The View from Here Read Free Page B

over her head, united as always by our adoration for her. Things like that don’t change so readily.
    I was feeling well and considered the fact that I had never really felt ill. I felt no more ill knowing that the tentacles of something sinister lurked in the deep recesses of my abdomen than I had before I had known it, and that other concern, that anxiety that had set the fear really clanging, was beginning to seem less real too. If Phillip was willing to give up his London time and stay at home with me, then perhaps after all I had exaggerated the thing in my own mind. I knew that I did not believe this, but I also knew that I needed to accept it to some extent, to convince myself of it, in order to avoid the damage that dwelling on the possibilities would do. I was just managing to haul myself up onto this high, level plain of reasonableness when Phillip made the announcement that sent me scrabbling for a foothold again.
    Chloe was stretched on the sofa, half reading, half sleeping, absently stroking Hobo, who is rather a cross old cat these days, though he still succumbs to her charms.
    â€œWeren’t you going to see Emma?” I asked her.
    She looked over at me and rolled her eyes and grinned. “Don’t worry,” she said, drawling a little for affect, “I won’t miss my train.”
    I laughed, because that was exactly what I was worried about. Chloe always leaves things until the last minute and, as it was, she was planning on taking the late train after she’d been up to the village to catch up with Emma. Chloe and Emma were at school together, and Brownies, and swimming club, and ballet. It was that kind of friendship. The kind that dims and flares again all through life.
    â€œPut your things in your bag at least, and put the bag by the door. That way I’ll feel more secure,” I said
    â€œYou needn’t display so much unseemly desire to be rid of me.”
    She got up though, dislodging Hobo, who looked displeased, but soon managed to settle himself smoothly into the warm spot she had vacated with that absolute indolence that only cats can manage. Crossing to my chair, she bent and kissed me.
    â€œPeople get fired,” I told her, “even little hotshot magazine writer cookies like you. They get fired, they starve, they end up on the streets, they turn to crime. I worry.”
    â€œShe worries,” Phillip said, joining the game. We all knew our parts.
    â€œOh, I’ll do fine on the streets,” Chloe cooed, twisting herself into a cartoon hooker’s swivel.
    Her father hit her rump with a roll of Sunday newspaper.
    â€œI’ll take the train to London with you,” he said. Then he offered to make tea with no change of tone.
    I don’t know why I had assumed that his permanence in the house would be immediate. He had never said so much, though it had been implied, I was sure, that he would stick with me now, until we knew that I was entirely well again. I still thought that way then, that I would be entirely well again. In fact, I had begun to think that the illness, like the other thing, was some sort of aberration, a brief, nasty interlude, soon to be swept away by a cleansing wave of normality. But I wanted Phillip with me in the meantime. Phillip’s physical presence was part of the confirmation of this.
    When he came back with the tea, pulling a footstool toward my chair to put mine on, I said, “I had in my mind that you would be here this week.”
    He sat, balancing his own cup at chest height.
    â€œThere are a few loose ends, sweet. I need to get everything tidied up at the office, make sure Carla can cope and Tom’s up to speed on everything. That way I’ll be able to manage things from here from now on.”
    I nodded because, on the face of it, this was perfectly sensible. There was no logical reason why the acid should have begun creeping in my stomach.
    â€œAnyway,” he went on, putting his cup on