Read Online The Detective's Daughter by Lesley Thomson - Free Book Online

middle-aged man with ebullient greying hair in a pristine white coat, piercing blue eyes and a smile of perfect teeth. He spoke as if her presence was a happy discovery and put out his hand. Stella rose.
    ‘I am Ivan.’ He kept her hand for the right amount of time in a grip that was firm but did not crush.
    When he gently shut the door to his surgery, all extraneous noise ceased.
    The richly decorated room reminded Stella of the sitting rooms of many of her clients. Floor-to-ceiling shelving of hardback books: Austen, Dickens, Eliot, Homer and Trollope were – she was gratified to see – in alphabetical order. The opulent décor of rich ochres: yellow, terracotta, deep oranges contrasted with the midnight blue of Mrs Ramsay’s tablecloth. All this demoted the harsh white dental equipment to ornamental rather than the main activity of the room. Stella’s dread diminished and she waved at the bookshelf indicating Wuthering Heights .
    ‘Good story.’ She dared risk no more; she had only skimmed it at school.
    ‘Don’t you love it?’ Dr Challoner was examining his instruments, laying them out on a long marble-topped table with lion-paw legs.
    ‘I wouldn’t go that … Yes, I do.’
    ‘It was my wife’s favourite too.’
    This stopped Stella from adding that she’d been annoyed by all the bad weather and had given up before the end. As Dr Challoner guided her to the chair, she kept to herself that she did not see the point of fiction and, lying back, became aware of the faint notes of a piano.
    Although Stella knew little about classical music, she recognized it. Mrs Ramsay had put it on every day; the music was depressing and Stella thought it could not be good for her. Mrs Ramsay said the music came from the walls, which was the sort of illogical remark that had led Stella to suspect she was going mad. On her last visit, Mrs Ramsay, behaving as if in the scene she was describing, had rhapsodized over some bird – ‘Don’t look up, you will blind yourself’ – hovering above the ruins of a village and had cautioned: ‘Sssssh! See the children playing. Keep an eye on what they are doing.’
    Stella had been compelled to reply that she could not see anyone. Mrs Ramsay had pointed out that the top of the cistern needed a wipe, which it did not.
    Stella had taken over Mrs Ramsay’s cleaning two years ago when one of her staff was frightened by the old lady pretending to be a celebrity at an opening ceremony and forcing her to hold up a length of parcel tape that she snipped with a pair of pinking shears.
    Mr Challoner clipped a plastic bib into place around Stella’s neck and adjusted wrap-around sunglasses on her nose. He elevated her into position and Stella allowed herself to relax.
    As he stood over her, a lock of his hair slid over eyebrows so defined Stella wondered whether he plucked them. She could not identify his aftershave: a mix of musk and incense cut with juniper berries and spicy pepper and calculated that veins criss-crossing the backs of his hands put him in his mid-fifties while his translucent complexion and prominent cheekbones made him seem younger.
    ‘My nurse is off sick. It is she who runs this tight ship, so do bear with me.’ He snapped on surgical gloves with a magician’s flourish.
    ‘I like this music.’ Stella regretted speaking. It opened possibilities of a discussion in which she would have nothing to say.
    ‘When my son was small this was his favourite, he made my wife play it every bedtime. One gets sentimental once they grow up. If music had been more accessible in Proust’s time, he might have experienced it as a vehicle of transcendence instead of a morsel of sponge cake.’ He gave a quick smile.
    Stella opened wide to avoid responding and her jaw clicked the way Terry’s did; her calm evaporated.
    ‘I’m transported to his bedroom, tidying his toys, reading Beatrix Potter or some such to him. Raise your hand at any time during the procedure if you want to rest