Staring At The Light Read Online Free PDF Page B

believed this promise, and she had to believe Cannon. Someone must. She yanked open the neck of the blouse.
     Fingered a small, white scar on her clavicle. There were others spread over her torso and arms and, just at that moment, she
     felt a strange pride. She
had
taken a look at Cannon’s portrait, and he had not noticed the scars. No-one did. She was proud of that. It was as though
     they had disappeared. Little white scars, pieces of history. The work of a
client
. One of Matthewson’s
better
clients, which was why it was odd that he should be so fussy about the rest. It was not as if they were saints employed to
     deal with sinners.
    Nothing mattered now, except loyalty.
    The door opened and a young man sidled in. Sarah stifled a sigh. A reputation for a sympathetic ear and a room that doubled
     as a haven for frustrated smokers was not always an advantage, attracting as it did not only the gossipers, the jokers and
     the anxious, but also the others. There was no such thing as a legal firm consisting entirely of nice people; there were always
     the sedulous, the ambitious and the jealous. Andrew Mitchum entered the room as if he owned it, sat without invitation, lit
     his cigarette and looked round with lazy appreciation. He coveted this room.
    ‘You’ll never guess who I had dinner with at the weekend,’ he drawled.
    ‘Jamie Lee Curtis?’
    ‘Ugh! Darling, how could you? Why waste my time on trash like that? Prince William, more like. No, he’s too young for money
     either. I only dine with clients.’
    ‘Who, then?’ She was watching a grasping young man, verging on the theatrical in a less than attractive way, convinced he
     was God’s gift to both sexes while clearly preferring his own. The stories of his conquests bored her, but she was not going
     to say so. Instead she smiled encouragingly.
    ‘John Smith. Our mysterious Mr Smith. He with all the houses. My God, you should see
his
. Vulgar, my dear, beyond belief.’
    She kept her face clear of all reaction but polite, impressed curiosity. ‘Oh, and what did he want? Another acquisition?’
    Andrew Mitchum wagged his finger. ‘Secret,’ he said teasingly. ‘A little extracurricular activity is all. Wants me to do a
     bit of research for him.’ His eyes took in the pictures on the walls, yesterday’s flowers, the heavy blue ashtray, with indiscreet
     approval. ‘I’m good at research,’ he added modestly. ‘I’ve found out quite a few things about
you
, for instance. Such an interesting life.’ He sat back and scrutinized her with frank, asexual curiosity, watching the anxiety
     flicker over her face to be replaced with an even wider smile.
    ‘Not a lot to know, Andrew.’
    ‘No? I don’t understand you. All you had to dowas marry the boss’s son and you would have been a partner. What stopped you? Ah, I know. A penchant for the wrong kind of
     man and entirely the wrong kind of client, I gather. You were the one Charles Tysall fell for, and when you wouldn’t have
     him he beat you up, right? Tut, tut. No ambition. The man was as rich as Croesus.’
    ‘A long time ago, Andrew. Another country. And he’s dead.’
    She was relieved that that was all he wanted to impart; equally relieved that he was so dismissive of her clients. She did
     not want him examining their identities and seeing any connection between her waifs and strays and his moneyed men; far better
     that he should be as contemptuous as he was. His ambition was not distracted by imagination. He fingered his immaculate tie,
     unembarrassed by the silence.
    ‘So what
are
you doing for John Smith? Screwing him?’
    ‘If only. The dinner was wonderful, but he doesn’t seem interested in food.’
    If there were more to tell, he would tell it. He would not be able to resist. Ernest had hired this boy but, then, Ernest’s
     judgement was not always sound.
    ‘I suppose having been attacked yourself is what gives you sympathy with all your dozy victims?’ he said, without