Bond Street, tripping past shops in her low-heeled
shoes, not pausing to stare. Reaching the far end of galleries, arcades of pictures, thinking of Andrew and her own alibi.
Outwardly cool, almost languid.
She had to account for this time
. Staring into windows, Agnew Galleries, Bond Street galleries. There was something alien and arrogant about the galleries
in Bond Street and St James’s, which defied the casual visitor to enter. Even from the outside evidence of heavy glass doors,
security systems refined into elegance, the absence of prices, the hushed, church-like atmosphere, they seemed designed to
intimidate all but the initiated, while inside there would be the supercilious glance of some slender gallery girl, designed
to repel the provincial plod who did not belong. She could see herself wiping her shoes on the doormat as a preliminary to
flight: this was not where she could come to shop for art. On the way back, she paused in front of a sober display of old-master
flower paintings, glowing with priceless splendour, and thought she would prefer the flowers themselves.
Why does it have to be art, Ernest? Why can’t we collect plants? Or rare vegetables
?
There was nothing in these streets of excellence that she wanted, and nothing she wanted anyone else to want. She had once
thought there were things she
needed
in environs such as these, in the days when she had
yearned
for the beautiful clothes and the intoxicating power of money, just as Andrew Mitchum did now, so she should empathize, and
she did. But there are no short-cuts, Andrew, there never are; and it’s never enough, don’t you know yet? John Smith can buy
what he wants, and what has it done for him? Will you please
look
at the clients, Andrew, before you want what you think they have?
By the time she was half-way back to William’s surgery, the swift walk had accelerated and the mind had gone back into overdrive.
Poor little boy
. Juddering and weeping in her room that morning, spitting out words, exhorting her to secrecy about nothing. Well, she excelled
at secrecy. He was safe in that regard, and so, she thought with guilty relief, was Cannon.
There was a dress in a window, on a single elegantly stately mannequin. High neck, closefitting sleeves, a moulded sheath
of scarlet wool crêpe with a broad belt in the same colour. She stopped and stared. Gorgeous: dramatic, striking. Now
that
would perk up Master Ralph in the high-court gloom. She was almost in there, tearing it off the model to try it on, until
she saw the reflection of her hair in the glass. Some women could get away with a mix of auburn and scarlet but she was probably
not one of them. She moved on, thinking that she had left her yearning fingerprints and the slight blur from her nose on thewindow, and that it did indeed help to be frivolous. Better to be haunted by a dress than by blood.
When she returned, Andrew was in the back, dozing on the old dental chair, cleaner than he had been and supplied with one
of William’s shirts, she noticed, with a flush of gratitude. National Health practice had made William difficult to surprise.
The door to the surgery was closed; she could hear the drill. With a vacant grin that merely suggested forbearance, the receptionist
saw them off the premises to a taxi.
Not much I could do
, said William’s note,
except stabilize his condition. When is someone going to do that for
you?
Explanations, please, in unmarked envelope to my address
.
When she had delivered Andrew into the arms of his flatmate with a sheaf of prescriptions and instructions, she went back
to work, armed with a set of spurious excuses for his absence (road accident) just as he had requested, plus another set for
her own. She took the stairs two at a time, feeling only vaguely guilty about all the lies, thinking that the note she had
left for William was a shade inadequate.
Thank you
,
dear. That’s your good deed for the day. Now you can
shoes, not pausing to stare. Reaching the far end of galleries, arcades of pictures, thinking of Andrew and her own alibi.
Outwardly cool, almost languid.
She had to account for this time
. Staring into windows, Agnew Galleries, Bond Street galleries. There was something alien and arrogant about the galleries
in Bond Street and St James’s, which defied the casual visitor to enter. Even from the outside evidence of heavy glass doors,
security systems refined into elegance, the absence of prices, the hushed, church-like atmosphere, they seemed designed to
intimidate all but the initiated, while inside there would be the supercilious glance of some slender gallery girl, designed
to repel the provincial plod who did not belong. She could see herself wiping her shoes on the doormat as a preliminary to
flight: this was not where she could come to shop for art. On the way back, she paused in front of a sober display of old-master
flower paintings, glowing with priceless splendour, and thought she would prefer the flowers themselves.
Why does it have to be art, Ernest? Why can’t we collect plants? Or rare vegetables
?
There was nothing in these streets of excellence that she wanted, and nothing she wanted anyone else to want. She had once
thought there were things she
needed
in environs such as these, in the days when she had
yearned
for the beautiful clothes and the intoxicating power of money, just as Andrew Mitchum did now, so she should empathize, and
she did. But there are no short-cuts, Andrew, there never are; and it’s never enough, don’t you know yet? John Smith can buy
what he wants, and what has it done for him? Will you please
look
at the clients, Andrew, before you want what you think they have?
By the time she was half-way back to William’s surgery, the swift walk had accelerated and the mind had gone back into overdrive.
Poor little boy
. Juddering and weeping in her room that morning, spitting out words, exhorting her to secrecy about nothing. Well, she excelled
at secrecy. He was safe in that regard, and so, she thought with guilty relief, was Cannon.
There was a dress in a window, on a single elegantly stately mannequin. High neck, closefitting sleeves, a moulded sheath
of scarlet wool crêpe with a broad belt in the same colour. She stopped and stared. Gorgeous: dramatic, striking. Now
that
would perk up Master Ralph in the high-court gloom. She was almost in there, tearing it off the model to try it on, until
she saw the reflection of her hair in the glass. Some women could get away with a mix of auburn and scarlet but she was probably
not one of them. She moved on, thinking that she had left her yearning fingerprints and the slight blur from her nose on thewindow, and that it did indeed help to be frivolous. Better to be haunted by a dress than by blood.
When she returned, Andrew was in the back, dozing on the old dental chair, cleaner than he had been and supplied with one
of William’s shirts, she noticed, with a flush of gratitude. National Health practice had made William difficult to surprise.
The door to the surgery was closed; she could hear the drill. With a vacant grin that merely suggested forbearance, the receptionist
saw them off the premises to a taxi.
Not much I could do
, said William’s note,
except stabilize his condition. When is someone going to do that for
you?
Explanations, please, in unmarked envelope to my address
.
When she had delivered Andrew into the arms of his flatmate with a sheaf of prescriptions and instructions, she went back
to work, armed with a set of spurious excuses for his absence (road accident) just as he had requested, plus another set for
her own. She took the stairs two at a time, feeling only vaguely guilty about all the lies, thinking that the note she had
left for William was a shade inadequate.
Thank you
,
dear. That’s your good deed for the day. Now you can
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