The Hearts and Lives of Men by Fay Weldon

Runcorn, in his wheezy, nasal voice. “At ten tomorrow we’ll set about getting you back to normal! A shame for a girl as pretty as you to waste a single day of her youth.”
    The little intruder! Well, he wasn’t so far off. That’s what Nell felt like, to Helen. But the phrase still made her squirm. She said nothing. She knew well enough that she depended on Dr. Runcorn’s goodwill as well as on his greed. No matter how much he charged, his clinic was always full. If he “did you” tomorrow, rather than in four weeks’ time, you were, quite simply, in luck. For the first time in her life Helen truly understood necessity, truly suffered, and held her tongue.
    “Next time you go to a party,” said Dr. Runcorn, “remember me and don’t get up to mischief. You’ve been a very naughty girl. You’ll stay in the clinic tonight, so we can keep an eye on you.”
    And a very terrible night it was. Helen was never to forget it. The thick yellowy carpets, the pale green washbasin, the TV and the radio headphones did nothing to disguise the nature of the place she was in. As well train roses up the abattoir wall! And she had to call Clifford, and tell another lie.
    It was six o’clock. Clifford was at Leonardo’s, negotiating the purchase of an anonymous painting of the Florentine School with a delegation from the Uffizi Gallery. Clifford had a shrewd notion the painting was a Botticelli; he was banking on it, paying over the odds to obtain it but not too much in case they looked too hard at what they were selling. Just sometimes the Italians, accustomed as they were to a sheer superfluity of cultural richness, did miss something wonderful and extraordinary beneath their very noses. Clifford’s blue eyes were bluer than ever. He tossed back the wedge of his thick fair hair so it glinted—he had grown his hair long, as was the fashion then amongst the sophisticated young, and was not thirty-five still young? He wore jeans and a casual shirt. The Italians, portly and in their fifties, displayed their cultural and worldly achievement with formal suits, gold rings and ruby cuff links. But they were at a disadvantage. They were confused. Clifford meant to confuse them. What was this young man, who belonged so much to the present, doing within these solid elderly marble portals? It unbalanced the Italians’ judgment. Why was Clifford Wexford of all people foraging back into the past? What did he mean by it? Did he know more than they, or less? Was he offering too much? Were they asking too little? Where were they? Perhaps life was not serious and difficult after all? Perhaps the plums went to the frivolous? The telephone rang. Clifford answered it. The men from the Uffizi clustered together and conferred, recognizing a reprieve when they heard one.
    “Darling,” said Helen brightly, “I know you hate being disturbed in the office, but I won’t be at Coffee Place when you get back tonight. My mum called to say I was allowed home. So I’m going to stay at Applecore Cottage for a couple of nights. She says she might even come to the wedding!”
    “Take garlic and a crucifix,” said Clifford. “And ward your father off!”
    Helen laughed lightly and said, “Don’t be such a goose!” and hung up. The men from the Uffizi raised their price a full thousand pounds. Clifford sighed.
    The phone rang again. This time it was Angie. Since such considerable millions of her father’s money were invested in Leonardo’s, the switchboard put through her call. This privilege was accorded only to Helen, Angie, and Clifford’s stockbroker; the last played a chancy game of instant decisions and played it very well, but sometimes needed a quick yes or no.
    “Clifford,” said Angie, “it’s me, and I want to have breakfast with you tomorrow.”
    “Breakfast, Angie! These days,” he said, trying to keep the Uffizi mesmerized with his smile, and hoping Angie would get off the line quickly, “I have breakfast with Helen. You know