The Gatecrasher by Sophie Kinsella Page B

another cigarette.
    “How come you’ve got a Jeep?” said Antony. “You can’t drive yet. You’re only fifteen.”
    “I can drive on private roads,” retorted Xanthe. “Mex is teaching me. Aren’t you, Mex?” She lay back on the grass and ran her fingers through her blond curls. “And that’s not all he’s teaching me. Know what I mean?” She blew a circle of smoke into the air. “Actually, you probably don’t.” She winked at Mex. “I don’t want to shock Antony. He still kisses with his mouth closed.”
    Antony stared at Xanthe in furious embarrassment, searching in his mind for some witty put-down. But the co-ordination between his brain and his mouth seemed to have disappeared.
    “Your dad,” said Xanthe musingly. “Your dad. Whatdid I hear about him the other day?” Suddenly she sat up. “Oh yes! He’s got a floosie, hasn’t he?”
    “No he hasn’t!”
    “Yes he has! Mum and Dad were talking about it. Some woman in London. Really pretty, apparently. Mum caught them having lunch.”
    “She’s just a friend,” said Antony desperately. All his nonchalance had disappeared. Suddenly he hated his father; even hated his mother for dying. Why couldn’t everything have stayed as it was?
    “I heard about your mum,” said Mex. “Rough.”
    You don’t know anything about it! Antony wanted to shout. But instead he stubbed out his cigarette awkwardly with his foot, and said, “I’ve got to go.”
    “Too bad,” said Xanthe. “You were really turning me on, standing there in those sexy trousers. Where’d you get them? A jumble sale?”
    “Catch you later,” said Mex. “Have a nice time with your dad.”
    As Antony began to walk off, he heard a suppressed snigger, but he didn’t look back until he reached the corner. Then he allowed himself a quick glance behind him. Xanthe and Mex were kissing again.
    Quickly he rounded the corner and sat down on a low stone wall. Through his mind ran all the phrases he’d heard from grown-ups over the years.
People who tease you are just immature . . . Don’t take any notice—then they’ll get bored . . . If they attach more importance to your looks than your personality, then they’re not worth having as friends
.
    So what was he supposed to do? Ignore everyone exceptWill? End up with no friends at all? The way he saw it, he had two choices. Either he could be lonely, or he could get on with the crowd. Antony sighed. It was all very well for grown-ups. They didn’t know what it was like. When was the last time someone had been bitchy to his dad? Probably never. Grown-ups weren’t bitchy to one another. They just weren’t. In fact, grown-ups, thought Antony morosely, should stop complaining. They had it bloody easy.
     
    Gillian sat at the huge wooden table in her dead sister’s kitchen, looking blankly at a heap of French beans. She felt weary, almost too weary to raise the knife. Since Emily’s death an apathy had been creeping up on her which alarmed and confused her. She knew no other way of dealing with it than by throwing herself wholeheartedly into the household tasks which filled her day. But the harder she worked, the less energy she seemed to have. When she sat down for a break she felt like stopping for ever.
    She leaned forward on her elbows, feeling lethargic and heavy. She could feel her own weight sinking into the farmhouse chair, the mass of her solid, unbeautiful body. Ample breasts encased in a sensible bra, bulky legs hidden under a skirt. Her cardigan was thick and weighty; even her hair felt heavy today.
    For a few minutes, she stared down at the table, tracing the grain of the wood with her finger, trying to lose herself in the whorls and loops, trying to pretend she felt normal. But as her finger reached a dark woody knot, she stopped. There was no point pretending to herself. She didn’t just feel heavy. She didn’t just feel apathetic. She felt scared.
    The phone call from Richard had been brief. No explanationbeyond