The Right Thing by Judy Astley

passenger door at the same time. Amanda scrambled out and grinned back at Petroc, looking, he thought, like a little rock chick abandoning the roadie for the lead guitarist. It was pointless to offer to go with them. ‘My car’s just through here behind the trees . . .’ Petroc heard him say, watching miserably as a large hand appeared like a scuttling crab splayed against the pale beacon of Amanda’s hair, guiding her out of Petroc’s life.
    Petroc slammed his hands against the steering-wheel, feeling like bashing his head against it too. He made one last feeble attempt to start the Mini, watching, as his engine struggled to turn over, the vast turquoise Bentley sweep past him out of the yard, with Amanda smiling like royalty next to the prizewinning writer. Petroc’s only compensation was that George Moorfield, used to the well-lit, wide and direct routes of London, now had a twenty-two-mile round trip on some of the narrowest and most rutted lanes in Cornwall. He wouldn’t dare take his hands off the steering-wheel, at least not till they arrived.
    They were on the second bottle and Kitty had some questions that were not about Antonia’s husband.
    â€˜Tell me how you came to end up married to Ben. I thought you’d have met some potential Nobel prizewinner at Oxford and never deigned to visit the dismal provinces again.’
    Rose laughed. ‘Oh, I met Ben in Paris when I was getting over the first husband. I’d married him straight from Oxford but he wanted immediate heirs and offspring and all that, which simply wasn’t going to happen. We divorced and the next thing I knew his was the name destined to marry some pearl-necked dozy deb smirking from that front page they used to do in Country Life. ’ She stopped and sloshed more wine inaccurately into the glass. ‘I expect they’ve got a whole litter of pink-faced little mouse-haired buggers by now. Probably born wearing velvet padded headbands. Anyway, I came across Ben at some wine-tasting in Paris, learning the wine trade from his old man, who soon conveniently snuffed it leaving Ben the deliciously thriving business. Coincidence about Paris, wasn’t it? He remembered me from that pub we all used to go to near school.’ She frowned. ‘I didn’t honestly remember much about him from then. He said he’d been out with you a bit.’ She laughed, a harsh abrupt noise. ‘I should sleep with your Glyn, then we’d be quits on the husband stakes.’
    â€˜You love him though, Ben I mean . . .’ Kitty realized she was quite drunk – it seemed such a ridiculously sentimental question, as if the next thing they should do was to sob on each other’s shoulders about the miracle of romance.
    â€˜Oh, love! How to define it . . .’ Rose gulped her wine. ‘Yes, actually I suppose I must do. We’re the best of friends. You have to be when you don’t have children, though we do have a dog. We prefer skiing and hot expensive holidays – and the boat. Oh and work. I couldn’t be without my work.’ She grinned and looked sly. ‘It does mean I can get out and about such a lot. And I have to have that, absolutely have to.’

Chapter Five
    â€˜I’m glad she didn’t stay long.’ Glyn had said it more than once, as if chanting a spell to ward off any possible future visit from the demon Rose. Kitty was getting annoyed. On the easel in front of her was a half completed painting of Coverack harbour and before Glyn had clattered up the attic stairs she had been absorbed in picking out colours for the fishing-boats. Her paintings were bright and vibrant and often described in patronizing gallery blurbs as ‘charmingly naïve’. She felt they should be undertaken in as light and happy a mood as possible if they were to gladden people’s hearts and wallets, but here was Glyn like a mobile grey cloud,