definitely your colour. And I love your hair up like that. You look so sophisticated.’
Justine ignored the barrage of compliments, seeing them for what they were: her mother’s way of deflecting her attention from the reality of the situation, which was that she was slumped down on her still unmade bed, trying to be bright and brave when in fact her eyes were once again shimmering with tears. She’d cried on and off since Justine had told her yesterday the house would probably have to be sold. Cried and just sat around, looking defeated and depressed.
Justine had hoped the party tonight might buck her up. She hated seeing her mother like this, so unlike her usual happy if scatty self.
‘Oh, no, you don’t, Mum,’ Justine said, knowing firmness was sometimes the best way with her mother. ‘I’m not going by myself.’ She walked over to where a beaded black crepe gown was draped over the gold velvet chair in the corner. ‘Is this the dress you’re going to wear? Come on, let’s get it on you and then I’ll help you with you hair. It won’t matter if we’re late. Parties never get going till well after nine anyway.’
‘I can’t wear that dress,’ Adelaide said bleakly.
‘Why not?’
‘It doesn’t fit me.’
‘Doesn’t fit you,’ Justine repeated, clenching her teeth down hard in her jaw. They must have taken thirty evening gowns of her mother’s down to the second-hand shop yesterday, and one of the two dresses her mother had chosen to keep didn’t fit her. Truly, ‘vague’ did not begin to describe her sometimes!
‘Then what about the other dress? Where is it?’
‘It doesn’t fit me either. Neither of the dresses I kept fit me,’ her mother confessed on a strangled sob. ‘I didn’t realise how much weight I’d put on since your father’s funeral. I...I always eat when I’m unhappy. I was so pretty and slim when Grayson married me. He loved me back then; I’m sure he did. But after my baby boy died, I started to eat and I...I... Oh, God, it’s no wonder your father never wanted to come home. It’s all my fault he went with other women. Everything’s all my fault!’
Justine’s heart felt as if it was breaking as she watched her mother dissolve into sobs. She rushed over to her, gathering her close, hugging her fiercely. ‘Don’t cry, Mum,’ she choked out. ‘Please don’t cry. Nothing’s your fault. Nothing! Daddy didn’t deserve you. He wasn’t a very nice man. In fact, he was quite wicked. We’re well rid of him. But you’ve still got me. We’re going to make it together, Mum, don’t you worry,’ she went on, fired up with renewed resolve. ‘I haven’t given up yet on getting that loan.’
Her mother glanced up at her through soggy lashes. ‘You haven’t?’
‘Not by a long shot! There are other banks, aren’t there? Other establishments which lend money? Felix’s party will be full of influential people tonight, moneyed men with plenty of contacts. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open and who knows? I bet I have some good news for you by the time I come home.’
Justine leant over and swept a handful of tissues from the box beside the bed. ‘Now, dry your eyes, Mum. And don’t give up hope. Your daughter has just begun to fight!’
Justine’s newly found optimism wavered during the short drive to the Turrells’ place. It was all very well to spout positive aspirations, quite another to put them into action. Giving her mother false hopes might have done the trick for one night, but what would happen in the morning, when she didn’t have any good news?
Justine sighed, then sighed again when she turned into the leafy street which housed the Turrell mansion. It was lined with cars, not a spare parking spot in sight.
Negotiating a U-turn, Justine finally found a place to park in the adjoining street, the lengthy walk back bringing her attention to the tightness of her skirt. Keeping this little red number had been a bad choice, really. It wasn’t at all versatile and could only be worn on really warm evenings.
She’d spotted it in the window of a very exclusive boutique back at the beginning of spring, the red colour attracting her attention. She always kept an eye out for a red dress in the months leading up to Christmas, because she liked to wear red at the big Christmas party her mother threw every year.
Naturally, this year there hadn’t been any Christmas party. Justine had found the dress when she’d gone through her wardrobe, and just couldn’t bring herself to sell it for a fraction of its value, unworn. It had cost a small fortune, being an original design made from raw silk.
Still, she now regretted keeping it. She should have kept her little black crêpe number along with the black velvet. People didn’t remember black, whereas they could see her coming in this red for miles. Dumb choice, Justine. Dumb, dumb, dumb!
By the time she’d manoeuvred her way up the steep front steps in her high heels and rung the front doorbell, Justine was wishing she’d stayed home with her mother.
Trudy opened the door, scowling at the sight of the latecomer. ‘So there you are! I was beginning to think you weren’t coming. And after I’d twisted Mother’s arm to get you an invite. Where’s your mum?’
‘She didn’t feel up to it. A headache.’
‘Oh, well, perhaps it’s for the best.’
Justine bristled. ‘How do you see that?’
‘Oh, you know my mother, Jussie. She’s not the most tactful woman in the world. She’d probably put her big foot in her mouth and say something to offend your mum. She’s not sweet-natured like me, darling. She’s a natural bitch.’
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
