PAPER MONEY by Ken Follett

bone china dish.

“Not today, Mrs. Tremlett,” he told her. “Just cup of tea; please.”

He picked up The Financial.

The woman hesitated, then put the dish down in Ellen’s place. Hamilton

glanced up. “Just take it away, will you?” he said irritably. “Serve

Mrs. Hamilton’s breakfast when Mrs. Hamilton comes down, and not before,

please.”

“Very good,” Mrs. Tremlett murmured. She took the grapefruit away.

When Ellen came in she picked up the argument where they had left it.

“I don’t think it matters whether you get five million or five hundred

thousand for the company. Either way we’d be better off than we are now.

Since we don’t live comfortably, I fail to see the point of being

comfortably off.”

He put down the paper and looked at her. She was wearing an original

tailored suit in a cream-colored fabric, with a printed silk blouse and

hand-made shoes. He said: “You have a pleasant home, with a small staff.

You’ve friends here, and a social life in Town when you dare to take

advantage of it. This morning you’re wearing several hundred pounds’

worth of clothes, and you’ll probably go no farther than the village.

Sometimes I wonder what you want out of life.”

She blushed–rare event. “I’ll tell you,” she began.

There was a knock at the door, and a good-looking man came in, wearing

an overcoat and carrying a cap. “Good morning, sir, madam,” he said.

“If we’re to catch the seven forty-five, sir …” Hamilton said: “All

right, Pritchard. Just wait in the hall.”

“Very good, sir. May I ask if you’ll be using the car today, madam?”

Hamilton looked at Ellen. She kept her eyes on her dish as she said: “I

expect so, yes.”

Pritchard nodded and went out.

Hamilton said: “You were about to tell me what you want out of life.”

“I don’t think it’s a breakfast-table subject, especially when you’re

rushing to catch a train.”

“very well.” He stood up. “Enjoy your drive.

Don’t go too fast.”

“What?”

“Drive carefully.”

“Oh. Oh, Pritchard drives me.”

He bent to kiss her cheek, but she turned her face to him and kissed his

lips. When he pulled away, her face was flushed: She held his arm and

said: “I want you, Derek.”

He stared at her.

“I want us to spend a long, contented retirement together,” she went on,

speaking hurriedly.

“I want–you to relax, and eat the right food, and grow healthy and slim

again. I want the man who came courting in an open-top Riley, and the

man who came back from the war with medals and married me, and the man

who held my hand when I bore my children. I want to love you.”

He stood nonplussed. She had never been like this with him, never. He

felt hopelessly incapable of dealing with it. He did not know what to

say, what to do, where to look. He said: “I … must catch the train.”

She regained her composure quickly. “Yes. You must hurry.”

He looked at her a moment longer, but she would not meet his eyes. He

said: “Um … good-bye.”

She nodded dumbly.

He went out. He put on his hat in the hall, then let Pritchard open the

front door for him. The dark-blue Mercedes stood on the gravel drive,

gleaming in the sunshine. Pritchard must wash it every morning before I

get up, Hamilton thought.

The conversation with Ellen had been most peculiar, he decided, as they

drove to the railway station. Through the window he watched the play of

sunlight on the already-browning leaves, and ran over the key scenes in

his mind. I want to love you, she had said, with the emphasis on you.

Talking of the things he had sacrificed for the business, she had said

and God knows what else.

I want to love you, not someone else. Was that what she meant? Had he

lost the fidelity of his wife, as well as his health? Perhaps she simply

wanted him to think she might be having an affair. That was more like

Ellen. She dealt in subtleties. Cries for help were not her style.

After the six-month results, he needed domestic problems like a

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