Free Presence of Mind by Anthea Fraser

shapeless – but pure silk – dress which hung on her rather bony body. To complete the picture a lorgnette was attached to the long beads round her neck. Paula was in fact very short-sighted but she had turned the defect to maximum advantage. Very sophisticated, I thought, and rather unapproachable. I wondered if Max had ever tried to analyse his wife, and my thought was echoed in part by Cynthia, who, having played a hand, said interestedly:
    â€˜Do tell us all about that brilliant husband of yours, Paula. I hardly dared open my mouth in his presence for fear of incriminating myself!’
    â€˜I don’t suppose he considers people he meets socially in that way,’ Stella put in comfortably.
    â€˜Actually I’m not so sure.’ Casually Paula played a trump and scooped up the hand. ‘It’s so much a part of his life that he can’t help mentally assessing people, whether he means to or not.’ Unwillingly I remembered Max’s attentive examination of the painting and the blind, closed look on Lance’s face and tried without success to dispel the lingering sense of unease latent in the memory.
    â€˜But is there much call for work of that kind here?’ Stella was asking. ‘I should have thought the English were too phlegmatic and down to earth to need psychiatrists. Surely he’d do better in America or somewhere, where everybody seems to have one!’
    Paula smiled slightly. ‘I’m sure that Max’s reply to that would be that it’s the seemingly phlegmatic who often turn out to be a positive mass of repression and buried neuroses! But seriously, a lot more attention is being paid to mental health, even here, than there ever used to be.’
    â€˜Not in Rushyford, surely?’ objected Cynthia, raising her finely pencilled eyebrows.
    â€˜His consulting rooms are in Bury but he has days at various psychiatric wards round about.’
    â€˜It must be fascinating,’ Cynthia remarked with an envious sigh. ‘Really, you know, I do find it rather galling. Your husbands are all so interesting! Max is all clued up on psychology, Lance is a brilliant artist, and Simon is so devastatingly handsome that it raises one’s morale just to be seen with him. And what have I managed to achieve? Edgar!’
    It was impossible not to laugh, but I felt a niggling sense of disloyalty. Edgar might not be brilliant or an oil painting but he was kind and steady and dependable, attributes which didn’t necessarily apply to the other three.
    The afternoon wore on. My mind was only half on the game, but we weren’t playing too seriously and it didn’t seem to matter. I had the impression that Paula had expected a higher standard and I did not doubt that the next time Cynthia hopefully rang for a bridge date, Mrs Forrest would regretfully have a prior engagement. It struck me as amusing that I should have worried about becoming too friendly with Paula. Obviously she chose her own friends, and there would not be many who received her confidences.
    The last rubber, as was often the case, took a long time to finish, and it was almost six o’clock when I finally returned to Fairfield Lodge. It was on occasions like this that I guiltily showered blessings on Mrs Rose, who would have the dinner preparations well in hand. With an increased spurt of anxiety about Briony I hurried into the house.
    I knew immediately that something was wrong and I turned without hesitation into the sitting-room. Briony was lying in a crumpled little heap on the hearth-rug.
    For a moment time stopped completely. Then, without consciously moving, I was kneeling beside her, gently turning her head aside. Her face had been buried in the soft deep pile and I honestly think I was surprised to find her still breathing. Scrambling to my feet, I pulled and tugged frantically at the window catches, staggered on to the terrace and, gripping the stone balustrade until it bit into my