Rumours by Freya North Page A

oughtn’t to go to waste – that would be a travesty.’
    â€˜I’m not so young these days – I’m heading for forty. Look at all the grey.’
    Lydia rubbished this with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘Very distinguished. Silver fox, we’d call it. Like my fabulously expensive coat. Which reminds me – it’s still in cold storage. Don’t you go putting yourself in storage, Xander, you’ll grow cold. You’re a whippersnapper – I’m seventy-eight.’
    A phone began to ring. There were no modern cordless phones at Longbridge. In fact, there were only three telephones in the whole house; one in the kitchen, one in the staircase hallway and one in the Victorian wing. They listened to it ringing.
    Lydia blasphemed under her breath.
    â€˜Why the wretched woman won’t answer the telephone or the door I do not know. I should dock her pay, I really should.’ And she heaved herself away from the sofa, rubbing her shoulder and wincing as she made her way. ‘She’s an atrocious housekeeper, that Mrs Biggins. I really ought to sack her.’
    But she keeps you on your toes, Xander thought tenderly, as Lydia left the room to answer the phone. And she’s company. Mrs Biggins and Lady Lydia Fortescue, practically the same age, diametrically opposed backgrounds, together longer than either of their marriages – together, realistically, for ever. He listened to Lydia curtly admonishing the caller for phoning in the first place and then barking something in the general direction of the kitchen where Mrs Biggins was no doubt still ensconced in the
Mail
.
    He’d phone his mum and dad when he was home. They lived, now, in Little Dunwick five miles away and Xander wondered why he always felt compelled to phone them when he’d been to Longbridge. He’d tell them how nothing had changed apart from Lydia growing thinner and Mrs Biggins plumper, that everything at Longbridge was just ever so slightly more dusty than in the days when his mother was nanny to the Fortescue offspring and the house bustled with staff.

Chapter Six
    Stella was prepared for it to come and yet, when it arrived, though she knew exactly what it was, she felt thrown. She stared at the envelope and re-read her name and address carefully, underlining the words with her finger, as if to be absolutely sure that the contents were indeed intended for her. It was something she’d applied for, paid quite a lot for; waited over two years for but didn’t want. Not today. Today was about other things, positive things. The Marshalls were due to exchange on Mercy Benton’s little cottage in Long Dansbury – less than a month after viewing it, record time for Elmfield Estates this year. Today, Stella was viewing a large property in Cold Christmas and another in Bengeo. Today the Haddams’ mortgage offer for the house in Bramfield should be through. Today should be filled with all the excitement of here and now, not sullied by then and there. And tonight, parents’ evening (or parent’s evening – Stella was fastidious about the correct position of the apostrophe in her case) at Will’s school and there was nothing more uplifting than being nourished by the warmth of compliments and praise bestowed upon one’s child. So damn you, bloody brown bloody A4 envelope with the franked mail mark and correct address.
    But she knew what she had to do. She’d been prepped. She texted Jo.
    it’s here. Sx
    A moment later, the response Jo had been waiting a long time to give.
    do not open – will try to be there by 8. Jxx
    She wasn’t expecting Stella’s response.
    not poss – parent's eve. Sx
    who’s bbsittng? J?
    Mum Sx
    Jo thought, much as Stella loves her mum, she won’t be opening it with her.
    cant do 2moz – Mike out. SozCan you hold on til w/end?? Jxx
    Stella thought, I’d rather not open it at all.
    K. Sx
    U ok,