he thinks you may have lost interest."
"What on earth makes him think that?" snapped Samantha, playing for time as she racked her brain for excuses.
"Can't imagine, angel," said Russ. "Possibly—and this is just a hunch—it might have something to do with the fact that you haven't turned up for rehearsals yet."
"For God's sake, Russ," Samantha exploded. "Doesn't he realize what I'm going through at the moment? Can't he imagine what it's like ? How it feels to be on the brink? To know that suddenly it could all go wrong and I could lose absolutely everything ?"
"Darling, I know. I know ," Russ soothed. "Believe me. We all realize what you're going through. We can all imagine how you feel. And, believe me, we can sympathize."
"So I should bloody hope. For Christ's sake, I'm trying to sell a bloody house down here ."
There was a surprised silence. "And Guy ?" Russ asked pointedly.
" God , I mean, Christ ," screeched Samantha, pacing furiously about the pavement and tearing at her hair. "What am I supposed to do ? I'm not used to working like this."
"Darling, let's face it, you're not used to working ," drawled Russ. "Just get your butt over to the studio for rehearsals. Today. Otherwise, from what I gather, the barmaid gets it."
Samantha stormed back into the hospital. Her fury intensified when, returning to the ward, she found Iseult, as expected, on the chair at Guy's bedside clutching her father's hand. Hunched on the bedside chair, her black top, apparently manufactured from cobwebs, straining across her budding and braless breasts, she was moving her head mournfully to whatever was playing on the stateof-the-art silver CD player balanced on her crotch. A present from doting Daddy, no doubt, thought Samantha viciously, her eye catching the CD cover— What Did Your Last One Die Of? by someone called Matt Locke. Her lips twisted as she noticed the grapes she had bought from Harrods that morning had almost halved in number. Despite her only-come-out-at-night appearance, Iseult evidently had a healthy appetite. Trust Guy, Samantha thought savagely, to father the sole member of her generation who wasn't an anorexic, yet was still a waif. Iseult's frail neck, skinny arms, and elegantly gangly legs were, Samantha recognized jealously, gifts that had been missing from her own particular genetic stocking and had been achieved only by practically starving herself.
Ditto Iseult's perfect oval face with its lips so full they were less rosebud, more rose, fashionably thin arched eyebrows, and center-parted hair of a blackness that was almost blue. It was amazing how unlike her father she was, large blue eyes excepted. There was little of the Latin about Guy's florid, Anglo-Saxon appearance, apart, that was, from the eye-watering blasts of aftershave. Iseult was obviously her mother's daughter. If only, Samantha thought, she wasn't her father's.
"I think your father's tired," said Samantha bossily. "Perhaps you should go."
A look of intense dislike slid across Iseult's face. She detached her earphones. "Oh, yeah ?"
" Yeah . Er, I mean yes . I'll arrange a cab for you."
"Don't bother." Iseult looked at her steadily. "Anyway, I wanted to talk to you."
"What about?" Samantha was determined not to show how surprised she was. If Iseult thought she could get around her with a bit of stepdaughterly bonding, she had another think coming.
"About what the fuck you've done to my bedroom."
Samantha boggled. " Your bedroom?"
"You've taken down all my posters and painted it shit color. I've just been to see it."
Bugger, cursed Samantha. I should have made Basia change the locks as well. "Your—I mean that bedroom," she explained haughtily, "is, along with the rest of the house, the work of the foremost interior designer de nos jours ."
"De where? Never heard of
"What on earth makes him think that?" snapped Samantha, playing for time as she racked her brain for excuses.
"Can't imagine, angel," said Russ. "Possibly—and this is just a hunch—it might have something to do with the fact that you haven't turned up for rehearsals yet."
"For God's sake, Russ," Samantha exploded. "Doesn't he realize what I'm going through at the moment? Can't he imagine what it's like ? How it feels to be on the brink? To know that suddenly it could all go wrong and I could lose absolutely everything ?"
"Darling, I know. I know ," Russ soothed. "Believe me. We all realize what you're going through. We can all imagine how you feel. And, believe me, we can sympathize."
"So I should bloody hope. For Christ's sake, I'm trying to sell a bloody house down here ."
There was a surprised silence. "And Guy ?" Russ asked pointedly.
" God , I mean, Christ ," screeched Samantha, pacing furiously about the pavement and tearing at her hair. "What am I supposed to do ? I'm not used to working like this."
"Darling, let's face it, you're not used to working ," drawled Russ. "Just get your butt over to the studio for rehearsals. Today. Otherwise, from what I gather, the barmaid gets it."
Samantha stormed back into the hospital. Her fury intensified when, returning to the ward, she found Iseult, as expected, on the chair at Guy's bedside clutching her father's hand. Hunched on the bedside chair, her black top, apparently manufactured from cobwebs, straining across her budding and braless breasts, she was moving her head mournfully to whatever was playing on the stateof-the-art silver CD player balanced on her crotch. A present from doting Daddy, no doubt, thought Samantha viciously, her eye catching the CD cover— What Did Your Last One Die Of? by someone called Matt Locke. Her lips twisted as she noticed the grapes she had bought from Harrods that morning had almost halved in number. Despite her only-come-out-at-night appearance, Iseult evidently had a healthy appetite. Trust Guy, Samantha thought savagely, to father the sole member of her generation who wasn't an anorexic, yet was still a waif. Iseult's frail neck, skinny arms, and elegantly gangly legs were, Samantha recognized jealously, gifts that had been missing from her own particular genetic stocking and had been achieved only by practically starving herself.
Ditto Iseult's perfect oval face with its lips so full they were less rosebud, more rose, fashionably thin arched eyebrows, and center-parted hair of a blackness that was almost blue. It was amazing how unlike her father she was, large blue eyes excepted. There was little of the Latin about Guy's florid, Anglo-Saxon appearance, apart, that was, from the eye-watering blasts of aftershave. Iseult was obviously her mother's daughter. If only, Samantha thought, she wasn't her father's.
"I think your father's tired," said Samantha bossily. "Perhaps you should go."
A look of intense dislike slid across Iseult's face. She detached her earphones. "Oh, yeah ?"
" Yeah . Er, I mean yes . I'll arrange a cab for you."
"Don't bother." Iseult looked at her steadily. "Anyway, I wanted to talk to you."
"What about?" Samantha was determined not to show how surprised she was. If Iseult thought she could get around her with a bit of stepdaughterly bonding, she had another think coming.
"About what the fuck you've done to my bedroom."
Samantha boggled. " Your bedroom?"
"You've taken down all my posters and painted it shit color. I've just been to see it."
Bugger, cursed Samantha. I should have made Basia change the locks as well. "Your—I mean that bedroom," she explained haughtily, "is, along with the rest of the house, the work of the foremost interior designer de nos jours ."
"De where? Never heard of
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