Dolly And The Cookie Bird - Dorothy Dunnett - Johnson Johnson 03 Read Online Free PDF Page A

girl friends or whatever, are you?”
    “Janey,” I said. Warningly. Janey is terrible.
    The plucked eyebrows got right up, along with her smile. “Why not, honeychile? I bet you Derek’s a poof.”
    It had never struck me. Janey’s like that. Even while I was thinking hard I said indignantly. “He’s jolly well not,” and of course was caught in mid-bleat, sophistication minus a hundred, by Gil Lloyd, coming downstairs.
    You would say he made Cary Grant entrances except that he wasn’t the kind who would bother. He dressed in silk and cashmere and had thick, dark hair and a tan and a prowl that was second nature, like Janey’s. There is something about them that, sooner or later, makes you want to kick their teeth in. Only, so far, their defense has been smarter than anyone else’s attack. And Gilmore Lloyd’s defense, so help me, is bloody disarming. He swooped smoothly and kissed: it was like being held by packing-case wire, and my lip started to bleed. I opened my mouth to breath, and he stepped back and said, “Poor She-she. Did Austin try some rough American tactics? We must teach you how to handle him.”
    Good humoredly, Janey used a very off word. “She’s not wasting time on Austin Mandleberg. Wait till you meet Lobby du Cann. And if you’re bored with Americans, we’ve Joe Hadley, and Guppy Collins-Smith and Coco Fairley…”
    Coco Fairley had been a boyfriend of Mummy’s. Good old Janey. “Keep it clean, Janey,” I said. “Son of Coco, or nothing.” Gilmore laughed, genuinely. The touch comes back to you, after a time.
     
    My room had a balcony, and a bathroom off, and wall-to-wall washed Chinese carpeting in quiet shades of money. On my way there, I was introduced to the Couple. The Couple, Anne-Marie and Helmuth, looked after all the Lloyds’ houses. Like the wall lights, they were German and efficient: with the help of Concha the chica, they cleaned and cooked and chauffeured and laundered and mended, getting in local staff when the Lloyds had houseguests or a party. That was where I came in, Mr. Lloyd had said. Anne-Marie needed a rest. I was to take over the cooking.
    I found I wasn’t meant to take over the cooking that evening: or at least Anne-Marie wouldn’t hear of it. She was fair and cheerful and pillowy and spoke perfect English. Like Flo, I’ve had a few dodgy times with backstairs diplomacy, but I could see this was going to be all right. I’d hardly opened my suitcase when there was a tap at the door and Anne-Marie came in carrying a plate of fat, pink langostinas and a half-bottle of champagne sitting in ice. She put them down and ran me a steaming hot bath, chatting softly, while I hauled my things out of my bag. They were in a horrible muddle. From the look of it, I should think the Customs had taken out and chewed every garter. I’m a neat packer, and I resent being made to look untidy. I opened my own champagne, to show I could, and after cracking a joke or two about the mess I was going to make in her kitchen, saw her out of the room. Then I took the champers into the bathroom, undressed, and lay back in the steam, drinking. After a bit I got out and putting off the light, opened the shutters and got back into the bath again.
    Outside, the moonlight fell on the sea and the palms and the flowers and this enormous swimming pool, all floodlit with statues of Greek gods, starkers, all round the edge. Inside, the warm water sloshed about over my skin, and the champagne, very cold, made its way down the bottom of my throat and I lay for a long time, feeling very sad and happy, expecting to wake up.
    I was just thinking, rather fuzzily, that it was about time for dinner when this great bang came from the shutters and I slopped half the fizz into the bath. The shutters swung quickly out and a pair of legs swung neatly in, and before you could yell for your chaperone, one of the Greek gods from the garden, without a stitch on so far as I could see in the darkness, was