Free The Wonder Worker by Susan Howatch

insignificant person has value?”
    “I should hope so,” said Nicholas dryly, withdrawing his hand from the wheel and opening the door. “We’re supposed to be following a man who believed everyone was special, even those on the margins of society who feel themselves despised and ignored.” And scrambling out of the car he began to feed coins into the meter.
    Tears filled my eyes. I didn’t know why but I at once hated myself for not controlling my emotions properly. Aunt would have been appalled. Furtively using my cuff as a handkerchief I heaved my bulk from the passenger seat, grabbed my keys from my bag and somehow managed to open the front door.
    X
    Well
, I got over that bout of stupidity, of course I did, there was so much to do, food to take out of the fridge, wine to uncork, people to talk to—I didn’t have time to give way to turgid emotions, did I, I had to keep up appearances, behave as Aunt would have wished, see that everything was done properly. Anyway, I was brought down to earth soon enough when I opened the first bottle of the wine and found it tasted like paint-stripper. That was a bad start. I noticed that Nicholas only had one sip from his glass and only two of the hors d’oeuvres which I had so enjoyed preparing. When he refused a third I was stupid enough to ask: “Is something wrong with them?” although I knew there wasn’t because the other guests were tucking in happily enough and I myself had already put away at least six. In reply he said: “I’m afraid I never eat and drink much when I’m onduty in a clerical suit,” which I thought was a clever excuse, putting the blame on clerical etiquette, but I was still oppressed by a sense of failure.
    He left half an hour later, but he didn’t leave me without a memento of St. Benet’s; when I went out into the hall to see him off he surprised me by producing from his raincoat pocket an advance copy of the church’s monthly magazine. “Hot from the presses!” he said with a smile. “I brought it because there’s an ad in the back which might interest you. Someone’s looking for a cook.” And before I could comment he had wished me good luck and was gone.
    It was as if he knew that the quickest goodbye would be the easiest for me to bear.
    XI
    By two o’clock
everyone had departed and I was left in the kitchen with the last plate of hors d’oeuvres and several bottles of the paint-stripper. I did have another go at drinking the stuff—getting drunk to blot out the pain of parting from Nicholas seemed to make excellent sense—but the taste was so revolting that I abandoned this project and finished off the food instead. When I finally paused to read the St. Benet’s magazine I found I had a craving for something sweet after all the savouries but I was clean out of rum raisin ice cream. Opening a packet of golden syrup biscuits instead, I began to thumb my way through the magazine to the advertisements at the back.
    “Painter/Decorator, experienced, good refs …,” “Carpenter, no job too small …” Where did all these small-time tradesmen come from in the opulent square mile of the City? I supposed they lived in Tower Hamlets, the deprived borough to the east—or perhaps in Islington, the socially mixed borough to the north … My glance travelled on down the column, “ CAT LOST , Clerkenwell Green area, favourite haunt St. James’s churchyard …” I sighed, both for the lost cat and for beautiful Orlando, now deceased, “ ACCOMMODATION WANTED  …” I skipped this section and zeroed in on “ SITUATIONS VACANT ,” but the first advertisement hardly seemed suitable. “Lady, semi-disabled, requires Christian woman to live in, light cooking, other help kept …” I was sure I didn’t qualify as a Christian, and “light cooking” would hardly test my Cordon Bleu skills, but what was this next one? “Cookwanted, live in, non-smoker, SW1 area, must be able to cook delicious low-calorie dishes in addition