her."
"Denosjowers," Samantha repeated. " Of our times . Don't they teach you French at your fancy school?"
"Oh, I see." Iseult looked incredulous. Then amused. " De nos jours ," she said slowly in a perfect accent. " Wow ," she added.
"Anyway," blustered Samantha, "I'm afraid it's not your bedroom anymore. The house is being sold and your father and I are moving to the country." She watched with satisfaction as absolute shock rippled across Iseult's irritatingly symmetrical features.
"The country ? So where the hell am I supposed to go?"
"Wherever you usually go," Samantha drawled. "Your mother's house, I imagine."
"But I've left Mum's." Jolted on to the defensive, Iseult looked panicked. "Her new boyfriend's a drag. I was going to move in with Dad." The blue eyes focused on Samantha with a look that was almost pleading.
Conscious that, for once, she had all the cards in her hands, Samantha gave Iseult the benefit of her best stage smile. "Well, I'm afraid we're not going to be here for much longer. So you'll just have to find somewhere else to live. Won't you?"
For a second, Iseult looked as if she were about to burst into tears. She glanced desperately at her prone and unconscious father, lying oblivious beside them. Then, flashing Samantha a look of killer loathing, Iseult stood up and flounced out of the ward as best she could on rubber soles at least five inches in height. Samantha looked after her with satisfaction. Guy snored on.
Chapter Seven
Bent over her worktable in the corner of the flat on Craster Road, Rosie was daydreaming of Eight Mile Bottom. Nothing that any estate agent had sent through since had come close to the village, although Mark had tried hard to interest her in a barn conversion near Cirencester. The problem with this was that the conversion was yet to be done. By them.
The future was looking bleak. Mark, too, was looking bleak. And looked bleaker every day he went into the office with no cottage to speak of and an increasingly impatient editor.
Rosie welcomed the interruption of the telephone.
"Hello," said a nasal voice with a north-country accent that Rosie did not immediately recognize.
"Hello?"
"Nigel here. From Kane, Birch, and Spankie. You're in luck. Something's come up. Don't know whether you're still interested, but…"
"Yes. Yes. Yes!" shrieked Rosie, like Meg Ryan in the restaurant scene from When Harry Met Sally . Her heart filled with love for the oily-haired estate agent. "Nigel, you're fantastic ."
"Thank you, madam." Nigel sounded gratified. "The owners are in a hurry to move, so your not being in a chain helps. It's only just come on the market. We've not .put it in the window yet—"
"Oh, please don't," said Rosie, giving him Mark's work fax number.
Mark rang up immediately, yelping with excitement. Not only was the price extraordinarily reasonable—almost within their range, in fact—but the details Kane, Birch & Spankie had sent through included magic words like "heavy oak beams" and "period open fireplaces."
As soon as Rosie put the telephone down, it rang again.
"Amazing, isn't it?" exclaimed Bella.
"Fantastic." Rosie wondered how she knew. Had Mark been so excited he had called her himself?
"Going for billions apparently," Bella added.
Rosie gasped. She'd thought the cottage was reasonably priced. Had Nigel been whiting out some of the zeros?
"I hear Lady Gaga's after it," added Bella. "But of course she's too late."
" What ? But that's impossible !" said Rosie. The pictures of the cottage had not been clear, but even Nigel's most optimistic euphemisms had been unable to disguise that it was not only small but needed rather a lot of work.
"Why would Lady Gaga be interested in Eight Mile Bottom?" she asked Bella.
"What's Eight Mile Bottom, darling?" asked
"Denosjowers," Samantha repeated. " Of our times . Don't they teach you French at your fancy school?"
"Oh, I see." Iseult looked incredulous. Then amused. " De nos jours ," she said slowly in a perfect accent. " Wow ," she added.
"Anyway," blustered Samantha, "I'm afraid it's not your bedroom anymore. The house is being sold and your father and I are moving to the country." She watched with satisfaction as absolute shock rippled across Iseult's irritatingly symmetrical features.
"The country ? So where the hell am I supposed to go?"
"Wherever you usually go," Samantha drawled. "Your mother's house, I imagine."
"But I've left Mum's." Jolted on to the defensive, Iseult looked panicked. "Her new boyfriend's a drag. I was going to move in with Dad." The blue eyes focused on Samantha with a look that was almost pleading.
Conscious that, for once, she had all the cards in her hands, Samantha gave Iseult the benefit of her best stage smile. "Well, I'm afraid we're not going to be here for much longer. So you'll just have to find somewhere else to live. Won't you?"
For a second, Iseult looked as if she were about to burst into tears. She glanced desperately at her prone and unconscious father, lying oblivious beside them. Then, flashing Samantha a look of killer loathing, Iseult stood up and flounced out of the ward as best she could on rubber soles at least five inches in height. Samantha looked after her with satisfaction. Guy snored on.
Chapter Seven
Bent over her worktable in the corner of the flat on Craster Road, Rosie was daydreaming of Eight Mile Bottom. Nothing that any estate agent had sent through since had come close to the village, although Mark had tried hard to interest her in a barn conversion near Cirencester. The problem with this was that the conversion was yet to be done. By them.
The future was looking bleak. Mark, too, was looking bleak. And looked bleaker every day he went into the office with no cottage to speak of and an increasingly impatient editor.
Rosie welcomed the interruption of the telephone.
"Hello," said a nasal voice with a north-country accent that Rosie did not immediately recognize.
"Hello?"
"Nigel here. From Kane, Birch, and Spankie. You're in luck. Something's come up. Don't know whether you're still interested, but…"
"Yes. Yes. Yes!" shrieked Rosie, like Meg Ryan in the restaurant scene from When Harry Met Sally . Her heart filled with love for the oily-haired estate agent. "Nigel, you're fantastic ."
"Thank you, madam." Nigel sounded gratified. "The owners are in a hurry to move, so your not being in a chain helps. It's only just come on the market. We've not .put it in the window yet—"
"Oh, please don't," said Rosie, giving him Mark's work fax number.
Mark rang up immediately, yelping with excitement. Not only was the price extraordinarily reasonable—almost within their range, in fact—but the details Kane, Birch & Spankie had sent through included magic words like "heavy oak beams" and "period open fireplaces."
As soon as Rosie put the telephone down, it rang again.
"Amazing, isn't it?" exclaimed Bella.
"Fantastic." Rosie wondered how she knew. Had Mark been so excited he had called her himself?
"Going for billions apparently," Bella added.
Rosie gasped. She'd thought the cottage was reasonably priced. Had Nigel been whiting out some of the zeros?
"I hear Lady Gaga's after it," added Bella. "But of course she's too late."
" What ? But that's impossible !" said Rosie. The pictures of the cottage had not been clear, but even Nigel's most optimistic euphemisms had been unable to disguise that it was not only small but needed rather a lot of work.
"Why would Lady Gaga be interested in Eight Mile Bottom?" she asked Bella.
"What's Eight Mile Bottom, darling?" asked
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