Heartswap

by Celia Brayfield

  Back home at 17A, she hand-sketched maps of her prospects’ offices and coloured the energy flow with red pencil. She left Georgie another message. She decanted her oils and cleansed some new crystals. She went to her shiatsu class. She sent Georgie an e-mail. She had a Thai massage and some reflexology. She waited.

  Georgie downloaded her Monday morning prices at 6 a.m. and saw flashing red markers against a column of currency bonds. The red flashers she had programmed in to detonate when the bonds hit the level at which she considered they were overpriced and her clients might care to take their profits. She made a brisk round of calls.

  By 10.00, the red markers had spread like a light-up plague across warrants and futures and forwards. Her screen was a firework display. Clients saw for themselves the wisdom of making the move. Calls came back like a dawn chorus of electronic songbirds. She spent most of the day standing with phones in both hands, screaming across the desk.

  It was blissfully relaxing to get home. Felix took responsibility for their shopping, and did it on-line with an organic produce supplier, so there by their door to greet her was a box of freshly dug vegetables. She took them to the kitchen, put on an apron and started washing the mud off the leeks. She meant to turn her phone on before bedtime but it didn’t happen.

  She’s avoiding me, Flora deduced. She’s avoiding the whole issue. She’d actually let our friendship sink because she’s so into avoidance. Donna will be so disappointed. I should support Donna, she has been my mentor and now it’s my role to lighten her life. Flora made another call, to a useful friend from the Ardent Holdings days who now sold art from his own gallery off Hoxton Square.

  ‘Georgie’s back,’ she announced.

  ‘Who’s Georgie?’ he demanded.

  ‘The one you had the hots for.’

  ‘I never have the hots for your friends. Not so’s you’d know, anyway.’

  ‘You’re pathetic. I always know.’

  ‘Are we talking the one with the ripe hips?’

  ‘What did I tell you?’

  ‘She was the only one. She was special. Didn’t she go to Cincinnati or somewhere?’

  ‘Chicago. But she’s back now.’

  ‘Didn’t work out, then?’

  ‘Ask her yourself. Ask her to your private view.’

  ‘What private view?’

  ‘You have private views. You have openings. You have one on Thursday. You don’t need to make up an excuse why you don’t invite me. Just invite us both this time and we’ll leave it there.’

  ‘Give me her number.’

  ‘She never gets back on calls. So driven, don’t you remember? Hopeless. She needs slowing down. Send her a proper invitation. Do you want this woman or not?’

  ‘This is one of your set-ups,’ he sighed, ‘but I’ll do it because I’m a fool for love. Give me the address. Does she buy things? She must be rich by now, isn’t she?’

  ‘You mean is she going to buy one of your weird sculptures? What for? Scaring off muggers?’

  ‘I am in business here, you know. I don’t just do this for the good of your social life.’

  ‘No, you do it for the good of yours. I thought the art world was totally chick-infested. Why are you always after my friends?’

  ‘They’re rich. I never meet a woman who can afford me. I suppose she’s got a boyfriend. Whatsername. The one with the hips.’

  ‘Of course she’s got a boyfriend. For the moment, anyway.’

  ‘Watch this space, huh? What’s he like?’

  There was real hope in his voice. Flora tried not to sound pitying. ‘Never met him,’ she said briskly. ‘But I’ve got a kind of intuition about it.’

  ‘Your intuition isn’t going to pay my rent, sweetie.’

  ‘Believe me. Anyway, I’m bringing my boss. She’s seriously rich. And she buys stuff.’

  ‘I’m a total studmuffin, you know. Have you told her that?’

  ‘How would I know?’ Flora teased him. ‘I can’t verify that.’

  ‘Not my fault,’ he claimed amiably, because he found Flora wispy, brittle and not at all attractive, even if she could be fun when she stirred things up.

  Flora smiled her inward smile all day after this conversation and was pleased that men were slaves to their hormones.

  ‘Messenger Gallery.’ Georgie had time to read the franked logo on the envelope when she got home. She remembered the man who used to flirt with her at Ardent, smiley and beefy, not in the Great Lats league but … She felt a pinprick of self-pity because somehow her flirtability seemed to have evaporated. Felix was so sophisticated, so highly evolved; he understood how demeaning frivolous sexual attention could be for a woman. She stuffed the envelope in her bag and went to the kitchen to see how the leeks had marinated.

  On the tube train at five the next morning, she was jolted awake at St Paul’s station, half-dreaming about Flat Eric. She fumbled in her bag for her ticket, found the invitation and read, ‘Merita Halili. My Homeland. Works on Aluminium and Glass, inspired by the artist’s flight from Albania. Private View, 6pm – 9pm.’ Guilt attacked her on the score of her yearning for flirting, of wanting to drive Flat Eric to the office instead of caring for the planet and taking the train, of failing to facilitate Felix’s fascination with the Balkan situation by offering him the opportunity to share the invitation to the gallery opening, of failing to disclose the soft spot she had for Smiley-and-Beefy.

  There was still time. She vowed to call Felix during the day. She called at ten, but he was out of the office. She left a message. At twelve he was in a meeting so she left another message and virtuously refused to go for coffee with the gang because Great Lats asked her. At two she called for the third time but did not leave a message because Felix was saving doomed children and a third message would have made him feel hounded. What was a party beside saving the world from Lightoller’s Syndrome? By five, with a hopeless mass of paperwork still to do, Georgie submitted a final message with the gallery address and went to refurbish her makeup.

  ‘It’s you!’ squealed Flora, dumping her glass to give Georgie a hug.

  ‘It is she!’ boomed Smiley-and-Beefy, now bearded and a ringer for Henry VIII. ‘Darling, I’ll be with you in a minute,’ and he turned back to a woman in green satin, taller and thinner than anyone else in the gallery with waist-length silver-blond hair and purple finger nails.

  ‘She has to be the artist,’ Georgie whispered.

  ‘She so has to be,’ Flora whispered back. An instant conspiracy. Excellent. Hold that energy.

  Merita Halili, as the programme said, acknowledged her debt to Alexander Calder. She made mobiles. Blue glass discs on silver wires. A long horsetail of aluminium threads. A tinkling cascade of glass, drops behind some large plates of metal which rotated slowly to display diagonal slashes in their smoothness. The pieces were turned by ingenious tiny motors. Occasionally, small natural forms were incorporated, fern leaves or snail shells. The works were oddly poignant. Flora saw Georgie get the kicked-cat look, which meant she was empathising again. ‘You don’t have to be sad,’ she assured her. ‘It wasn’t our war.’

  ‘Yes it was,’ Georgie pointed out.

  ‘It was the boys’war. All wars are boys’wars.’

  ‘Madeleine Albright …’

  ‘Advised by whom? Men are the experts on war. Women don’t fight.’

  ‘Then we colluded. We didn’t …’

  ‘God, what has happened to you? You’re so earnest, Georgie. Is earnest how they are in Chicago? You used to be a laugh.’

  Georgie was about to assert her light-heartedness when Merita Halili screamed and swooped like an enraged Valkyrie on a man who had just entered the gallery. A slap cracked through the party noise. The victim fell against one of the works, a sheet of aluminium which crashed like stage thunder. Fabric was ripped, glasses were broken, Merita howled, her victim bellowed. Merita waved a fork at his eyes. The surrounding British fell back in fear. Cowering in a corner, Smiley-and-Beefy got out his phon
e, rolling his eyes like a worried cow.

  Flora, delighted with these helpful energies, drew Georgie away up the stairs and out to the roof terrace. There Donna was enthroned on a bench between topiary box pillars, talking to a tiny blond woman who perched alertly on the edge of the seat. They were framed by the sordid pyrotechnics of the East London night sky, traffic signals and street lights, coloured bulbs left on cranes since Christmas and towers of empty offices with blazing windows.

  ‘Fantastic surprise!’ Donna greeted them. Flora preened.

  ‘Well, I’ll be circulating,’ the tiny woman said in a surprisingly deep voice. ‘Let me give you my card.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks,’ said Donna with an absent look in her close dark eyes.

  As they sat, Georgie said, ‘I can’t be long, I haven’t spoken to Felix.’

  ‘You were always so sorted,’ observed Donna and allowed a shadow of melancholy to gather under her brows before she launched the business of the night. Flora leaned back a little, putting Georgie in the front line. ‘So, tell me, gorgeous. I’ve been meaning to ask you. Where is coming back to London in your life plan?’

  ‘When I thought about it, it wasn’t necessary for me to be in Chicago. At my level, you can be anywhere. Felix had this grant …’

  ‘I don’t quite see,’ Donna persisted. ‘Talk me through it one more time.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter where I am, I can earn the same relative to the local cost of living. But Felix had to be in London. So here I am again.’

  Why did it sound lame, all of a sudden? Georgie felt awkward but Donna seemed to have taken her answer on board and was moving on. ‘And now, my great girlies, tell me what you’ve been planning. What’s the strategy?’

  ‘Strategy?’ Georgie’s mind clung to Felix and the plan for her life, which she had to admit had been subsumed by the plan for Felix’s life.

  ‘Operation Heartswap. The strategy. The deal. Flora’s plan for Felix. Your plan for Dillon.’

  ‘For Dillon?’

  ‘Our scam,’ Flora prompted her. ‘The boys’ fidelity test. You remember.’

  ‘You’re not serious,’ said Georgie, but she saw that they were. ‘Don’t be daft,’ she commanded them.

  ‘Georgie! You’re not wimping out?’ This was Flora’s opening move but Donna frowned, knowing it was a loser.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘But I thought you were back up there. With your self-esteem.’

  ‘Flora, give me a break.’

  ‘OK, OK! I just can’t …’ The vibes from Donna were really evil. Flora started to panic.

  ‘How can you think I’d do a thing like that? I love Felix, I respect him. You must love Dillon, don’t you?’

  ‘Darling, of course I love him. And he loves me, I know he does. Don’t get me wrong, Georgie, I know you’ve always been a man-magnet, but the boy’s in love and he doesn’t know there’s another woman on the planet except for me. And I love Dillon and I trust him so where’s the harm? It’s just fun, isn’t it?’

  Just for a nano-second, Georgie wavered. ‘Just a bit of fun,’ purred Donna, ‘Of course the guys adore you, both of you. You’re gorgeous, they’re in love and you’re friends, it’s just a game.’

  ‘No,’ said Georgie. ‘It wouldn’t be a game to me. This is my life you want to play with. My life, my future, the man I love. No way.’

  A phone rang, a short, sour warble. Georgie reached into her bag and moved away to a corner of the terrace for privacy.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Felix hissed in her ear.

  ‘Yes, yes – didn’t you get my messages?’ The blue lights of a police car pulsed over the street below. Georgie looked down while she talked.

  ‘What messages?’

  ‘I left …’ She dared not say three. ‘I called to see if you wanted to come to this gallery opening.’

  He sounded weary, either from disappointment or tiredness, she wasn’t sure. ‘I suppose it’s too late now?’

  Down on the pavement three police officers appeared, struggling, to propel Merita Halili towards their car. ‘I think the artist is leaving,’ murmured Georgie. She felt herself smile. No, she was not earnest. Life had joys, definitely it did.

  ‘OK, sweetheart.’ Felix went into enlightened magnanimity mode. She felt calmer. ‘Enjoy the rest of the evening, take your time, have fun, I’ll be here when you get back. There was something I wanted to see on the TV anyway. Take care, huh?’

  As they said goodbye, Georgie caught a snatch of the side conversation Donna and Flora had started to fill the time. ‘… really has changed,’ sighed Flora. ‘I hate to see her losing it. I wonder if she’ll ever get her confidence back.’

  Losing it? No confidence? Was this about her? Georgie was indignant. She was alarmed. Damn it, she was scared. Without her confidence, what would she be? Useless, worthless – powerless! One of those weaklings straggling away from the herd just begging for the jackals to pull her down. No, never. Confidence was never her problem. Bullshit! She was invincible – but, as she switched off her phone, Georgie heard Donna whisper thoughtfully, ‘I’ve seen that. I’ve seen people lose it. It happens.’

  So philosophical! So accepting! Was it so easy for them to believe she was in some dying orbit spiralling to destruction? Georgie searched their faces. Yes there it was! Pity. Pity for her. Well, that was unnecessary. Pity was premature. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak Donna issued a forgiving smile and said, ‘Such a shame about the game, Georgie. But of course, we do respect your feelings. If you don’t want to play, that’s fine. Don’t even think about it. But I was going to tell you … no, no point now.’

  ‘What?’ snapped Georgie, wondering what other damnations had been lodged against her name.

  ‘No, really. Waste of time.’

  ‘No, tell me. I want to know.’

  ‘There’s no point, darling. You don’t want to do this and we’re OK with that. Really we are. We’ll just forget the whole thing.’

  ‘So – what were you going to say? Come on,’ Georgie remembered to smile. She even managed a careless giggle. ‘What is this that you’re hiding from me?’

  ‘Donna was going to make it interesting.’ Flora suddenly appeared to be bored to catatonia. ‘I mean, really interesting.’

  ‘You were what?’

  ‘It’s too trivial, Georgie. You’re right. I just thought …’

  ‘Come on, spill – for heaven’s sake.’

  Flora looked at the glaring night sky as if she expected a resolution was to be dropped by helicopter.

  Donna confided very carefully, ‘I was thinking of taking a bet on it, that’s all.’

  ‘What kind of bet?’

  ‘Well, you know at Ardent we always said one day we’d have a real holiday, go somewhere divine, somewhere they make TV commercials, the Seychelles or the Maldives or somewhere, and spend two weeks on a white sand beach just doing fuck-all?’

  ‘Yes, so?’

  ‘And you and your Felix, and Flora and Dillon, you’ll be planning honeymoons now?’

  ‘We haven’t really thought that far.’ Georgie could hear Felix saying that neither of them could afford two weeks away. But already she was smelling the scent of Hawaiian Tropic.

  Flora yawned. ‘The groom does the honeymoon. Dillon’s going to surprise me. He’s sweet like that.’

  ‘So,’ said Donna, spreading her fingers on her knees as she laid out her plan. ‘I was thinking it could go like this. We set a deadline, say – what? Two weeks? You pretend you’re going away somewhere, you hide out at my place and you go after each other’s fellas. If you’re right – and, ladies, I hope you are, believe me. I’d never lose a bet as happily as this, that’s the truth. If you’re right, and the guys turn you down, it’ll be dream honeymoons for all four of you at my expense. And if you’re wrong – we’ll find that beach. Just us three. Win-win, huh?’

  Rapidly, Georgie turned the deal upside down and inside out. Watertight. No holes
anywhere. ‘Win-win,’ she agreed.

  Donna stifled another sigh. Flora kept gazing at the sky. An angel passed. Then Georgie said, ‘OK. It’s too beautiful, Donna. I can’t pass this one by. I’m in. Let’s do it.’

  ‘No, no. Georgie, you’ve said your piece. You really don’t want to …’ Donna began again, but Georgie was hooked and ten minutes later they had reeled her in and landed her.

  7. April 21–24

  ‘Dillon, darling,’ Flora began, winding both her arms around one of his while he made her lemon and ginger tea the next morning. ‘I’m going to this conference on space cleaning. In Cornwall.’

  ‘Good,’ he murmured. Small rodents were pattering through his mind, a lemming-like torrent overrunning all other considerations.

  ‘It’s two weeks.’

  ‘Great,’ he muttered, wishing some Pied Piper would lead the horrible vision away to hell.

  ‘You don’t care!’ She punched him in the back, causing him to slop boiling water over his thumb.

  ‘Damn!’ He lurched to the sink and ran cold water over the scald. ‘Damn! Flora, I don’t get it. What don’t I care about?’

  ‘That I’m going away for two whole weeks. We won’t see each other for two whole weeks.’

  ‘God.’ He was thunderstruck. ‘You’re going away? You didn’t say you were going away.’

  ‘Yes I did, you weren’t listening.’

  ‘I was, but …’

  ‘What were you thinking about? Don’t tell me, I know. Work, work, work. You never think about anything else. Well, now you’ll have two whole weeks without me to distract you.’ And she darted out of the kitchen to the bathroom and slammed the door.

  ‘Darling! Flora! Don’t be cross, I didn’t mean not to listen.’

  He heard hissing shower water. She couldn’t hear him. She was not going to ask him to join her in the shower. Flora had never asked him to join her in the shower. How could he even notice that about her, the beautiful spiritual creature who had agreed to marry him? Dillon went back to the kitchen and refilled the kettle