The Benefits of Passion by Catherine Fox Page A

minds that terrified Annie by dealing casually in frameworks. Edward was undaunted, however, and made up in volume and belligerence what he lacked in macroeconomic theory. Annie stopped trying to understand and began counting the blasphemies and obscenities instead. If we had a swearbox we could solve the Church of England’s financial problems in one evening flat, she thought. Even Edward let fly with a bloody and a couple of bullshits. Muriel’s lips were moving silently again.
    Annie watched the snow gathering at the window edge then peeling away. She set Miss Brown a little assignment: Criticize the following phrase, paying attention both to content and context, ‘That cunt drivelling on about the Elizabethan Weltanschauung ’. Miss Brown recoiled from the task, but Annie was firm. It was shocking because it was so off-hand. It begged the question, what did the man say when he was actually annoyed about something? It was also unpleasant because it had a human subject (that is, Charles Ingram Wallis), which put it into a different league from ‘Sod this’ or ‘Bloody weather’. Yes, decided Miss Brown. It was the undisguised contempt of another human being that was so offensive, not the C-word itself. Wrong, thought Annie. It was the D-word. Drivelling. That’s what I don’t like. Dribbling. Drooling. Here was a man who despised women and their drivelling cunts. I’m glad he’s not my GP. When it came to undermining female self-esteem, there was nothing quite like a contemptuous sneer on the lips of a man wielding a speculum.
    â€˜Left here,’ said William. ‘Park anywhere.’
    They pulled up and got out. Ingram drew up in the wankmobile.
    â€˜You’d better bring that on to the yard,’ said William, as Ingram emerged. ‘If you want to see it again, that is.’
    Ingram seemed to take this as a veiled compliment on his car, and made a large gesture like a Christian who knows better than to store up for himself treasure on earth. ‘We won’t be long.’
    â€˜All the same.’
    â€˜Don’t you think you’re being a leetle alarmist, William?’ asked Ingram.
    â€˜Suit yourself.’
    They waited on the doorstep while William went in and turned off the burglar alarm. Annie hated the things. If she had one she’d be forever setting it off and annoying the neighbours. A moment later they were all in William’s sitting room trying to decide between tea and coffee (no, really, I don’t mind, whichever’s easier).
    Annie looked round the room. The house was a medium-sized Victorian middle-of-terrace, which surprised her since she’d always assumed that GPs lived in big houses in polite areas. The room had the subdued creams and taupes she’d expected after seeing his cottage; and there was a lot of valuable-looking dark wood furniture. She guessed it would turn out to have come from his grandparents’ place. He looked like the sort of man who would raise an eyebrow at the concept of buying antiques. She created a new category for him: Posh Socialist. Her eyes continued to skim around. She caught Isobel’s doing the same. Like two female bower-birds assessing the worth of a potential mate by looking over the nest he has woven. Annie felt herself smiling at the idea.
    â€˜Have you had time to ponder yet?’ came Ingram’s voice at her side.
    â€˜Not really.’ Annie got to her feet. ‘Sorry. I must just find the . . .’ One more moment of Ingram and she’d be screaming like a runaway train. She hovered in the hallway. William was in the kitchen. Supposing she . . . Why not? An Isabella-like impulse seized her, and whistling for Libby she went to find him.
    He was leaning against the sink reading his post. He looked up – eek! those eyes again! – when she came in.
    â€˜I wondered if you needed a hand.’ He scanned the mugs and coffee-maker satirically. Milk