Portobello by Ruth Rendell Page B

some of those agents was fetching four and
five hundred pounds a week. Uncle Gib was a realist and, though
he had an inflated idea of the value and desirability of his home,
he understood three rooms in it weren't in this league.
    Using the reverse side of the No Entry card (waste not, want
not) he wrote: To let: self-contained furnished flat in fashionable movie-featured Notting Hill. £ 150 per week. He added the address
and phone number. When it was done to his satisfaction he took
it down to the newsagent in Powis Terrace and paid – through
the nose, in his opinion – to have it put in the window.
    Every other shop these days had been turned into an estate
agent. He passed five on his way to the Portobello Road except
that he didn't pass them but stopped in front of each one, noting
to his satisfaction how houses no bigger or better than his own
were commanding prices of seven and eight hundred thousand
pounds. More than that if, like his own, they were detached. His
would soon be in the million league.
    In the window of the Earl of Lonsdale he saw a notice offering
a trading site to let outside. Such signs weren't uncommon and,
every time Uncle Gib saw one, he thought of the stall his father
had had here and from which he sold fruit and vegetables and in
the winter roasted chestnuts; thought too how maybe he could
take that site and keep a stall of his own. But perhaps not, perhaps
it was too late. No, he would become a landlord instead and maybe
a millionaire, even if a homeless one.
    He went into his favourite delicatessen and bought black
pudding, salami, a piece of Cheddar, half a dozen large eggs for
himself and the same number of small ones for Lance, and a
bottle of orange squash. It never did to economise on food.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Ella showed her engagement ring to Dr Carter, Dr Endymion,
Dr Mukerjee and the practice nurse, Martha Wilcox. Aware
from the appearance of the ring that Ella's fiancé must be
a rich man, Malina Mukerjee expressed the hope that this didn't
mean she'd be giving up work, did it? Ella assured them all that
she wouldn't. She was sitting behind the desk in her room, called
a 'doctor's office', American fashion, preparing for the arrival of her
first patient, a mother of four, all of whom she had brought with
her, when her phone rang.
    It was Joel Roseman. 'I do want to be your private patient,' he
said without preamble, 'and I'd like to start today. What do I have
to do?'
    'Mr Roseman, I have patients waiting. May I call you back?'
    He sounded disappointed, like a child whose mother is busy.
Ella opened the office door and let in Mrs Khan, her two daughters
and her twin sons, all of whom vied for the job of interpreter,
their mother having not a word of English. It was almost midday
before the departure of Ella's last patient, a woman with nothing
wrong with her but complaining loudly about a rumour that all
prescriptions in future were to cost a pound each.
    Joel Roseman picked up his phone on the first ring. He sounded
as if he had been sitting by it for the past three hours. 'I haven't
been out yet,' he said. 'Could you come to me? Would you do that?'
    All of them in the practice made house calls occasionally.
Besides, if he was to be a private patient, Ella felt she could
hardly refuse him. Moscow Road was at the other end of Notting
Hill and she was about to say she couldn't manage it today when
she realised she could. She easily could. The euphoria brought
about by her engagement was enduring, filling her with energy
and a desire to move about, be out in the fresh air, enjoy life.
Sunshine had come back, if intermittently, and she would walk.
Walking would help her reduce to the size 12 she hoped to be
for her wedding dress.
    'Two o'clock this afternoon, Mr Roseman?'
    'That will be lovely.' Lovely , the little boy's word. 'Please call me
Joel.'
    A mansion block, red brick, with gables and turrets and things
she thought were called cupolas. Ten stone steps up to glass doors
with art