. Laughter cleared her frown, hinted at her beauty. She combed and brushed her hair furiously, did it up – and everything went right, even her hat set well. She unbuttoned her frock and stepped out of it. Then she caught sight of herself in slip, brassiere and green hat with a long, sweeping feather, and felt better still.
    Was the mood on its way out?
    She dressed in a bottle-green two-piece, this season’s best Hartnell model.
    â€˜I’ll grab the first ugly man I see and drag him here,’ she told her reflection. ‘I’ll paint a person if it’s the last thing I do.’
    She hurried into the hall.
    Before opening the door, she caught sight of a portrait of John. It was the second one she’d painted of him, and had hung last year in the Royal Academy. She seldom went out without casting a quick glance at it. It pleased her, because she had caught not only his looks but the man himself.
    It was a strong, arresting face. There was the half-smile which was so often played at his lips and in his hazel eyes. It hinted that he was laughing at a secret joke; humour was always lurking in him; he looked upon everyday things in a different way from most people. He seemed to be smiling at her now; yes, he could see a bright side to these moods of hers, moods which would have driven most men to a pitch of desperation and smashed the marriage.
    â€˜Sorry, sweet,’ she said, and turned to the front door.
    Someone rang the bell.
    She had been too absorbed to hear the footsteps outside. Now, she saw a shadow against the frosted glass panel of the door. Her frown came back. It was tea-time; a friend might have dropped in for a leisurely gossip which would drive her silly. She actually thought of tip-toeing away, but conquered the impulse and opened the door.
    A stranger stood there, tall and dark-clad.
    â€˜Good afternoon, madam.’
    â€˜Good afternoon.’
    â€˜Is Mr. Mannering in?’
    â€˜No, I’m sorry.’
    â€˜Oh.’ The man had a plum-pudding face, ordinary except for rather sad eyes; unpaintable. ‘I want to see him urgently. Do you know when he will be back?’
    â€˜Some time this evening,’ said Lorna.
    â€˜Not earlier?’
    â€˜You might find him at Quinn’s, if you hurry. Do you know the shop?’
    â€˜Yes, but I have no time to go there, now. Are you Mrs. Mannering?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜I wonder if I can leave this with you?’ asked the stranger, holding out a small packet, wrapped in brown paper. ‘Mr. Mannering knows about it. Perhaps you will tell him I will call for an answer this evening.’
    Lorna took the packet.
    â€˜Yes, I’ll tell him.’
    â€˜Thank you very much,’ said the stranger. He smiled; it was a pity that he had such a round pudding of a face, it made his anxiety seem comic. ‘You’ll excuse me if I say that it ought to be put somewhere safe, won’t you?’
    â€˜I’ll look after it,’ she promised.
    â€˜Thank you very much.’ He touched his forehead, turned and made off.
    Â 
    Lorna closed the door and went into Mannering’s study. This was a small room, with a Queen Anne writing-table and a few old etchings on the panelled walls, two book-cases, one for modern works, one for classics, and a brown carpet. In one corner was a Cromwellian oak settle with a box- seat.
    The seat was locked and no key would open it; it was lined with steel, and