Free Fifty-Minute Hour by Wendy Perriam Page A

– yes, even in the sun, which was flouncing through the window, beribboning his chest like some sash or badge of rank – and observing her so closely, she felt nervous, almost guilty. She’d had a dog like that once, who’d watched her while she ate, following every tiny movement of her fork or spoon or hand with dark reproachful eyes. In the end, she couldn’t eat at all, or was forced to snatch a quick snack-lunch while he was gobbling down his Chum. Pedigree Chum. John-Paul was a pedigree – you could tell that by his suits, his large and stately car – a vintage Daimler, wasn’t it, in simple tasteful black? – and also by his lean fastidious face, the way he’d pared his body to essentials, instead of lugging round a vulgar load of flesh. All the same, it wasn’t wise to give up proper meals. Every time she cooked these days, she was tempted to make extra, bring it in a casserole, make sure he got his protein.
    She shifted on her seat, wished he’d speak or even move; hated these stiff silences, which seemed rather impolite. She was sure it was his turn. She’d spoken last, hadn’t she – though to tell the truth, she couldn’t even remember what she’d said, had lost the thread completely. Perhaps John-Paul had lost it, too. He did look slightly strained, was probably tired from all his other patients, who were bound to ramble on a lot and have quite ferocious problems – lust and greed and murderous hate stalking through his room all day; tempests raging round him; perversions, vices, furies, detonating hour by frenzied hour.
    It might be kinder, really, to let him have a breathing-space, just sit there very quietly and allow him to relax. In fact, that would suit her beautifully. She found it quite impossible to discuss the basic reason she was there – what James called … well, best leave all that alone. She’d done what James suggested – gone to see ‘one of those trick cyclist chaps’ – been absolutely terrified at first, ashamed and quite humiliated, but now a whole five weeks had passed and they hadn’t even mentioned double beds. John-Paul seemed more concerned with absent mothers – if and when he talked at all. She felt almost a real pleasure now, writing ‘John-Paul’ in her diary every Friday, instead of ‘Church Bazaar’, or ‘Plumber’, or ‘Collect James’s suit from cleaner’s’. She especially liked the way he invested her most trite remarks with such seriousness and import she could have been the Pope, speaking infallibly, ex cathedra, to and for the Church, instead of just a boring housewife who still didn’t know the difference between a psychiatrist, a psychologist, and a psychoanalyst.
    It was nice of him to listen so intently. People rarely did. Even at the hairdresser’s, where she often talked quite happily about the children, or the price of beef, or their plans for next year’s holiday, the girls weren’t really interested; muddled up Jonathan with Simon, or the Azores with the Algarve, butted in with tales about their boyfriends, or kept shouting to each other against the racket of the hair driers, whereas John-Paul seemed to soak up every word, listen with his eyes as well as ears; listen with his body, even with his hands.
    She glanced up at the wall. There was dust on all the picture frames – he really did need help. The pictures were those clever kind; not harvest scenes at sunset or Cornish fishing ports, like they had back home at Walton, but the sort of modern dangerous things they bought for the Tate Gallery, which had no right (or wrong) way up, and always made James angry because they wasted public money. But bar wasteful threatening pictures, she loved being in the tower. It was so unusual, so romantic, such a change from Salisbury’s. Towers belonged to fairy tales – which had been rationed in her