The Wonder Worker by Susan Howatch Page A

fathoms deep into depression and started weeping in the lavatory, sobbing in the supermarket and generally giving way to the kind of emotional behaviour which Aunt had always loathed. In a paroxysm of grief I tore up my diet-sheet and made myself a Black Forest gateau, but that lapse just made me more depressed than ever, and the next morning, when I came within an inch of pranging the Polo, I realised it was time to start facing up to the cold hard facts of life. Supposing I lost my job, my home and all my new security? I had to treat the situation as an emergency and get help straight away.
    With great reluctance, unwilling to re-establish the connection but seeing no easy alternative, I phoned the Healing Centre and asked to speak to Francie Parker.
    V
    “Don’t worry
,” she said. “It’s very normal to get a reaction at this stage. Come over here as soon as you can and I’ll be waiting with the coffee.”
    Shuddering with relief I headed for the tube station at Sloane Square.
    As soon as I reached the reception area of the Healing Centre Francie led me into a very small, very private room and plied me with coffee while I destroyed numerous Kleenexes and reflected dimly, as I made fruitless attempts to check my tears, how much I hated myself for such a humiliating loss of control.
    “… and I even tore up my diet-sheet!” I bawled, finally sinking into bathos. “It was so beautiful—I’d worked it all out, right down to the last calorie—I’ve been reading all these marvellous low-cal cookbooks because Lady Cynthia likes to weight-watch when she’s not entertaining—and now everything’s ruined because all my will-power’s gone and the only thing I can do is eat Black Forest gateau and rum raisin ice cream—”
    “Hey, this sounds really upsetting.” Francie, to her eternal credit, remained dead serious, demonstrating that there were times when a stunted sense of humour could even be described as an asset. “I’m so sorry, Alice.”
    I shed some more tears while Francie heroically maintained her sympathy, but having vented the worst of my misery I was at last able to pull myself together. “Okay,” I said. “I feel better after letting all that out. I’ll be all right now. Thanks for listening.”
    “Hang on,” said Francie quickly as I hauled myself to my feet. “Now that you’re here, why don’t you have a quick word with Nick?”
    “Oh no,” I said at once. “No, I wouldn’t dream of bothering him.”
    “But it’s his job to bother when people are in situations as tough as yours, Alice! He wouldn’t grudge you the time no matter how busy he was. Let me just see if—”
    “No, absolutely not!” I grabbed a handful of tissues for the journey home.
    “Okay,” said Francie hastily, startled by my fierceness, “but won’t you at least keep in touch to let me know how you’re getting on?”
    “Yes, of course. Thanks again, you’ve been wonderful,” I said, anxious to show her she wasn’t unappreciated, “but now I must go. There’s shopping to do—things to cook—and anyway I mustn’t take up any more of your time.”
    Hurrying out of the little interview room I blundered down the corridor to the reception area—and there, helping himself to coffee from the machine, was Nicholas Darrow.
    V
    “Oh
, there you are!” he said nonchalantly. “I was hoping you’d turn up. Do you have a moment to tell me how you’re getting on with Mortimer?”
    Well, I could hardly have said no, could I? It would have been so rude, and besides … all my will-power had evaporated. It was like opening the door of the freezer and seeing the tub of rum raisin ice cream; I knew that just a couple of spoonfuls were guaranteed to make me feel so much better.
    Naturally there was no disguising my emotional state. I could picture my bloodshot eyes and blotched face, and it occurred to me, as I nodded my head to accept his invitation, that even a dead cod on a fishmonger’s slab would have