by Mavis Cheek
He shrugged. 'Doesn't matter as long as she's efficient.' 'Or he?'
He smiled. 'Perhaps.'
'No more Little Blonde Secretary Birds?' She was looking at him very hard.
He raised both hands in a gesture of sincerity. 'Honestly, lovey' - he looked up towards heaven - 'I never even thought about it.'
'I believe you,' she said. 'And now I'm going to have a bit of a pamper in the bath.'
'We haven't got long.'
'Long enough for me to have a soak and wash my hair.' She giggled like a schoolgirl as she closed the door. 'Tenerife! Well, well. And I might even pluck my eyebrows.' What did his being economical with the truth matter? she thought, as she ran the water. He hadn't called her 'lovey' for years.
They flew out that afternoon. He would not let her carry any of the luggage, apart from her handbag and some magazines, and remained calm and good-humoured, save for one moment when an American girl walked across the path of his trolley causing him to swerve. There might have been a row - always a nasty way to begin a holiday - for initially the American girl said, 'Are you blind or something?' very aggressively, but just as the Boss Masculine was about to make an acid retort, the girl softened, put up her hand (shame about the bitten nails, thought the Boss Masculine's wife) and said, 'I apologize. It was my fault. Sorry.' To which the Boss Masculine, also changing tack, declared it was entirely due to him and he hoped he had not hurt her in any way.
The Boss Masculine's wife looked to see if there was some sparkle of flirtatiousness behind all this but could detect none. Just two people being polite. She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm but did not lean on him heavily as once she would have done. Her hand rested there lightly - a connection rather than crutch - and together they wheeled the trolley along the walkway. She asked him more about Birmingham. He shrugged. 'I didn't arrange for us to go on holiday to discuss business.' This so unnerved her that she felt almost girlish, wondering what they could talk about instead. He asked her if the walking was tiring her and how her muscles felt. She told him that she had not come on holiday to discuss her medical condition. This surprised them both and they continued along the walkway in pleasant silence.
When Derek met the Little Blonde Secretary Bird at the station, she was looking very pale and very tight-mouthed. 'I ate something that upset me,' she said. 'And he had to get home to his wife, who is not well.'
'If you want my opinion,' said Derek, with unaccustomed assertiveness, 'I think it's a cheek. He shouldn't have left you on your own like that.'
'He trusts me, Derek.'
'I've a good mind to go and see him about it.' 'You can't,' she said. 'He's taking her away.' She brightened. 'And leaving me in charge. He thinks very highly of me, Derek.' 'Funny way of showing it,' he said, helping her into the car. 'Don't mutter, please,' she said.
At home she unpacked. She took out the scrap of lawn and lace and waved it under Derek's nose. 'He gave me this,' she said. 'He's a real gentleman. There I was in tears . . .'
'Tears?' Derek looked surprised. 'Why?'
She looked at him pityingly. 'If you don't know, Derek, then I'm not telling you.' She held up the hanky and fluttered it again. 'It's ever such a romantic thing to give a woman.'
'Is it?' said Derek. He didn't think Ken would think so. He didn't think be thought so. It was all a mystery to him, this romance business. He used to buy his Auntie Megan hankies for Christmas, with an M embroidered on the corner. He hoped she hadn't misconstrued it.. .
'I'll make you a nice hot mug of tea,' he said.
'Cup, Derek,' she said, and, looking at the lacy lawn, she sighed. 'Tea in a cup. Remember?'
Pausing at the bedroom door, he turned and, looking pinkly pleased, he added, 'You haven't noticed.'
'Noticed what?' she said crisply.
'Behind you.'
She felt irritated. Her headache had not entirely gone despite the lapse of time. It must certainly have been the prawns. 'Hmm?' she asked again sharply.
'Behind you.'
'Derek, I am in no mood to play at pantomimes!' 'The door.'
She turned round, puzzled. 'I've fixed the door.'
She gave it a little push. It stayed shut. 'Well done, Derek,' she said.
He felt it was considerably more 'well done' than that stupid bit of cotton she'd dangled under his nose. ‘I had to take the whole thing out.' He said. 'All of it.' He waited for her accolade.
'Talking of taking things out, Derek,' she said, 'we'd better have that awful Vent-Axia out this weekend, too. I'm sure that doesn't help the atmosphere . . .'
His pinkness turned to red. He very nearly shouted. 'But that's exactly what it does do,' he said. 'Without it the atmosphere would be terrible in there. Don't you understand, woman?' He was raising and lowering his arms at his side like a feeble chicken. 'If we didn't have that Vent-Axia, there'd be all sorts of things trapped. Steam, smells .. .'
'Derek' she said warningly. 'Besides, I am not talking about that sort of atmosphere. I'm talking about setting the mood. You should have seen the restaurant in the hotel. They knew how to set the mood with atmosphere, all right.'
'And poison you,' he said huffily.
'Derek, that was unfortunate. But the setting was very romantic. And it didn't have . . .' - she began snapping, the throbbing returning - 'it didn't have a whining monster stuck in the wall.'
'Oh, didn't it?'
'Oh and also' - she fished about in her bag, taking out a small card chart — 'this weekend . . . um . . .' She ran a finger down the lines. 'It's an important one. All right.' She snapped her bag shut, turned to the door, but he had gone.
There was a sudden crashing sound from the bathroom. She froze, card in hand. He was so clumsy. She waited for his apologetic cry, which did not come. Very well, she thought, I'm not going to ask. But suddenly, remembering the card, she put her hand to her mouth. Supposing he had damaged something -of an important physical nature. She rushed to the bathroom and pushed open the door. He stood there, Vent-Axia in his hands, and without a further sound threw it down on to the black and white diamond tiles. He drew his lips back over his teeth in a curl of scorn, said, 'Happy now?' and went out. He was rather pleased at the last picture he had of her, with her pretty little pink mouth in the shape of a perfect O.
By the time they were speaking again, which in reality was by the time she was speaking to him, ovulation had ceased and the Boss Masculine had returned. Interviews were taking place for the switchboard girl's replacement. The Little Blonde Secretary Bird found it odd that she was not involved in the decision about replacing such a lowly minion but thought it was probably kindness, the sharing of burdens at this critical emotional time in her life.
Apparently the person had been engaged, but she knew no more than that. Time would tell. She was quite looking forward to it. She organized the whip-round in the office and bought the mother-to-be a pretty plastic changing mat for the baby and a boxed selection of beauty aids and bathtime pamperers for herself. The mother-to-be left clutching these to her extraordinary belly and the Little Blonde Secretary began to look forward, with interest, to Monday morning.
Derek gave an even louder whoop of pleasure than the whoop he had given when the now defunct Vent-Axia slipped into place. 'Are you quite sure?' he asked the man on the telephone.
The man on the telephone said that he was.
'And the new rules begin from when?'
The man on the telephone said, 'Next Monday. You can collect the new specification from the Town Hall then.'
Derek felt as if he were floating on air. If his wife had been there, he would certainly have kissed her - if not more. He couldn't wait until Monday to confirm the truth. The Borough Council had reduced the ceiling height for loft conversions. He would be able to add one to their house after all! And that was the first really cheering thing that had happened to him for ages. She would be over the moon when he told her. Life would get back to normal again - him doing home improvements and her being
encouraging. Teamwork - that was what marriage was
about. Probably better that she didn't get in the family way yet -though he wouldn't actually say that to her ... He wouldn't mention anything until next Monday night, when he definitely knew, had the paperwork in his hand. He didn't mind half so much about the Vent-Axia now he had all this to look forward to.
*
Dermot Poll was finding life very dull now that Deirdre had gone teetotal, eschewed his bed and refused to fight any more. As he said to her, pleadingly, 'What else is there?'
But Deirdre was not to be moved. She had taken to crocheting in the evening, perched on a high bar stool, chatting to the customers, sipping blackcurrant cordial and soda.
The only little excitement recently was a telephone call from England in which a Miss O'Dowd inquired the whereabouts of Mr Dermot Poll. It was Deirdre who had taken it and who had said, smooth as a spoonful, that she had once known a man of that name but that he had gone away a long time since. Whatever the reason for Miss O'Dowd's inquiry that particular pot was best left unstirred.
Chapter Twenty-three
E
RICA von Hyatt was amenable to everything. In the first days of late summer and autumn she had gathered the flowers, gathered the fruits and learned all that Gretchen O'Dowd could teach her about the art of floristry and basket-arranging. But now the garden and the hothouse were empty and damp and cold. They spent each day and each evening alone together. And Erica von Hyatt was feeling extremely constrained.
But she remained amenable. Soon they would be on the road again and that was a freedom to be savoured. In the meantime she behaved herself, biding her time. The balance of comfort and confinement was equal. Everything was fine, providing she knew it was not for ever. So she said yes to walks, she said yes to television, she said yes to cucumber sandwiches. Everything was lovely, nothing was too much trouble. They slept together, snuggled up tight in the large, snowy bed, and, even there, Erica von Hyatt said yes to everything.
'Will it always be like this?' Gretchen asked Erica one evening as they sat in the winking firelight.
'For as long as you want it to be,' said Erica von Hyatt positively.
Gretchen O'Dowd was puzzled. Somehow the answer was not as pleasing as it should have been. 'What do you want it to be?' she asked.
'Whatever you do,' said Erica, 'of course.' 'Do you love me?'
'Have I given you any reason to doubt it?'
Gretchen felt uneasy. She, too, began counting the days to their journey to Skibbereen. All this acquiescence was becoming rather tedious. Sometimes they were so undemanding of each other that they ended up doing nothing.
'Which way do you want to walk?' 'I don't mind. Whichever way you do.' 'No. You choose.' 'I don't mind a bit.' 'Perhaps we should just go home?' 'Fine.'
'Would you prefer soup or a sandwich?'
'Whichever you're having.'
'Either is available.'
'I'll have the same as you.'
'I don't think I'll have anything.'
'Fine.'
'Is there anything you would prefer?' 'No.'
'Can I improve in any way?' 'Oh no, it's all lovely.' 'Which bit do you like best?' 'All of it.'
'Do you like me to do this?' 'Ooh yes.'
'Or do you prefer that?' 'Ooh yes.' 'Or this?'
'That's just as good.' 'Don't you have a preference?' 'Oh no. It's all just wonderful.' 'Do you want to go on?' 'Do you?' 'I'm asking you?' 'Whatever you want.' 'Maybe I'm sleepy.'
'Me too.' 'Good-night.'
*
Sometimes Gretchen O'Dowd would catch Erica von Hyatt unawares. She would be staring into space, or out of a window, and there would be about her posture an aura of unease, and in her eyes a faraway look as if she, and only she, could see what was on the horizon. If asked what was the matter, she said, 'Nothing.' If asked what she was thinking, she said, 'Nothing.' And always with that broad, amenable smile. Gretchen O'Dowd had once seen a programme about Egyptian and Grecian mythology - not part of her course, but she had watched it all the same, finding the androgynous nature of so many of the deities encouraging. She had been particularly interested in the Sphinx and felt rather sorry for it when its secret, its ultimate truth, was discovered and it was duty-bound to destroy itself. That seemed rather unfair. Yet the Sphinx did look a little self-satisfied - that smile was the sort of unbreachable smile that made you want to punch it on the nose. Gretchen occasionally, and with surprise, found herself looking at Erica von Hyatt's similarly Sphinxian smile in the same way, with her fist twitching involuntarily.
They were not seriously dashed by the disappointing response from Skibbereen. Erica's worldly wisdom was convincing. 'I wouldn't admit to being me over the telephone. So why should anybody else? It'll be different when we get there. You'll see.'
Whether it would or whether it wouldn't, Erica von Hyatt was not going to lose the opportunity of getting back on the road. Despite this slavish love, she was bored out of her beautiful head. It was very hard being somebody's dream. You lost sight of your own. For a while the combination of Jack Daniel's and milk had soothed the path of the tedium, but Gretchen O'Dowd, easy in all other matters, had frowned upon the indulgence. And Erica, apparently, obliged.
'Don't you miss your Jack Daniel's?' Gretchen asked once in a while.
'Oh no,' said Erica happily. 'I'm fine with orange juice or tea, the same as you.' 'Sure?' 'Sure.' 'Fine.'
Only later, when the couple were far away and over the Irish Sea, did the removal men pull out a tinkling box from the depths of the conservatory and find it filled to the brim with miniature Jack Daniel's bottles. It was odd, they remarked to themselves, what some people treasured.
*
Janice wrote as if a fever were upon her. The words tumbled over themselves, sentences flowed, and she knew, insdnctively, it was good. There was magic in her finger-ends, sorcery in her brain, and she could hear, from time to time, goading her to write more quickly, more richly, the voice of Sylvia Perth - synthetic, detached - saying, 'Not a very nice story, is it, dear?' It was such a profound experience that Janice could smell the cigarette smoke ribboning around the room.
Janice agreed that it was not a very nice story at all. 'Not all stories are,' she said to the pervasive Sylvia. And wrinkling her nose at the unwelcome spirit and its pollution, she looked up the definition of 'nice' in the Shorter Oxford and found its root to be the Latin nescius, meaning 'ignorant', 'without truth'. It was the understanding of the word that Christine de Pisan would have known and fitted rather well. In which case, she thought, as she dipped into the box of fondant creams at her side, it was fair to say that this, her latest, her last, and by far her best book was absolutely, one hundred per cent, not nice at all.
Chapter Twenty-four
M
ORGAN Pfeiffer, looking down, saw how casually the passers-by avoided the street sitters, as once, in more innocent days, they might have avoided ladders. Hands that shook and rattled plastic cups were invisible and soundless. Aggressive begging was now an indictable offence. Bad use of resources, thought Morgan Pfeiffer, bad use of resources. He moved away from the window, tapping the unlit end of his cigar against his teeth. It did no harm at all to observe the sufferings of those less fortunate than yourself when bad fortune hit you. He turned and smiled across the room.
'It is a compromise we have to accept,' he said. 'Nothing can be done.'
Enrico Stoat slipped his medallion into his mouth, an unconscious sign of inner turmoil. 'Everything hinges on her coming over here. If not now, when the book comes out. How can I promote it without the lady in person?'
Morgan Pfeiffer shrugged. 'You may not have to. Wait until the manuscript is delivered. She will feel differently about it all then. Writers get funny sometimes. Once a book is finished they usually blossom again. Bide your time.'
'No photograph for the jacket even? That's not compromise, it's breach of contract.'
Rohanne stood up. 'I have checked,' sh
e said, 'and it isn't. The only breach of contract will be if she doesn't deliver the manuscript, or if the manuscript doesn't conform to our . . .' -she paused - 'To your specific requirements. And it will. I can assure you of that.' She picked up her briefcase.
'But we don't even have an address? We can't call her?'
'Until it is finished, I suggest we leave Miss Gentle in peace.
Anything you need to discuss can be done through me. Now, I have a great deal to catch up on . . .' She held out her hand and shook Morgan Pfeiffer's. 'Mission accomplished,' she said, giving him a bright smile. 'And I can assure you that Janice Gentle is absolutely enthusiastic about the whole idea. I know she will give you exactly what you want.' She smiled at Enrico Stoat. 'She is a very beautiful lady.' Stoat sighed with depressed fury. 'And now, if you will excuse me . . .' And she was gone.
Morgan Pfeiffer thought. He tapped his teeth with the cigar again. He longed to light it, but Mrs Pfeiffer, deceased, had always said not before noon. Gentlemen did not smoke cigars before noon, just as real ladies did not eat candy until lunch was cleared. You'd have thought, he conjectured, that given Mrs Pfeiffer was deceased, he could at least indulge himself over things like the morning cigar. But he could not. Somehow it still held good. He returned his thoughts to the business in hand.
'We could have suspected it, Stoat,' he said. 'After all, she is known to be a recluse, and she has never used a picture on her jackets before . . .'
'But neither has she written a sexy book before!' Stoat was so exasperated he nearly choked on his medallion. 'Not even a Polaroid:
'Turn her into a mystery woman,' advised Morgan Pfeiffer. 'For the time being, anyway.'
'That just about sums it all up,' said Stoat, and the Rolex on his wrist went ping.
'Ah,' said Morgan Pfeiffer, much satisfied, 'noon at last.' And he sucked on the flame and sighed. 'You go, Stoat, and start all over again. Hell, man, it's what I pay you for.'