The Will To Live Read Online Free PDF Page B

doubt.”
    “Because of…”
    “The bride’s mother…”
    “Tara, yah. You know, she was with Jemima’s father for…”
    “Forty years, yah. And then he ups and runs orf with…”
    “Diana.”
    “Quite. And isn’t she only two years older than…?”
    “Jemima, yah. I wouldn’t fancy Diana for a step-mother, would you?”
    “Lord, no. Personality like a runaway Range Rover. One wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of her, would one?”
    “God forbid! You know she dated…?”
    “Giles, yah. Quite an item, weren’t they? And he’s…”
    “Jonty’s best man.”
    “Fun and games, like I said. We’d better come prepared.”
    “I’ll be wearing a flak jacket over my frock!”
    This particular conversation was followed by a lot of laughter. The two women hee-hawed like a pair of donkeys.
    I was just stifling a yawn when I noticed a dark-haired, olive-skinned man standing by the door. Unlike the other guests, who were in posh dresses or tailored suits, he was wearing torn jeans, muddy trainers, a worn leather jacket and carrying a shabby rucksack. He stood out like a sore thumb.
    Through the crowd I caught Graham’s eye and nodded towards the newcomer. Graham looked at him, looked at me and then nodded back. We both started weaving our way towards him.
    I got there first.
    “Canapé, sir?” I asked brightly.
    He didn’t answer. He didn’t even look at me. He was frowning intently, scanning people’s faces as if trying to identify someone.
    I tried a different tack. “Are you looking for anyone in particular?”
    “Oui!” He spat the word out. He was French, then. And clearly furious.
    “I mean to say, ‘Yes’,” he corrected himself, remembering his manners. He jerked his head at the mass of guests. “Please, which of these men is Lancelot Strudwick?”
    “Lancelot?” I pointed across the drawing-room at Lydia’s brother. “That’s him.”
    I regretted it immediately.
    The Frenchman strode across the room, pushing aside anyone who got in his way. Drinks were spilt down velvet dresses. Food was spattered onto the lapels of worsted jackets. Surprise rippled through the crowd.
    Lancelot felt it. Turned to see the source. Saw the advancing man. His eyes narrowed in confusion and his mouth began to form a question.
    “What the devil…?”
    That was as far as he got. As soon as the Frenchman reached the Englishman, his hand bunched into a fist, his arm swung back and he unleashed the most almighty punch in the middle of Lancelot Strudwick’s face.

CAMILLE
    IT’S not a pleasant sound, a nose breaking, especially a big, hooked Strudwick nose. There was an awful lot in the middle of Lancelot’s face to go
crunch
! And then there was the blood which came spouting out a fraction of a second later. As it poured between his fingers and dripped onto the carpet some of the guests paled and one had to run for the toilets, hand clapped over her mouth.
    Lancelot’s cry of pain had been matched by the Frenchman’s. Fury had propelled him across the room, but he obviously didn’t make a habit of attacking people. Right after he’d walloped Lancelot he’d crumpled onto the ground and cradled his fist, whimpering, “C’est cassé! Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!”
    Graham translated for me.
“It’s broken! My God! My God!”

    Reverend Bristow was the hero of the hour as he turned out to be a trained first aider as well as a vicar. He told Lancelot to pinch his nose and sent Lydia to the kitchen for ice to soothe both Lancelot’s face and the Frenchman’s hand – which, the vicar assured everyone, was bruised, not broken.
    Major Huwes-Guffing stood wielding a poker, looking ready to use it if violence erupted once more.
    Lancelot, meanwhile, was completely and utterly bemused. His nose had rapidly swollen to twice its normal size and now looked more like a duck’s bill than a hawk’s beak. He stared at the Frenchman, mumbling through the ice pack which was clamped to his face, “Whad on eard did