Windfallen by Jojo Moyes Page A

to jog, and she panicked, tried to get her arm behind her to ensure that her skirt was still covering her knickers. Then suddenly she was falling down, a huge wave of salt water sweeping over her face, so that, coughing and spluttering, she struggled to find the seafloor under her feet. She could hear muffled laughter above her and then, gasping, found her head above water again.
    She managed to stand and paused for a second, her eyes stinging and salt burning in the back of her throat. She felt herself retch a couple of times and made blindly for the shore. When she got there, she bent over, gasping. Her dress was stuck to her legs, her layers of petticoat melded together. Her top, which was a pale cotton, had become almost see-through, clearly revealing the outline of her brassiere. Raising a hand to her hair, she realized it was loose and that the tortoiseshell slide that had held it back off her face was no longer there.
    She looked up and saw George, hands on hips, grinning. Celia, behind him, was wearing a look of appalled amusement.
    “You bloody pig.” The words fell out of Lottie’s mouth even before she knew she was going to say them. “You bloody, bloody pig. That was not on. ”
    George looked briefly stunned. Behind her the lull of conversation from the picnic blankets suddenly stalled.
    “Oh, it’s bloody funny for you,” she yelled, aware that there was a large lump in the back of her throat, threatening tears. “You with handfuls of money and your linen bloody suits. Doesn’t matter to you if your clothes get ruined. Look at my summer dress! Look! It’s my best one! Mrs. Holden will kill me! And you’ve lost my bloody comb.” And, to her own horror, the tears came, hot tears of frustration and humiliation.
    “Steady on, Lots.” Celia’s face had fallen. Lottie knew she was embarrassing her but didn’t care.
    “Come on, Lottie. It was only a joke.” George moved toward her, looking both exasperated and apologetic.
    “Well, it was a very stupid joke.” Lottie looked around to see Adeline beside her. She was holding up her wrap to place it around Lottie’s shoulders. Her expression was one of mild rebuke. Lottie caught her spicy, jasmine scent as Adeline covered her.
    “George, you must apologize. Lottie was our guest, and you had no right. Lottie, I am very sorry. I’m sure we can get Marnie to launder your lovely dress and make sure it is all right for you.”
    But how will I get home, Lottie thought desperately, confronted by an image of herself tottering along the road in Adeline’s feather boa and Chinese slippers. She was interrupted by a voice from up on the cliff path.
    “Celia Jane Holden. What on earth do you think you’re doing?”
    Lottie spun around to find above her the appalled faces of Mrs. Chilton and Mrs. Colquhoun, who had been taking the scenic route home from Woodbridge Avenue. It had apparently proven rather more scenic than they’d expected.
    “You get out of that water and back into your clothes this instant. Where are your decency and decorum?”
    Celia had gone quite white. She held her hands to her chest, as if suddenly aware of her state of undress. George lifted his hands in a placatory manner, but Mrs. Chilton had pulled herself up to her full five feet four inches, so that her bosom appeared to be hoisted somewhere beneath her chin, and was not about to be pacified.
    “And I don’t know who you are, but you, young man, are old enough to know better. Persuading respectable young girls out of their clothes in broad daylight—you are a disgrace.” She caught sight of the wine bottles on the sand. “Celia Holden, you had better not have been drinking. Goodness gracious. Are you trying to earn yourself a reputation? I do not imagine for one minute that your mother is going to be pleased about this.”
    Mrs. Colquhoun meanwhile held both hands to her silent mouth, as shocked as if she had just witnessed some human sacrifice.
    “Mrs. Chilton, I