‘How did you do that?’ she asked her guest, projecting flattering interest. ‘Do you have any training?’
‘Three years of Stanislavsky. Inner motive forces. The difference between seeming and believing. You know.’
‘Uh-huh,’ allowed Donna, who did not know at all.
‘I was an actress,’ her guest explained in a crisp tone.
‘An interesting transition.’
‘It wasn’t a sudden thing. I got into role-play work and then I was headhunted. Believe me, if there’s one thing I know, it’s how to prepare a role.’
‘Of course.’ Donna agreed. ‘But in this case there’s not much time for preparation. This employee is showing badly in our monitoring system and there’s been a bad integrity report on him this week. They both suggest we should be seriously concerned. I’ve got to move quickly. The company could already be in the position where other staff could take action against us for retaining him while we were aware of his inappropriate behaviour.’
‘You need to know fast,’ the little blonde agreed. ‘But this is an individual you want investigated. Just one person?’
‘Just one.’ Perhaps the job was going to be too small for such a highly trained operative. ‘But a key player,’ she added.
‘What is it you’re worried about? Theft?’
‘Sex.’
The investigator rolled her eyes around the ceiling. ‘Men! It is a man, I presume.’
‘Of course it’s a man. Will you have a problem with – er – the problem?’
‘Not at all. The cases I hate are the ones where I’ve got to check up on people for subverting the franking machine or extending fag breaks to more than five per cent of office time. The pitiful stuff. Cases where people want to pay me thousands to save themselves twenty quid a year.’
‘Thousands?’ The slack in Donna’s budget went to four figures but not five.
‘In a long investigation, yes. You pay me for the work I do as cover as well as the inquiry. But sex things never take long. They can’t help themselves usually.’
‘And he’s a really bright guy.’ Donna sighed with fake regret. ‘In terms of intellectual capital, the major asset of my entire department.’
‘So you wouldn’t want him pissed off if he’s in the clear.’
‘Ah … no. Of course not.’ Being proud of the ingenuity with which she had incriminated Dillon, Donna had trouble remembering to seem uncertain about his guilt.
‘That’s the great advantage of an undercover investigation. If it turns out that there’s nothing to worry about, nobody need ever know. I’ll just be somebody who was hired and then didn’t work out. I can disappear and they’ll forget I was ever here.’
‘That’s what I need. What’s your availability?’
‘I’m on leave now while the court case is running. I don’t expect to be called to give evidence until the end of the week. I could give you a couple of days at least. If we work out some kind of temping as a cover, I could come back again after that if you needed me. Which I’m sure you won’t.’
‘Perfect,’ said Donna, feeling in control again. ‘Can you start on Monday?’
‘Surely.’
Georgie sipped her margarita and made a face. She discarded the straw; she despised straws in cocktails. She sipped again, then a third time, through the gap made by her lips in the salt rim, just to be sure. ‘Hey!’ She called to the waiter before he could wander out of range. ‘I asked for a margarita with Triple Sec.’
‘So?’ the waiter replied.
‘So this is with Cointreau,’ Georgie informed him pleasantly. ‘I asked for Triple Sec.’
‘The classic margarita is with Cointreau,’ he pouted. The bar was heaving. It would have been hard to fit one more girl with an eating disorder between the tightly packed bodies. Flora had obtained their table by projecting maximum fuck-off vibes at the previous tenants from her third-eye chakra, ripping into their ankles with her heels and upsetting their drinks with a dextrous twitch of her handbag.
‘The classic margarita is with Triple Sec,’ Georgie returned briskly. ‘And whether it’s classic or not, that’s what I asked for. And it’s not what I’ve got. So you can bring me another one or we can go and get the barman to settle the argument.’
The barman was whirling like Roadrunner between glasses, shakers, blenders, optics, mixers, juicers and plates full of sliced fruit. The waiter pouted some more and scooped her glass back on to his tray before struggling away through the crush.
‘Do you know the difference between men and toilets?’ Flora asked Georgie as they watched him disappear.
‘You mean you can never find one when you really need one?’
‘No, no, no. The clean ones are all taken and the rest are full of shit.’
‘Felix is certainly clean,’ Georgie sighed. ‘The best thing about this week has been getting a shower to myself and not choking to death on his Gaultier Pour Homme every night.’
‘Jean-Paul Pour Homme, eh?’ Flora’s eyes sparkled.
‘Forty quid a throw and I don’t even like the stuff.’
‘I wish Dillon would spend forty quid a throw on smelling nice for me.’
‘You could buy it for him. Eighty-five per cent of men’s toiletries are bought by women. I buy the Jean-Paul.’
‘You mean you buy him Jean-Paul and you don’t even like the stuff?’
‘Isn’t that what I said?’
‘Then don’t buy it, for God’s sake.’
‘Felix likes it.’
Flora smiled. That was her mistake. Just that once, instead of her habitual inward lip-quivering smile, she gave a wide, curling, maximum-teeth smile, the sort of smile that a person does not stretch to unless they are experiencing genuine pleasure.
‘You’re smiling like Julia Roberts.’
‘Have I got sesame seeds in my teeth?’ Flora made a number out of diving into her bag for a mirror, then realised she might be making things worse. Georgie was in a high good temper in spite of the margarita affair and whatever Flora’s smile had given away, she seemed not to have picked up on it. ‘And what about you?’ Flora went on rashly. ‘Your energy’s really good. Did you have a great ass-kicking week?’
‘Yup,’ Georgie said, marginally bewildered. Flora only ever commented on her energy status when she wanted to hand out one of her lifestyle lectures. Her usual position on ass-kicking weeks was that they caused a lot of stress, which deranged your bio-dynamic integrity.
‘That’s wonderful,’ Flora encouraged her, hiding behind her mirror and picking an imaginary seed from between her small, flawless incisors.
‘Yup.’ Georgie considered explaining why the past week had been exceptionally ass-kicking. It was technical. She’d spotted something when it was a cloud the size of a man’s hand in Jakarta and taken profits for everyone by the time the storm was gathering over the Bourse. Flora’s eyes always glazed when she started talking about the markets. Now that she considered the subject, Georgie’s mind was beginning to glaze as well. Was it possible she’d been watching them too long? Up and down, boom and bust, bull and bear – it was all so predictable. The markets were like a switchback she’d ridden on too many times.
Thinking of switchbacks, it was surprising how much she’d got done in the past week while she had been riding out the Heartswap affair. In fact, that day had been so ass-kicking she had forgotten she was supposed to be chasing Dillon. A dear man. Flora had really scored there. Even if he wouldn’t spend forty quid a throw on asphyxiating French designer aftershave. Georgie found she respected his position on that.
‘There’s something about you tonight,’ Flora continued rashly. ‘You’re really glowing.’
‘So are you,’ said Georgie automatically. Then enlightenment finally reached the high plain of mellow from which she had been enjoying the view. ‘So,’ she said casually, ‘when did Felix call you?’
Flora startled. Georgie watched the light and shade in her eyes while she considered lying
then decided to tell the truth, cause pain and enjoy the kudos of having scored again. ‘Just after you, this afternoon,’ she admitted. The smile came back, she couldn’t help it. ‘It was just business. I think he really needs more funding for his research.’
The view from the high plane of mellow was exceptionally clear. ‘This is wrong,’ said Georgie, taking one of Flora’s hands in hers. ‘You know it is. We’re lying to each other, we’re lying to Dillon and Felix, we’re undermining all the relationships that are most important to us and we’re in serious danger of screwing up our lives. We should never have got into this. I really want to stop now.’
‘You’re right,’ said Flora, grateful for the opportunity to appear gracious. How had Georgie managed to manipulate the conversation to her own advantage so quickly? ‘I’m not comfortable with the way it’s turning out,’ she added generously.
‘Why don’t we call Donna right now and tell her it’s over?’ proposed Georgie at once. As if to reward her decision, the waiter appeared with her margarita.
‘OK,’ said Flora. ‘I’ll do it. She’s probably still at the office. She said she had a late meeting tonight.’ She reached into her bag for her phone.
As Flora dialled, Georgie noticed that Donna’s number was the first one in the phone’s memory. Even from the high plane of mellow, this appeared to be a significant fact.
Georgie said, ‘I know you owe Donna a lot. She’ll be disappointed, she was enjoying it all. But it’s different for her. She’s got another agenda. Relationships can be fun for her, her life isn’t involved with anyone else the way our lives are.’
‘Lucky bitch,’ said Flora, using one finger to hold the tiny hands-free microphone in her ear while the call connected.
Donna caught Des just as he was leaving 17A. ‘Where are you going?’ she demanded. ‘I’ve got to see you, Des.’
‘What’s happened?’ he demanded, eager for incident and delighted to be needed. His weekend was looking terribly flat at that moment.
‘They’ve wimped out. The girlies. Both of them. Flora just called me.’
‘Flora called you? But she was winning.’
‘I know. I can’t believe she’s really buying into that marriage crap.’
‘Pathetic.’
‘Pitiful.’
‘They can’t give up now. They’re half-way there.’
‘And I’ve bought our tickets.’
‘Goody, goody, goody. Where are you going?’
‘I thought Bali. I got a great deal on some place with five different pools and a scuba school.’
‘Right. Well, we’ll see about this. They can’t get away with ruining your life for their own selfish motives.’
‘No, they can’t. This is an emergency. We’ve got to talk tactics, Des.’
15. April 29
With a twinge of anticipation, Georgie opened her front door and entered her home as quietly as she could. Felix was usually in bed until at least ten on Saturday morning. She might tiptoe into the bedroom, slip off her clothes and slide into bed beside him. With any luck she would never have to explain anything. No, he’d call that childish. Unless he was really gagging for sex. Which he usually was. All the same, Georgie decided to forget the tiptoe plan. There was enough on her conscience already. Her jokes always irritated him. She chose not to admit that it had been pleasant not to have sex with Felix for the past five days.
‘Coo-eee!’ she called. There was a powerful aroma of Jean-Paul in the hallway.
As she passed the kitchen, Georgie noticed with relief that it was perfectly clean and tidy. A freshly washed espresso cup stood with its saucer beside the sink. He had treated himself to some Gourmet Roast Jamaican Blue Mountain, the absolute top of the coffee range at Planet Organic.
‘Honey! I’m home!’ called Georgie, walking into the living room where the windows were open and a fresh breeze stirred the bird-of-paradise flowers in the vase on the table. Felix called them strelitzas, knew that Colombian drug cartels made use of the hollow stems for smuggling cocaine, and thought that their orange and purple spikes were tremendously erotic.
Beside the vase the periodicals had been arranged in a fan so that the old issue of the Neurological Digest, carrying his last article on Lightoller’s Syndrome, was casually nestled next to the new Vanity Fair. Florence Purim was cooing from the hi-fi.
On the sofa, the New York Review of Books was open at Susan Faludi’s review of a treatise on fourteenth-century Japanese erotica. Georgie clearly remembered that when she had bought that publication Felix had called it The Sunday Masturbator.
‘Felix?’ In the bedroom, the bed had been stripped. In the bathroom, the sheets she had put on for them both on Sunday night were bundled up in the linen basket. Georgie was rapidly getting the picture. Felix was expecting a woman. A woman he wanted to impress. A woman he intended to seduce. Flora.
Georgie giggled to herself. She remembered her first visit to Felix’s apartment in Chicago, which he had set-dressed with velvety red roses, the same old issue of the Neurological Digest, Ella Fitzgerald and an article by Susan Sontag in Apollo on some sickly etchings after Fragonard. She remembered telling her father, who chortled, ‘My God! All those sleepless nights when you were a baby were for that? If I’d known, I’d have let you scream.’
Should she be miffed that Flora appeared to rate more exotically than she had? Difficult, when she couldn’t stop giggling. Ella Fitzgerald and after Fragonard! Guilt, begone! When she heard Felix leaping up the stairs she straightened her face and went to recline on the sofa. This was going to be fun.
‘Darling!’ she greeted him as he dashed through the door.
Felix dropped the laundry. The packet burst on impact with the floor and an assortment of crisply folded linen tumbled out on to the white rug. ‘Georgina!’ he gasped.
‘I’m back, darling!’ she purred, folding up the New York Review of Books and tossing it aside with a beguiling flourish before holding out her arms.
‘Yes you are,’ he agreed, stepping awkwardly towards her over the fallen sheets. He tripped as he did so and lost his grip on the small brown paper bag that he had been clutching in his left hand. Six ripe figs fell from it. One of them split as it hit the rug. Another flattened itself in a red smear on a white pillowcase. The rest rolled saucily in different directions across the floor-boards.
‘Fuck!’ said Felix as he stumbled.
‘Oh well.’ Georgie reached out and dragged him towards her. ‘If we must.’
With relief, Felix decided that action would definitely speak louder than words at that point. He had been thinking of Flora. He saw, smelt and touched Georgie. Nothing turned him on quite as violently as the idea of sex with two women, in any configuration. A red flash temporarily burned out his brain. There was a short, thrilling flurry of kisses, fingers, buttons, buckles, underwear and flying shoes.
As his intelligence circuits reconnected, Felix held Georgie and remembered Flora. He kissed the nearest one of Georgie’s nipples, holding her breast with one hand, smoothing her hair with the other and sneaking a look at his watch at the same time. Miss Pforza was due in a quarter of an hour.
‘Mmmm. Missed you,’ Felix whispered near Georgie’s ear.
‘Mmmm,’ she answered, turning her head slightly. Laughter was bubbling up from somewhere around her diaphragm and she didn’t want him to see her face break up.
He licked her ear, his mind racing.
Two and a half years, thought Georgie, and he still can’t remember that I can’t stand having my ears licked. They had finished up on the floor. One of the runaway figs had halted under the coffee table. It looked succulent. She reached out for it.
‘Damn,’ Felix murmured, raising himself on his elbows. ‘I’ve just remembered. I bought some lemons as well. I must have left them on the stall. I’ll have to go back for them.’
‘Lemons for ecstacy,’ sighed Georgie, wrapping her free arm firmly around his waist and biting into the fig. He was planning to call
Flora as soon as he was outside the building.
‘It won’t take a minute,’ he insisted.
She held the fig to his lips so he was forced to sample it. ‘Who needs lemons anyway?’ she asked while he was swallowing.
‘Lemon zest for an espresso,’ he explained. ‘I was going to treat myself. Sensual deprivation, you see. Without you.’ He rolled over on to one side and kissed her forehead. There was a deep vertical wrinkle between his eyebrows. It was always the first sign that he was nervous.
‘Let’s both go,’ Georgie suggested, sliding to her feet and smoothing down her skirt. ‘I love browsing round the market on Saturday.’
‘It was terribly crowded,’ he tried. In vain. She went to get her knickers from the top of the TV, at the same time ascertaining that his jacket had fallen behind the sofa. The phone was usually in his jacket pocket. While Felix was readjusting his socks she leaned over the back of the sofa and let the phone slip from the pocket while she picked the jacket off the floor and shook imaginary dust from it.
‘Thank you, darling,’ he said, slipping arms into sleeves one by one. His movements tight with tension, he patted the jacket pockets and found no phone. She gave him a luminescent smile and fondly tucked in a fold of shirt. Rather than make her suspicious, he kissed her hand and decided to find a pay phone outside some-where.
Hand in hand, they walked towards Portobello Road. Felix set off briskly. Georgie lagged and dawdled and looked in shop windows.
‘Let’s have a coffee,’ he proposed jovially when they at last reached the Brazilian café.
‘Let’s have it when we get back,’ she countered. ‘With the lemon zest. Nobody does that better than you.’
It seemed likely that Felix would soon explode with anxiety. Thirty seconds later, while she was lingering by the door of a boutique, he bounded across the road like an antelope leaping for its life and plunged into the flower shop. Towing an agitated florist, he carried on into the workroom at the back of the sales area and disappeared from view.
Ten minutes later Felix reappeared, carrying a vast assembly of roses and foliage. Peachy pink roses, all overblown and unlikely to last until Monday, lashed with expensive wired ribbon to an outlandish frill of palm leaves. He forgot his credit card and the florist had to run after him and return it. She seemed to be irritated by the whole transaction. Felix’s face was radiant with relief.
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