Janice Gentle Gets Sexy

by Mavis Cheek

  *

  Square Jaw read one of the poems on the tube. It was called 'Distance'. He was not one for poetry: indeed, if anyone said the word to him, it made him think of school and boredom, something difficult and dull, and learning by rote - not something that touched things about himself. He had said that to some guy in the Indian restaurant the night he and Melanie split up. He was waiting for the take-away and he had been asked if he ever read any. At the time it seemed a pretty fatuous question. Now he read the little light verse above his head and was sort of touched by it. He knew something of what the writer meant. . .

  Were you to cross the world, my dear, To work or love or fight,

  I could be calm and wistful here, And close my eyes at night.

  It were a sweet and gallant pain To be a sea apart;

  But, oh, to have you down the lane, Is bitter to my heart.

  He read it several times. Well, whatever was happening between them was silly. He decided, if nothing else, that he would ring her and suggest meeting for a drink. Pretending the other didn't exist when they only lived a couple of miles apart ('down the lane') was really stupid. He had thought about going to Jeremy's party tonight. In fact, he had given it a great deal of thought. After all, this was what it was all supposed to be about. Freedom.

  Freedom to be a bachelor.

  Freedom to go to parties.

  Freedom to go to parties and meet girls.

  Freedom to go to parties, meet girls and . . .

  Freedom

  to

  wear

  condoms. . .

  He had completely forgotten about those.

  He shrank at the thought. The idea of falling into bed with a stranger and then having to wrestle with an unwilling rubber was hardly conducive to the Esquire image. And then there was all that afterwards to think about - the getting to know, the do you want to be bothered to get to know? It occurred to him, briefly, that he and his contemporaries who dismissed marriage as a trap were wrong. You could be just as trapped being single.

  Afterwards ... All that afterwards ... He had done all that afterwards with Melanie. The walks, the talks, the dinners, the armpit anxiety, the breath anxiety. Facing it all with someone else wasn't exactly enticing.

  He stayed late at the office that night and rang her just before he left. He thought he could collect the car from the station and drive past her place, maybe go to a wine bar or something. But there was no reply. This time good sense prevailed and he left a nice, friendly, slightly flirty message for her. He said he was sorry if he'd been a bit sharp, and perhaps they could meet up soon. He'd be in tonight. All night. He would, he said, be honoured if she would bestow upon him a little of her company. Come any time.

  He flashed his season ticket with a flourish at the barrier and felt that at last he had done the right thing. '"But, oh, to have you down the lane,"' he murmured as he got into his car, '"is bitter to my heart."'

  *

  When Rohanne Bulbecker emerged from the solicitor's offices, her eyes were glittering, there was a spring in her step and she was prepared to love the world. Including its miscreants, of whom she now knew, Sylvia Perth had been one. Behind her, sucking her knuckles, came a downcast-looking Gretchen O'Dowd. Within her remit to love the world, Rohanne was prepared to love this woebegone part of it, too.

  'Come on,' she said, tucking her arm into Gretchen's. 'Be philosophical about it . . .' And she smiled a warm and encouraging smile. 'Maybe Harrods will cheer you up,' and, dodging the traffic, she steered the unhappy Gretchen O'Dowd in.

  She squirted her way through the perfumes, and they made their way into the food hall. The sight of Janice Gentle hiding food in her clothes had unnerved Rohanne. 'We'll get her everything she needs until New York.' She sniffed some smoked salmon. 'They are going to just love her there.'

  'Oh,' said Gretchen miserably, 'are you taking her away?' She gave a little gulp and Rohanne saw a tear caught in the web of her moustache. It was not surprising, given the interview Gretchen had experienced with the solicitor, and Rohanne said so.

  'Sylvia Perth has a lot to answer for one way and another,' she said. 'But at least they've asked you to stay on until everything is settled.' She picked up some peaches and smelled them. 'Janice is the one who has really suffered,' she said, peering at a tray of handmade chocolates. Gretchen was surprised at the look of pleasure and satisfaction on Rohanne Bulbecker's face as she made her selection.

  'Flowers too,' Rohanne said. 'She must have both with what I've got to tell her.'

  Much later and several bags heavier, they left the store to return to Dog Street. The Boss Masculine observed them leave. Poor sod, he thought, assuming the half-hidden Gretchen to be the husband. Poor sod to be used like a credit-carded packhorse. The Boss Masculine knew all about that, since his wife had been unable to carry anything for years. Never would again, he was sure. For the rest of his life he would be carrying her. He paid the assistant for the little Bruges lace handkerchief and asked her to gift-wrap it with special care. His conscience pricked him and he decided to get his wife a present, too. He fingered the other lacy items on the counter and then turned on his heel in the direction of the book department. She did a lot of reading nowadays, especially in bed. He'd get her a bloody book.

  'Like I said, Sylvia Perth has a lot to answer for,' said Rohanne in the taxi.

  'She certainly does,' said Gretchen O'Dowd mournfully. 'I wasn't even allowed to bury her. Her mother did it. I didn't even know she had a mother . . .'

  Rohanne snorted. 'Even Hitler had one of those.'

  Gretchen looked shocked.

  'Cheer up,' Rohanne said. 'At least she left you the painting.' She tried not to smile. 'Even if you hate it.'

  Rohanne sat back and closed her eyes for the remainder of the journey. One way or another she had a lot to thank Sylvia Perth for. She had died at the optimum moment, and she had been

  crooked. These twin attributes made life much easier for Rohanne. Janice Gentle was inescapably hers. All that beautiful, golden girl now owned in the world was some apartment in an out-of-the-way place called Battersea and her copyright - though the latter was far from certain. The solicitor had wrinkled his fine, aquiline nose as he mendoned the address in Battersea. It seemed it was hardly decent. Everything else was gone - or, rather, tied up in Sylvia Perth's estate, now Mrs Perth's estate. And the old lady was of no mind to give it back without a struggle. It would all take years to unravel. Which meant two things. One, Janice Gentle actually needed the Pfeiffer contract. And, two, there could be endless publicity over the case. Rohanne pictured it. The beautiful, golden waif of a writer, screwed rotten by first the daughter and then the mother. Why, it was the very stuff of romance itself. And it would certainly sell a few books. Janice Gentle was in the palm of Rohanne Bulbecker's hand, and each represented the other's salvation. That, thought Rohanne, was appropriate: the perfect Chinese bargain, one in which both sides have equal gain. She saw herself in the executive suite at Pfeiffer's. Part of the team. What else could she do, as she sat there, daydreaming, eyes closed, but congratulate herself? Congratulate herself very heartily indeed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  JANICE had no idea of what she would find in the way of interior decor behind the door of Sylvia Perth's apartment.

  None the less, an open mind is not necessarily a mind that cannot be surprised. And Janice was surprised. Sylvia had always complimented her on her own pale, uncluttered existence. 'Oh, Janice,' she would say, 'if only you knew how I envy you this peaceful environment . . .' Looking around now, Janice could quite see why.

  There was not a surface left unfilled, not a colour that was bland, not a space without texture. It was like something out of the Arabian Nights, as if she had stumbled out of her convent and into a Moorish stronghold. Rather a fitting analogy, she thought, since she had come as a cross between crusader and pilgrim. She closed the door behind her and slipped off her shoes - whether because her feet were sore from the str
uggles of the day, or out of respect for this temple of the Infidel, she was unsure. In any case the pile of the carpet felt wonderful beneath her toes.

  In the corner, on a desk, she saw what she had come to find: the answerphone. But on the couch, directly ahead of her, she saw something else much more disconcerting. She saw Scheherazade, she saw Criseyde, she saw Vous ou Mort personified, the embodiment of all that Knightly Honour could possibly desire, she saw . . . She scarcely believed it, she pushed her spectacles back up her nose, and she blinked, and she blinked and she blinked. It was only when she was quite sure that the recumbent beauty was real and breathing (and not the last and most fearful of her imaginings, Sylvia Perth's youthful alter ego) that she tiptoed across to the couch. The recumbent one continued unconscious. Janice waited. She went back and rustled her bag.

  She returned to the couch and sighed. And still the sleeper slept. Janice coughed. The sleeper murmured, turned a little, breathed deep again. Janice coughed louder and rustled her bag anew. The sleeper moaned softly. Janice gave one more good loud throat clear and it worked. Erica von Hyatt opened her eyes, returned the blinks, and smiled.

  'I am allowed to be here,' she said. 'I have the owner's permission.'

  'But,' said Janice, 'I thought the owner was dead.'

  'Nope,' said Erica positively. 'Just gone to Harrods.'

  For a moment Janice wondered if she meant, in some poetically right way, that Sylvia Perth, who had loved Harrods as some love their country, had gone to that great and ultimate Harrods in the Sky.

  'May I sit down?' she asked weakly.

  'Help yourself,' said Erica cheerfully and indicated the space at the end of the couch. She rubbed her wrist across her sleepy eyes and yawned.

  Erica von Hyatt felt on top of the world. Being awakened held no rancour for her. That it was a stranger and one of such unprepossessing mien held no rancour for her. Nothing caused Erica von Hyatt rancour, for Erica von Hyatt had seen it all. By the law of averages it was bound to be a stranger. After all, the world was full of them.

  Janice removed several sugared almonds from her pocket and put them one after the other into her mouth. She was almost sure that this was the right apartment, because it seemed to be the very last one in the building. Perhaps she should check. She smiled at Erica and pointed upwards. 'There isn't,' she said carefully, 'anything else after this, is there?'

  A religious freak, thought Erica, but she felt quite safe. She had dealt with all kinds in her time. 'Well, 7 don't think there is. Otherwise why would there be so much sodding pain in the world? Sorry for swearing. Think of all the Africans starving,' she said vaguely.

  Janice preferred not to. That was what had been so good about

  Sylvia. Sylvia had positively encouraged her not to think. 'Concentrate on what you want to write,' she said, 'and let Sylvia deal with the rest of the world.'

  'I mean,' Janice said apologetically, 'there isn't another flat above this?'

  'Not unless they like it open-plan. That's the roof.' She eyed Janice's bag. 'Need somewhere, do you?' she said sympathetically. 'You can stay here for a while if you like. I'll tell the owner you're a friend, just passing through.' She raised a finger. 'But no nicking anything, mind.' The finger wagged. 'And you've got to remember to flush the toilet.'

  Janice was beyond any indignation on matters of honesty or personal hygiene and set those aside. 'This . . . er . . . owner,' she said carefully, 'you're sure about Harrods?'

  'Yup,' said Erica.'

  'And this . . . er . . . owner seemed . . . quite weir? How she longed to come right out with it.

  'Think so.' Erica shrugged. 'All right after the Ritz. Talked nineteen to the dozen about the funeral. Not much to say apart from that. More the silent type.'

  'Funeral?' said Janice. She sucked hard and then bit, crunch, crunch, her tongue desperately seeking out the soft, sweet nut beneath.

  They sat in silence for a while.

  'I'm off to America and I'm going to have a baby there,' said Erica eventually. 'Haven't met the father yet. They're introducing me when I arrive.'

  Janice, singularly failing to deal with both sweet and information, began choking.

  Erica banged her firmly on the back. 'You never in the least know what's going to happen in life, do you?' she said cheerfully. 'Look at me. One minute I had nothing. Now, all this. Mind you, I never trust anything to last. Do you?'

  'I did once,' said Janice sadly.

  'Bad mistake,' said Erica, shaking her head. 'Always expect it to end, and then you are never disappointed.' She held out her hand to shake Janice's. 'Cheer up. My name's . . .' She was about to say Erica and then realized that it was no longer her name, but since she had taken it from a handbag tossed over Waterloo Bridge and empty of all but a calling card that said 'Erica von Hyatt Design Partnership, London, New York', she felt she could abandon it whenever she chose, anyway. 'My name is Janice,' she said.

  'How odd,' said Janice, taking the proffered hand. 'So is mine.'

  'Oh?' said Erica, rediscovering nerve endings that the comfort of this exotic place had padded in gauze. She withdrew her hand and a shadow darkened her pretty features. 'Oh?' she said again.

  'Janice Gentle,' came the smiling reply. 'I write books.'

  It was the first time Janice had said anything like that to anybody. It felt strange, but rather good - and it made her feel sort of real. She smiled across at her new friend, but the new friend was not smiling back.

  'Fuck you,' said Erica von Hyatt, breaking her rule about swearing in other people's houses. 'Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.'

  Janice's head throbbed. She had experienced quite enough opprobrium out on the street. That it continued indoors really was too much. If this was what it was like going back out into the real world, she didn't, really, see the point. 'Oh,' she said wearily, eyeing the answering machine as if, in some way, it retained its magical powers. Was she in there? Did she still live and breathe? 'Why do you say that?'

  And Erica von Hyatt told her. She told her of what had been. She told her of what was to come. Or what she hoped was to come. What would not, now, be to come, because the real Janice Gentle had turned up.

  'But I've got nothing to do with babies,' Janice said, puzzled. 'Apart from the fact that I call my books my babies sometimes. And I'm certainly not the sort of person to be a surrogate mother. Are you sure?'

  'It's all legal. I signed some papers,' said Erica. 'Look.'

  Janice looked. She smiled. 'I think,' she said, 'there is some confusion here. This is a publisher's contract. They want you - or rather me - to write a book.'

  'A book?' said Erica von Hyatt wonderingly. 'What about?'

  'Whatever you - or I - choose, I suppose,' said Janice.

  'Oh well,' said Erica resignedly, 'it will have to be you, then. I have no stories to tell. I wouldn't know where to begin.'

  Janice thought about her tortures on the Underground. '1 know what you mean,' she said, 'but they do say that everybody has at least one book in them.'

  'Do they?' said Erica. 'I don't think I have. Not like the Princess of Wales or Joan Collins. Who'd want to hear about me?'

  Janice settled herself next to her. ‘I would,' she said positively, surprising herself. And she thought as she adjusted the cushions around her that the couch was a great deal more comfortable than the seats of the London tube.

  'All?' said Erica.

  'Everything,' said Janice, who was suddenly very interested. 'Just tell me everything about yourself. Please.' So Erica, ever obliging, did.

  *

  Rohanne Bulbecker stopped the cab on the way back to Dog Street and bought a huge bunch of flowers, pointing to bloom after bloom. She could afford to be generous and she wanted to be. She would break the story very sensitively and spare Janice Gentle's feelings as much as she could. Sylvia's sticky fingers had played all the balls into her court and delicacy was not hard to offer when you had gained so much. The story seemed so fantastical that she was quite reli
eved to have Gretchen O'Dowd as witness. Sylvia's Man and Boy had no doubts on that score. Indeed, the Man and Boy had been so absolutely convinced about her own betrayal that she had left the solicitor, with a proboscis that had once been aquiline and was no more, reclining on his office carpet, a bloody handkerchief to his nose. Rohanne had to admit that he had been somewhat perfunctory in his delivery of the bad news: she rather doubted if he would ever dare to be so perfunctory with a disappointed mourner again.

  At Dog Street Rohanne Bulbecker abandoned dignity and, clutching her flowers, ran two steps at a time up the stairs, leaving Gretchen O'Dowd to puff and pant her way up, beladen with the bags. At the penultimate landing the Bulbecker legs entangled with a man wearing a pinstriped suit, white collar, navy-blue silk tie and extremely pink face; he was down on all fours mopping up quite a mess. Despite her excitement Rohanne paused at the sight. A man cleaning his own entry? Wonderful!

  Gretchen O'Dowd, carrying the bags, noticed nothing and merely left a trail of footprints across the newly washed floor. 'That's right,' said the pinstripe sarcastically. 'Sure you wouldn't like to go back and try again?'

  Gretchen fled. Why did everybody in London seem so angry?

  Rohanne was not going to be deflected from her immediate pleasure of offering her bouquet. When that was done, she would ask what the unspeakable character sitting next to Janice Gentle on the couch was doing here. For the moment, in high good humour, she said, 'Flowers for Miss Gentle,' and was astonished to see a large, round arm, attached to a plump and sausagey hand, reach out and take them.