Blowing It Read Online Free PDF

to pin him down about the children. He worked so hard, was rarely home before eight during the week and often away overnight in some miserable provincial hotel, poor darling. (She firmly refused to question the ‘poor darling’ aspect of it; that stupid fling he’d had, that had been a long time ago now. And it was only a one-off, a silly mistake. She really didn’t think about it any more. And very soon she really would stop checking through his Visa bills and cellphone call list.)
    It was possible Sean might not come up with a useful opinion while he was reading the Motoring section of the paper but at least she must try. And there he was, lying on the cream leather Barcelona daybed, wearing a hotel bathrobe purloined from the Lone Star, Barbados, tanned bare ankles crossed and toes (rather unpleasantly hairy ones, in Clover’s opinion) twitching slightly as if he was aware of distant music. She went and perched on the end of the daybed, careful to avoid those unattractive feet.
    ‘Sean? Darling? Could we talk about Elsa please?’
    ‘Hmm?’ He lowered the paper slightly, but did not quite take his eyes off it, clearly reluctant to miss the last delectable detail about a Maserati so deliciously upgraded that even Jeremy Clarkson had drooled.
    ‘Elsa?’ he asked, sounding puzzled.
    Clover gave him a tight little smile. ‘Your daughter. The younger one,’ she teased.
    ‘What’s she done? She’s all right, isn’t she?’
    ‘Fine. You’d know if she wasn’t, darling. It’s just, I wanted to ask you about languages. Her French.’
    Sean snorted. ‘Her
French
? What about it? Has she had a crap report already? Bleedin’ ’ell, these swanky schools! The kid can barely get her fluffy little head round English yet! What do they want?’
    ‘No, no, listen!’ He just
didn’t
listen, that was the big problem. Deep down she suspected it was because his children were girls. He seemed to think they’d more or less bring themselves up, hardly needing any input from him at all apart, obviously, from loads and loads of cash. What was it he’d said when she’d been doing the frantic rounds of schools? Oh yes, ‘So long as they’re cute they’ll do fine. Don’t want the girliness taught out of them, do we?’ Clover hadn’t liked the way he’d ruffled her hair as he said it, as if she was merely some kind of pretty-pretty lame-brain. She did
have
a degree; though it would have felt churlish to remind Sean of this, seeing as he didn’t.
    ‘Toddle-Tots don’t do reports,’ she told him. ‘At least, not till the term ends and then only nice, positive things. No, it’s the
Bébé France
classes. I’m wondering if we should have started her on Spanish instead. She’ll be doing French soon enough when she goes to St Hilary’s.’
    ‘I suppose Spanish would be handy if she marries a footballer …’ Sean mused, picking up his paper again.
    ‘Or if she
is
a footballer,’ Clover countered. Well, you had to fight your corner sometimes.
    ‘No daughter of mine’s playing footer.’ He laughed. ‘She’d get muscles like a docker.’
    Clover said nothing. They were straying from the point and, actually, she privately agreed about the muscles. A woman should have shapely calves, but not legs that looked as if they’d been stuffed with rugby balls. Her own were slender and smooth, toned but not unattractively sinewy. She’d bear that in mind when Sophia started junior tennis. Unless she showed a serious possibility of being Wimbledon material she would not be encouraged to overdo it beyond the level of competently social.
    ‘It really depends where we buy the new place.’ Clover wanted to chew her nails as she always did when there was a dilemma to be dealt with. She sat firmly on her hands. Her Jessica manicure was only a day old.
    ‘Ah. That house in the sun you’re always planning for …’ He treated her to a swift smile then picked up the paper again, adding casually, ‘We might have to put that