The Body of a Woman Read Online Free PDF

clearly saw the invitation as the prelude to his being proposed as an RS Fellow himself. His upward move from a provincial university to the new London appointment must surely serve towards that ambition.

    They travelled up by chauffeured limousine, Aidan preferring the expense of hiring, rather than losing face searching for parking space on such a grand occasion. Dropped at the door, they entered the lofty hall, aquarium-cool and shady after brilliant sunshine. There was a babble of striving voices; perhaps more querulous than in the year before? Certainly the gathering by the stairs appeared to have aged by at least a decade since then.
    Leila looked towards Aidan for a lead. He stood wirily erect, chest expanded, making the most of his five feet five inches, his ginger goatee outthrust (and clashing badly, she thought, with the rosy pattern of the deplorable waistcoat.)
    He was waiting for recognition and acclaim. He could wait a long time here: everyone was so full of him- or herself, all volubly chattering while nobody listened. ‘Shall we go up?’ Leila suggested.
    He began to acknowledge acquaintances. There were congratulations on the new appointment and compliments on his most recent publication. Leila listened for the tone rather than the words, wise enough by now to pick up on professional jealousies and false good wishes. Some faces were familiar through photographs in scientific journals or television appearances. One or two of the older Fellows smiled at her vaguely, remembering introductions last year. There were a number of desiccated ladies with authoritative voices but few younger men and those Aidan seemed not to know.
    Across the terrace she recognized a bushy, dark moustache and caught Lord Winston’s eye. Kindly and charming as ever, he smiled, too discreet to let it show they were professionally known to each other. Not presuming on his successes in human fertility and gene research, he would leave it to his subjects to approach if they wished.
    Leila turned aside as a long flute of champagne was pushed into her hand. From far away she heard a brass band strike up a military march but few craned at the windows to
watch. Upper branches from the Mall’s trees had been clipped for the occasion but still provided a hefty screen.
    Unseen from Leila’s viewpoint, Queen Elizabeth distantly alighted from an open carriage at Horse Guards and took her stand on the parade ground’s dais.
    â€˜She’s wearing bright yellow,’ shouted an elderly woman farther along who was using field glasses. She was one of the few who took much interest in the ceremony, or even in personal appearance. Not a smart lot, the Royal Society ladies. But then, with brains who needed fashion? Style without content was more the politicians’ line, Leila supposed.
    Aidan was deep in conversation with their host, a geophysicist at Imperial College, and between them the technical terms were rolling like the credits for a Spielberg film. Leila felt herself an alien among this assembly of the country’s best, or most recognized, scientific brains.
    â€˜Mrs Knightley,’ breathed a voice above her head. She recalled the man’s name: Sir Arthur Waites, a wizened beanpole with a few sparse hairs grown long to smear across his pale, bald peak in the vain hope of deception; but which any shaming breeze would float like filmy seaweed about his face. Last year he had been kind to her, so she owed him an effort.
    Someone had told her that his wife, badly injured a year back in a car crash, was in a permanent vegetative state. Probably wiser in that case not to ask after her. She let him steer her by the elbow to an open window where there was a view of the military ritual.
    Down on Horse Guards Parade the mass movement of red tunics and bulky black bearskins froze into stillness. On foot two solitaries advanced on each other with swords drawn, saluted, remained motionless, then retreated to their