Free The High Flyer by Susan Howatch Page B

emotional tidal wave.
    “I had to see you,” she said in a rush. “We have to talk.”
    “You’re Sophie Betz,” was all I could say. Then, more stunned than ever, I heard myself repeat with a wholly different emphasis: “
You’re
Sophie Betz?”
    “Look, I know you don’t want to talk to me, but—”
    “What the hell are you doing here?”
    I was now floundering around trying to make sense of this bizarre appearance, but Sophie was so agitated that I believe she barely heard my question. We were talking across each other, our dialogue out of joint, while around us the shoppers’ eyes were glazed and the white lights were glaring and the meat lay in glistening packages on the glacial shelves nearby.
    “I tried to spin out the divorce because I thought you might get tired of him, but it all became such a nightmare, so expensive, and then—”
    “
How did you know who I was and how did you know I’d be here tonight?
”
    “I felt I simply had to make one last effort to save you, so I reengaged the private detective I used last year. I told him I wanted to know your daily routine and what you looked like, and he took photos and—”
    “What a bloody nerve!”
    “—and he found out you usually came here at least once during the week after work to pick up things which couldn’t wait till the weekly shopping expedition on Saturdays. So when you refused to take my call yesterday I knew I had no choice but to—”
    “—haunt Safeway’s till I showed up! Wonderful! Okay, now listen to me, Sophie. Don’t think I’m entirely without sympathy for you, but the marriage was all over, wasn’t it, before I arrived on the scene, so I really don’t see why you—”
    “I felt called to save you, absolutely
called
, although John—that’s my local clergyman—did say after the divorce that maybe it wasn’t for me to do that, he said maybe I should now put my trust in God to save you in his own way and in his own time—”
    “Sorry, I’m not following you at all, can we keep God out of this?”
    “But how can we? We’re all utterly dependent on God’s grace!”
    I finally lost patience with her. “I’m not dependent on anyone!” I shouted. “I don’t believe in God, and even if I did, I wouldn’t need him! I’m a big success entirely due to my own efforts and I’ve got this life-plan which is panning out beautifully and the last thing I need is a Christian spouting nutterguff in a supermarket when I’m trying to do my shopping!”
    “But you’re a lawyer—surely you’re interested in truth! Listen, Kim’s gone down the wrong road. I thought that by staying with him I could save him, but—”
    “Christ, you’re worse than any American televangelist—”
    “Has he told you about Mrs. Mayfield?”
    In the profound silence which followed it felt as if the supermarket had been drained of air.
    “He’s mixed up with the occult,” said the woman. “It’s dragged him deep into the moral quicksands, so save yourself while you can, move out of his life as quickly as possible—”
    “Fuck off,” I said, and turned my back on her. I had sucked in some air from somewhere but my heart felt as if it were revving up for a killer thump. My body was clammy with sweat.
    “Ask him about Mrs. Mayfield!” she shouted after me. “Ask him about Mrs. Mayfield!”
    I blundered away without looking back.
    II
    I was standing in front of the dairy products cases and staring at the cheeses. I felt as if an hour had passed but the time-lapse was probably no more than two minutes. I was dry-mouthed and feeling nauseous. Some of the cheeses were a suggestive shade of yellow.
    Turning away with a shudder I found myself face to face with Alice Fletcher who had followed me silently to the dairy section and was now waiting for me to show signs of recovery.
    “Are you okay?” she said, concerned as I registered her presence.
    “No, I feel as if I’d had a lobotomy without an anaesthetic. Has that ghastly woman