Windfallen by Jojo Moyes Page B

laugh or be appalled. It was so hard to gauge Henry’s sense of humor sometimes.
    Lottie was unaware of any of this. At mealtimes she had spent most of the time focused intently on her soup or praying that no one would bring her into conversation. Not that she really had to worry. Mrs. Holden was too busy quizzing Guy about his family and what his mother thought of life back in Britain, while Dr. Holden asked the odd question about whether his father was likely to be affected by all that trouble over land reforms in Guatemala and whether the cold war was really going to make a difference to overseas traders.
    For it was too difficult to be near him. It was too hard to listen to his voice (when had she heard it before? She must have heard it before. Its timbre was etched on her very soul). His proximity sent her thoughts scrambling, to the point where she was sure she would betray herself. The scent of him, that barely detectable sweetness, as if he still carried the tropics on his very person, left her stumbling over once familiar words. So it was safer not to look at him. Safer not to see his beautiful face. Safer not to have to watch Celia drape her hand possessively over his shoulder or absentmindedly stroke his hair. Safer to stay away. Safer to stay away.
    “Lottie? Lottie? I’ve asked you three times whether you want runner beans. Do you need your ears syringed?”
    “No, thank you,” whispered Lottie as she tried to stop her heart from jumping out of her chest.
    He had looked at her once. Only once, when she had been frozen, standing on the platform, almost felled with shock at her own reaction to him. His eyes, when they had met hers, had bored into her like twin bullets.
    “I T’S A D.”
    “No, no, you’re looking at it from the wrong angle. It could look like a G.”
    “Oh, Mummy. Really. You can’t cheat like that.”
    “No, honestly, darling. Look. It really is a G. Isn’t that lovely?”
    Lottie had walked into the kitchen to fetch a glass of milk. She hadn’t eaten properly for several days and, feeling nauseous, had hoped the milk might settle her stomach.
    She hadn’t expected to find Celia and her mother peering over their shoulders onto the flagstoned kitchen floor. Susan Holden had an uncharacteristic air of merriment about her. At the sound of Lottie’s footfall, she looked up and gave her a rare, uninhibited smile.
    “I—I just came for some milk.”
    “Look, Lottie. Come here. This is very like a G from this particular angle, don’t you think?”
    “Oh, Mummy.” Celia was laughing hard now. Her hair had separated into golden ribbons, one of which was slightly caught on her cheek.
    Lottie peered over onto the kitchen floor. There lay a piece of apple peel, carved carefully in one elongated spiral, sprawled in an uneven curve.
    “It’s definitely a G.”
    “I don’t understand,” said Lottie, frowning. Mrs. Holden scolded Virginia if she left any bits of food on the floor. It would apparently encourage pests.
    “G for Guy. I’ve never seen a clearer one,” said Mrs. Holden determinedly before stooping and picking it up. She winced slightly as she did this; she was still buying her girdles too small.
    “I’m going to tell Guy it was a D. He’ll be fearfully jealous. Who do we know who’s a D, Lots?”
    She hardly ever saw Celia and her mother laughing together. Celia had used to say her mother was the most irritating woman on earth. It made her feel as if Celia had joined some new club, as if they had both moved on and left her behind.
    “I’ll get my milk.”
    “Elvis the Pelvis,” said Frederick, who had walked in holding the dissected innards of an old wristwatch.
    “I said D, you little idiot.” But Celia said it fondly. No wonder she’s being nice to everyone, thought Lottie. I’d be nice to everyone.
    “Do you know, Mummy, Guy says my lips are like petals.”
    “Bicycle pedals,” said Frederick, screaming with laughter. “Ow!”
    “D for Dreamboat. D for