Read White Dog for Free Online Page B

something,’ I said. ‘Something worrying. Hearing voices? Often feel dizzy, feel that the floor slopes away from you?’
    ‘Terminating contact,’ said Wootton.
    ‘Before you slip back into domestic bliss,’ I said, ‘the recorded income needs a look.’
    ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Goodbye.’
    I replaced the receiver. The telephone rang.
    ‘This number does not accept frivolous calls,’ I said.
    ‘Talk to the person?’ said Drew.
    ‘I did.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Well. Seen the works of art?’
    ‘No. Why?’
    ‘You should. Open a window into the mind of your client.’
    Drew made a noise of acceptance. ‘She’s an artist. They don’t have the normal circuit board. Take the cunt from Eltham who stole my wife.’
    ‘I see she’s a painter now.’
    ‘Well, it’s the mimic thing. Budgie behaviour. These artistic charlatans trigger mimicry in their conquests. Doomed, of course.’
    ‘She’s having an exhibition.’
    ‘Why are you telling me this? I don’t give a fuck whether she exhibits herself at Flinders Street station at peak hour.’
    ‘The mother of your children, I thought you’d be interested.’
    ‘The children yes, an interest not often reciprocated. Ms Longmore. Tell me.’
    ‘Just a preliminary conversation. She gave me a German beer.’
    ‘And the feeling?’
    ‘Unease. With tinges of lust.’
    ‘Any chance of you approaching this in a professional manner?’
    ‘Pass,’ I said. ‘I’m seeing her again. Today, she had to break off for an engagement with her father. Lord Longmore. Baron Longmore.’
    ‘Made another date?’
    ‘Drew,’ I said, ‘it’s me, not your plumber. I’m tied up tomorrow, then it’s total focus on Franklin, dawn to dusk and beyond, deep into the night.’
    ‘You’ll tell me directly?’
    ‘The prelim scan result, yes.’
    ‘The what?’
    ‘You really need to speak to Cyril about management courses.’
    ‘Cyril,’ said Drew. ‘Jesus. We might eat out tomorrow. I’m sick of in.’
    ‘I stand at the onset of sick of in. I’ll ring.’
    Thoughts of food again. I got out a sheet of frozen puff pastry and put it on an oven tray. I unsheathed the Japanese knife, too heavy, bevelled only on one side, soft steel blade taking a vicious edge but prone to chipping. It also rusted in hours if not oiled after washing. In all, a dangerous and temperamental implement. I liked it very much. I used it to chop three cloves of garlic to insignificance, sushi slice a Spanish onion, and cut strips of red pepper. Then I samuraied a dozen mushrooms, put them in a pot on low heat with a big piece of butter, the garlic, half-a-dozen pitted olives, torn up, and three anchovy fillets. I put the glass lid on and left the stuff to sauna for a minute while I poured a glass of the night before’s red wine.
    Put on oven. Tomato paste? A search turned up a small tin of double concentrated, the best. I spread a thin layer on half the thawing pastry. Time to stir the mushroom pot.
    Making something is always good for the soul. There is a therapy in making anything that is little remarked upon, probably because the world cares mostly about planning and results. The bit in between, the making, that doesn’t rate much mention.
    Cheese? No shortage. Linda was out of control at a cheese counter. I grated parmesan, crumbled a little fetta, cut two slices of mozzarella. Smash time. I emptied the contents of the pot into the machine and gave it the chop. Then I scraped out the mixture and spread it over the tomato paste, tastefully arranged strips of prosciutto and the onion and red pepper slices on top, added the cheeses. Last steps. Fold over pastry, trim edges, pinch over, slash top, dot with olive oil and spread with finger, slide the tray into the oven.
    Ten to fifteen minutes would do it. I poured wine and went back to the sitting room to listen to Schubert and to think positive thoughts about my life. The second part was not easy but I made the effort, soon