Free The Beautiful Indifference by Sarah Hall Page A

feeling so embarrassed about oneself. I am a great believer in private acts.
    Printed in black ink, the listing simply read The Agency . There was a number below with a mobile phone coding.
    Do ring, she said. This is for reception. Ask for an initial consultation. They can set something marvellous up for you, and then you’ll have a direct line.
    I must have appeared conflicted, because she reached out and laid her hand over mine. Her fingers were soft, but the grip was firm. She still wore her diamond engagement ring.
    Darling. You must. It isn’t what you might think. Not at all. These things consume us until we do something about them. Trust me.
    The first appointment was scheduled for eleven o’clock in the morning. I had arranged for another friend to collect Jamie from school, and keep him an extra hour, in case I was delayed. Katie had a swimming class and would be late home anyway. I wanted to give myself time to recover, if that was necessary. I could have asked Anthea to look after them, but for some reason I was hesitant to tell her where I was going, as if it would have furthered our conspiracy somehow, made her culpable.
    I’d been planning what to wear all week. I’d settled on a burgundy suit that I almost never put on any more, bought from a boutique in London after I’d received a surprisingly high severance package from my last job. It still fitted, though the waist was snug. Several times I’d taken it out of the wardrobe and hung it on the back of the door to admire it, only to rehouse it under the plastic dry-cleaner’s sleeve. There was a black silk brooch pinned to the lapel of the jacket from a Remembrance supper that John and I had attended at his college the previous year. I’d bought some new black shoes, with a heel slightly higher than I usually wore. I’d also bought new stockings, which I left in their packet inside the shoebox at the back of the wardrobe. It all felt slightly ludicrous, this fancy preparation. Half of me recognised it as such and was internally withering. I felt unqualified. I was not like Anthea King, did not possess her tailoring, her vigour and courage in life. I had always been a stiff dresser, never quite able to wear my best clothes with the sort of confidence she and the others had. But part of me was thrilled to think of the suit draped from its hanger, the silk sheaths folded carefully around their cardboard tongues, and the unscratched shoes facing each other in the box, their heels spearing the tissue paper. It was exciting to imagine I could step into the outfit.
    The morning of the appointment passed quickly. The children left for school, their books and lunch-boxes slung into their bags. I watched John wheeling his bike alongside the house, his rucksack on his back, his hair parted by the fresh breeze to reveal a seam of white scalp.
    Blowy old day, he called to me through the kitchen window, the gravel path crunching under his feet. I waved, and he was gone.
    I had been awake for much of the night, lying on my back, staring at the orange glow from the streetlamp. Once I had reached out to touch my husband’s leg, the crisp hair on his belly. I’d moved my hand down nervously, but he was sound asleep. I’d drifted off around five and the alarm had woken me with a start an hour later. The satisfying care with which I thought I would prepare and pin up my hair was absent. I dressed hurriedly and was ready earlier than planned, then felt unfocused, unable to concentrate on anything. I took two paracetamol and made more coffee. Then I cleaned my teeth again and reapplied lipstick. When I looked in the bathroom mirror my appearance seemed hawkish. I realised I had forgotten to apply concealer around my eyes. I took the silver tube out of my make-up bag, dotted it on and blended the cream.
    It was not until I was in the car, on the bypass heading out of town, that I started to consider the price of the excursion. Money had not occurred to me at all. I