Summer at Shell Cottage Read Online Free PDF Page B

however weirdly neon and shiny they might look now. ‘Up here!’ she yelled in reply,
unhooking her red cotton H&M dress from the rail and holding it in front of her.
    ‘What do you think?’ she asked as he came into the bedroom. ‘Red? Or . . .’ She rummaged through the wardrobe, wishing she had an extensive collection of summer outfits
she could choose from for a glamorous cocktail party. Instead, her hand fell on her faithful pink Primark wrap dress which she’d worn so often the fabric was bobbly. ‘Or
pink?’
    Robert came over and tossed both dresses onto the bed, then wrapped his arms around her and kissed her very thoroughly. Wearing only a pair of pants and her bra, Harriet felt suddenly raunchy,
especially when he started tugging at said pants. Unfortunately, they were control panel ones, with a rubbery, hold-back-the-flab top, which made them almost impossible to remove unless one was
prepared to use surgical instruments and a whole can of WD40. She giggled, feeling infinitely more party-ish. ‘Well, someone’s pleased to see me,’ she said, as he gave up on the
pants and began unhooking her bra. ‘What are you wearing tonight, then?’
    ‘As little as possible,’ he murmured in her ear, releasing the clip and yanking her bra from her body. Then he sniffed. ‘What’s that weird smell?’
    Oh Lord. It was the disgusting depilatory cream, she knew it. Or maybe the pungent EasyTan bronzer. ‘No idea,’ she said, the wine putting fibs in her mouth. ‘Robert, no . . . I
need to get ready. Haven’t we got to be there in, like, an hour or something?’
    He was bending down, nuzzling between her breasts, which was both ticklish and erotic at the same time. Mmm, hello. ‘Where?’ he said.
    ‘The party!’ she laughed, stepping back so that he almost fell over. ‘Your publishing thing. At the posh house. Cocktails. Mingling. Everyone saying how great you
are.’
    His face went blank for a moment – two, three long moments – and then he slapped a hand to his head. ‘Oh shit,’ he said.
    Harriet, feeling slightly silly standing there in a pair of huge, unflattering, for-her-eyes-only control pants, positioned her arms over her bare breasts and bad choice of underwear. ‘What do you mean, oh shit?’
    ‘I . . .’ He raked a hand through his hair and sighed. ‘Oh, love. I thought I’d told you. I got it wrong, about it being a plus-one thing.’
    ‘You mean . . . ?’ Her heart beat wildly. He
hadn’t
told her. There was no way she would have forgotten him telling her, not when she’d been stressing out all
week about this effing party. The effing party to which she hadn’t even been invited, as it turned out. And now she’d obliterated her own eyebrows and brought on a virulent leg rash for
nothing! ‘I’m not going?’
    He shook his head and sat down on the bed. Harriet put on her dressing gown, feeling like the biggest idiot ever.
    ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m such a doofus. And here you are, getting all ready . . .’
    She tried to smile, although she probably still looked surprised from the stupid eyebrows. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said but inside she was deflating like a punctured balloon. No cocktails, then. No party. No make-up and high heels and frock. No giggling about all the goss to her friends at work on Monday morning. (‘So I was saying to Zadie, right . . .’)
    ‘It does matter. Of course it does!’ He looked at her wretchedly and somehow, despite the punctured-balloon sensation, she felt her stomach flip ever so slightly at his hangdog eyes. ‘Look – let’s blow it out,’ he said. ‘Let’s forget the dumb party, and go out, just the two of us, and have a laugh somewhere instead. I’d much rather be
with you.’
    She shook her head. ‘No, don’t worry, honestly.’ It was a relief really, she told herself. For the best. She hadn’t truly wanted to go anyway, had she? But . . .
    ‘But you’ve got your sexy pants on and everything,’ he