Bad Heir Day by Wendy Holden Page B

spinney to a mighty forest. The rather hideous ormulu clock was now entirely obscured by folded cards in Palace script concealing lists from smart interiors stores and directions to receptions—including, once, instructions on how to arrive by helicopter or Gulfstream jet. None of them, however, bore Anna’s name. “And Guest” seemed as far as most of Seb’s friends were prepared to go. Given his track record with girls, it was probably a sensible policy; sometimes Anna wondered if he was only with her because he’d been out with everybody else.
    Yet soon after they had met—at a wedding party, naturally—Seb had invited her to move in with him, which surely was an encouraging sign. Anna tried not to dwell on the fact that he had more or less had to. Having just lost the latest in the series of post-university, part-time dead end jobs she had taken while trying to get her writing off the ground, Anna could no longer afford to rent a flat of her own and was about to give up on London altogether and go back up north to her family.
    It had seemed like a miracle, Seb’s offer of free flat space, yet in Anna’s more paranoid moments she wondered if he had merely calculated the cost to himself of losing not only her unquestioningly adoring company, but also a free laundress, cleaner, and cook. Anna performed these duties in lieu of rent and on the vague understanding that sooner or later she might move out. The feeling that she was living on borrowed time, both in the flat and in his affections, hung heavy. Yet, given that no one else was currently occupying either, squatter’s rights didn’t seem out of the question.
    Anna came to the last of the envelopes. Another frightener. The steady stream of what Anna had come to think of as “frighteners”—routine rejection letters for the many jobs she applied for out of the Monday Media Guardian— continued their daily trickle through the front door. Anna swallowed as she bent to retrieve this one. Although it bore no corporate logo and was handwritten, the second-class stamp was a giveaway. Someone obviously thought she was not worth first. Anna slid her nail under the flap, wondering how they had phrased it this time. Overqualified? Underqualified? Overwhelmed by applications?
    “I don’t believe it,” Anna muttered to herself. She stared at the white piece of paper in her shaking hand, heart thumping. “I don’t believe it.” She let out a whoop and rushed into the sitting room where Seb was crouched, fists clenched, in front of the lunchtime racing. Despite his marked and consistent inability to pick a winner, the delusion that he was a keen judge of horseflesh died hard. Perhaps, Anna thought nastily, this explained his attraction to the distinctly equine Brie de Benham. But this was no time to dwell on her, still less on the mysterious, anonymous click-burr answerphone messages that had appeared since the Scottish wedding. “It’s fantastic!” Anna shrieked, jumping up and down in front of the television. “A writer saw my ad in the library and wants to see me straightaway. I’ve got to ring immediately. I could go this afternoon. Wonderful ,isn’t it?”
    “Not as wonderful as you getting out of the way of the television would be,” Seb drawled. “I’ve put a hundred on Friend of Dorothy at twelve to one. I could clean up.”
    Anna stood aside and watched as Friend of Dorothy started last, reared at the first hedge, and finally threw her hapless rider into the water jump. Having rid herself of the unwelcome burden, the horse then galloped merrily down the course, passed the leaders, and crossed the finishing line. Seb looked on furiously. “Bloody useless nag,” he snarled. “That was the last of my sodding week’s allowance. Still, I suppose I can always ask Mummy for some more tonight.”
    A 2000-volt electric charge went through Anna. “ Tonight ?”she stammered, the momentous piece of paper in her hand quite forgotten. “ Mummy ?”she