Looking Down by Frances Fyfield Page B

years, and the thought of ever doing anything responsible ever again filled her with horror. This was safer: a place to live, a coterie of generous male friends, the judge, the dentist, the stockbroker, the art dealer, all conveniently central. A little involvement in the lives of others, but not a lot. No missions to the rescue; she had doneenough of that. And now she had the safety of the flat, she could give the money away. Money did not matter as long as you had a roof. Who needed more than a roof and a painting or two? She paused to check her appearance in the window of Penhaligon’s. Delicious scents in there, and yes, they certainly counted as the necessities of life, but she also had plenty of those. What more did she need?
    A small, expressive face grinned back. Notable for the peculiar colouring, sallow skin, auburn hair and brown eyes with crow’s feet blurred in the glass. Nobody liked the onset of lines, but like the state of the wider world there was nothing you could do about it. Lilian Beaumont might imagine Sarah Fortune was beyond the pale when it came to luring the opposite sex at the advanced age of almost forty, but then Lilian Beaumont knew Jack Shit about men. Securing a man to keep on a permanent and official basis grew more difficult with the crow’s feet and weight if a girl was competing for a commitment from a man who wanted babies, but Sarah was way beyond that. Marriage was a mug’s game. And the sort of gentle, often timid and shy men she preferred would have run a mile from a Lilian Beaumont unless they were already married to her.
    No, Sarah’s chosen kind of men tended to be clever, kindly, successful in an understated way, and tending towards the socially inept. A teeny bit and not always fortunately eccentric. Such as George, with his passion for Russian icons and all things miniature, suitable for his own diminutive size and huge feet, alienating his customers with his myopic stare and contempt for their taste. Then there was William, six feet three inches high, with a permanent stoop from bending over his patients in the dental chair, whose practice made him ill-at-ease with most of humanity. At the moment she entered the restaurant he was absorbed in reading, and when she touched him on the shoulder he leapt to his feet in a confusion of angles, sending the water andcutlery crashing to the floor. Something he might do twice during a meal. It was never wise to drink soup near William, and yet in his surgery he was precise and soothing, as long as nobody tried to speak.
    ‘Sarah,’ he said, beaming and irritated at the same time, kissing her cheek and pulling at the tablecloth. ‘You must stop sending me patients. I’ve too many already. And you never send me anyone straightforward.’
    ‘I don’t know anyone straightforward.’
    ‘I forgot, of course you don’t. What are we eating?’
    He could never make up his mind and wanted someone to do it for him, although he loved food. Frightened of his own choices. She frowned over the menu while William unloaded the tragedies of the week. The waiter appeared and she told him what William would like. It was a quiet place, full of concentrated eaters who appreciated plain food served speedily.
    ‘How many this week . . .oh yes, I sent Steven,’ she said, smiling at him, pleased to see him. ‘It isn’t as if he can’t pay. I thought he might like the paintings in the waiting room.’
    ‘You told me a little about your brother,’ William said, mildly enough. ‘And yes, he did like the paintings. Rather too much, I thought. Walked off with the one in the lavatory. That nice little nude. Do you think you could ask him for it back?’
    ‘How very rude of him,’ Sarah said. ‘But I’m afraid it’s a bit compulsive, although he’s usually more subtle than that. I think he’s a bit out of practice. It’ll come back, don’t worry.’
    ‘To tell the truth,’ William said while chewing safely dry whitebait, ‘he scared me