Bad Heir Day Read Online Free PDF Page B

suddenly be the case. It was not, after all, as if her own sex life had suddenly slowed down to a splutter or that she had lost interest. She had never been interested in the first place. When push came to shove—and she rued every day that it did—Cassandra hated sex, at least, when she was sober. Her husband Jett, unfortunately, did not share her views and continued to press for his conjugal rights, although, admittedly, his requirements had gone down from a daily service to a Sunday one. Cassandra supposed she should be thankful for small mercies, even though there was nothing small or merciful about Jett at full throttle. The only point to sex, as far as she was concerned, was children. And after Zak’s birth, eight years ago, Cassandra had dropped even the pretence that she was interested.
    From briefly dwelling on the favourite subject of her son, that most gifted, charming, and beautiful of children, Cassandra’s mind flitted to the rather less comfortable subject of Emma the nanny. Now there was a pressure, coping with the latest in that endless line of troublesome girls. Five in the last twelve months ,Cassandra seethed to herself. Did staying power and commitment mean nothing anymore? Given what she had to put up with in her domestic life, was it any wonder that her storylines were about as sexy as an orthopaedic shoe?
    They were all the same, these ridiculous girls; at least, they all said the same things about Zak. Emma had proved particularly unresponsive to Cassandra’s standard line of nanny rebuttal, the argument that a child as brilliant as Zak was bound to be difficult from time to time, gifted children always were. And of course he was occasionally— very occasionally—disobedient. The respect of a child like Zak had to be earned .Cassandra decided not to dwell on Emma’s mutinous expression the last time she had tried this tack, still less the pointed way she had turned her back and marched out of the room. She decided instead to concentrate on the matter in hand, which was the meeting and what to wear for it. It was eight o’clock, a blearily early hour for Cassandra to be up, and she was due in the boardroom at nine.
    Forty-two, two twenty-eight, and five fifty-seven. It had been a difficult decision, but in the end, Cassandra was sure she had trodden the sartorial line between professionalism and plunging cleavage with consummate skill. Forty-two was the classic black YSL trouser suit with the big black buttons. Two twenty-eight was her new purple Prada shirt, and five fifty-seven her favourite pair of black elastic Manolo boots.
    Boots? Was it, Cassandra thought, suddenly panicking, the weather for boots? She looked quickly at a second liquid crystal display beneath the keypad, which helpfully showed the temperature outside so you could pick your clothes to suit: 5°C. Christ, it was practically freezing .Amazing weather for June, but then, this was England, she supposed. She’d need a coat too, obviously. It could be the furs first outing since Gstaad in February. Cassandra scanned the list. Seven hundred and four was the silver-mink ankle-length. If that didn’t wow them, nothing would.
    There was a grinding sound, a faint rattle, then the door of the wardrobe slid back. Cassandra blinked as it revealed a pair of orange towelling sweatpants, a bright yellow jacket with shoulder pads of Thames Barrier proportions, and a bikini top in magenta satin. As Cassandra stared, aghast, a pair of olive-green Wellington boots hove into view along the conveyor belt at the bottom. “Jett!” she exploded. “Jett!”
    “Whazzamatter?” A man in a red satin Chinese bathrobe far too small for him appeared in the doorway between the dressing room and the bedroom. His figure, with its round, protruding belly and long, skinny legs, was reminiscent of a lollipop. “Whazzup?” he asked, rubbing his eyes and yawning.
    “This fucking computerised wardrobe you gave me,” Cassandra almost spat.
    “I