Read Online The Disappearance of Emily Marr by Louise Candlish - Free Book Online Page B

be congratulating yourself for getting safely to the other side, not beating yourself up because you’re not Pollyanna.’

‘I just can’t help it, though. Every so often the resentment just bursts through.’ Sylvie’s voice was higher in pitch than her friend’s, making her sound a little wheedling. ‘Not just about that , but about the balance of power in general. You know, like we’ve said before, Neen, all the domestic inequalities, the stuff it wouldn’t occur to him to know about. It’s all so far beneath him it might as well be taking place underground.’

Sighing, Nina removed her gloves – leather, a beautiful smoky blue – as if settling in for a prolonged debate. ‘And it only seems to get worse as they get older, doesn’t it? You wouldn’t believe the self-importance of Ed these days, you’d think he was the Foreign Secretary, not someone who just tries to get a question in at press briefings. He’s far too pivotal to the future of our democracy to book a restaurant or stay in for the plumber. At least Arthur has a secretary to do his dirty work. For most of us, we’ve been saddled with the job without having ever applied for the bloody thing. Maybe they’re cleverer than we think, eh?’

‘Maybe.’ Sylvie Woodhall stood further from me than Nina and her voice did not carry as clearly, but I could still piece together most of what she said. ‘The problem I have is there is an imbalance, a real one. I’m not like you, my job can’t begin to compare with his, not on any level.’ She sighed. ‘But it’s not like that’s news to anyone so I don’t know why I bore myself by going on about it.’

I wondered what it was that Sylvie did. I suspected amateur interior design or some unprofitable enterprise involving semi-precious stones; she’d be her own boss, certainly, no kneeling on shop floors among the piggy-banks for her. As for Arthur, I had of course Googled him since our last meeting and knew now that he was celebrated and revered, one of the top specialists in the world in an area of eye medicine called strabismus, his reputation having been established many years ago when he had treated a member of the Royal Family who had suffered problems with his vision following a stroke. My fifteen minutes on Matt’s laptop had also told me that he worked in a private practice in Harley Street as well as at St Barnabas’, and had in fact two secretaries, not one, to make his restaurant reservations and calls to the plumber. There were strings of letters after his name, a name he lent, along with several days’ surgical time a year, to a charitable enterprise in a West African country. He appeared occasionally in the society pages.

‘Well, I don’t see why it shouldn’t compare,’ Nina said, ‘just because he’s a famous surgeon. I mean it’s not like it’s anything heroic, is it? Like A&E or heart transplants for babies. It’s just squints. Double vision. Come on, most of us can cure that by cutting down our wine intake a couple of nights a week.’

‘Yes, well, I did, I suppose, didn’t I?’ They both hooted at this private allusion, Arthur’s wife’s laugh a low, bitter sound that lasted longer than Nina’s barking staccato. Though Sylvie’s humour was self-deprecating, I could tell she greatly enjoyed this opportunity for irreverence towards her husband. I supposed it didn’t come her way very often, not if my own rapt response to him was anything to go by, and that Nina gave her the confidence to rebel. I sneaked a longer look at Nina. Though nervous of her in a primal way, I could easily appreciate her appeal: she was bold and strong and funny. It was she who drove the mood of the conversation, championing her friend with a gusto none of mine did me (nor I them). How had Sylvie, a pale, complaining creature, won her as a friend – or Arthur as a husband, for that matter? Had she once been different? I longed to know the full story of it. And so did other people,