The Benefits of Passion by Catherine Fox Page B

jug, teapot, strainer. ‘Yes. Well, obviously you’ve got it all under control,’ she mumbled, cursing Isabella. ‘So I’ll . . .’ He had returned to his letter. She shrugged and began to tiptoe away.
    â€˜By all means hide here if you want to.’
    â€˜I wasn’t . . .’
    He raised an eyebrow and her protest withered on the stem. Help. Am I that transparent? He was deep in his letter again and she dithered, wondering whether he was expecting her to stay. Should she pick up a medical journal from the table and pretend to browse?
    â€˜So,’ he said suddenly, folding up the letter and putting it aside. ‘What do you do, then?’
    â€˜Annie,’ she prompted, on a mischievous impulse, seeing he had forgotten her name.
    â€˜ Annie ,’ he repeated nastily. ‘Well? What do you do?’ He folded his arms. It was perfectly obvious that he didn’t want to be talking to her. Some vestigial courtesy must be grumbling away in his conscience like an appendix.
    â€˜Um, well, the same as the rest of them.’ He stared. ‘You know. Training for the ministry.’
    â€˜You’re kidding.’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Good God. How old are you?’
    â€˜Thirty-one.’
    â€˜What! Come here.’ He beckoned. In her surprise she obeyed. ‘Look up.’ He put a finger under her chin and tilted her face towards the light. It was obviously a piece of medical observation for him, but for Annie it felt alarmingly like the prelude to a kiss. She stared up at his beautiful wide sulky mouth and her lips parted in a helpless gasp. GET DOWN, GIRL! William withdrew his hand and stared frigidly, as though she were a small child who had belched at the dinner table. She blushed. You horrible horrible dog. I’ll have you spayed.
    â€˜You look about fifteen.’
    â€˜I know.’ There was a silence. She began counting the silver teaspoons in a desperate bid not to laugh.
    â€˜So how will you arrange it?’ he asked at last. ‘Will you have neighbouring parishes?’ She looked up in surprise. ‘You and Edward.’
    â€˜Edward? Ah. Oh. I think you must be assuming we’re – we’re –’
    â€˜And you’re not?’
    â€˜No. I’m just, um, a friend of his.’ Now he looked surprised, not to say faintly annoyed, as though she had been deliberately misleading him. He began pouring the coffee. ‘Sorry,’ she said.
    â€˜What do you mean, sorry ?’
    â€˜To put you to the trouble of having to talk to me.’ He paused and looked at her. She’d seen this expression before on other faces: is this girl just gauche, or was that malicious?
    â€˜Well, fuck you, honey.’ Annie blinked in shock. He handed her a tray. ‘Take these through.’ She carried them to the sitting room, her hands trembling so much that the mugs rattled. Don’t you go dropping them, Anne Brown! cried her mother in alarm. He followed her down the hall with another tray.
    The conversation and coffee drinking went on around her. She tried to compose herself. She was used to getting away with saying rude things to people without them quite realizing. Her mousy looks and diffident manner were a perfect disguise. She was not at all used to people seeing through her and saying, ‘Fuck you, honey.’ Isobel was engaging him in polite chat again. Her colour was heightened, and while not precisely mellowed by his attention, she was certainly wearing her dignity at a more rakish angle. Before long she lost him to a rugby conversation, which had been started by Edward on the other side of the room. Annie saw her court shoe begin tapping silently on the carpet. Muriel, who had been peeping anxiously between the curtains for some time, said, ‘I wonder if we ought to make a move? It’s still snowing.’ They all found their coats and began edging their way out of the door with Edward still talking