by Lissa Evans
The house was empty when she returned from the skip, Tammy and her father out at an antique fair, the kitchen still littered with the remains of her lovely boys’ breakfast. They had left her a note commenting on the lack of cheese in the fridge, and pointing out that she still owed Robin £2.50 for a milk bill from the week before. She did the washing-up, removed three pairs of shoes from the hall, turned off an idly running bath tap and retreated to the bedroom again.
The envelope was still on the desk and with little anticipation she ran a finger under the gummed flap. There was a postcard inside, a painting of a large-featured, plain woman, who nevertheless gazed at the viewer with the slightly pleased air of one who knew herself to be attractive. Iris checked the caption; George Eliot. The message was sparse, and neatly written in black ink.
Dear Iris,
I wonder if you would care to visit the original of this, in the National Portrait Gallery. If so, I would be delighted to accompany you.
Yours sincerely,
Vincent Jayaram
There was a telephone number under his name.
She read the postcard a second time, smiling at its courtly formality, and then a third because she still couldn’t quite believe it, and then she placed it, picture upwards, on the desk and wondered if she would ever grow out of the habit of blushing.
The sloth hung in semi-darkness, looking to an inattentive eye like an old doormat caught on a branch.
‘Do you realize,’ said Niall, after looking at it for a while, ‘that it’s actually got mould growing on it?’
‘It’s algae,’ said Fran.
‘They’re different, are they?’
‘Yes, one’s a chlorophyll-producing plant and the other’s a saprophytic – one’s green and one’s brown,’ she amended.
‘Oh right. But it’s safe to say that neither of them grows on anything that’s likely to go jogging?’
‘Yup.’
‘So, Spencer, what was Mark really trying to say here?’
‘Hmm?’ Spencer had been looking at the list of sponsors framed beside the cage. Aside from his own name there was a pleasingly apposite firm of bed manufacturers. ‘Well… I think he was trying to tell me to get up earlier and stop sagging round the house, both of which I’ve had a stab at. On the other hand, his first choice was an elephant, so you can make of that what you will.’
There was a heavily muffled pop from the corner and a spattering sound as Nick, hidden from the surveillance camera, juggled a half-bottle of champagne and a set of plastic glasses.
‘He did say I was to treat it like a brother.’
‘Can’t help you there,’ said Niall, ‘I’m an only son. Nick –’ he took a glass from his partner ‘– Spencer’s supposed to treat this creature like a brother. Any tips?’
‘Er –’ Nick topped up Spencer’s glass before handing it over ‘– it depends whether he’s older or younger than you. Older, offer to play in goal in the back garden. Younger –’ he checked to see that his daughter was still asleep ‘– tell him on Christmas Eve that Santa just died in a horrific sleigh accident.’
Niall’s jaw dropped. ‘You didn’t.’
‘Right, thanks,’ said Spencer. ‘Fran? Suggestions?’
‘Burn his cage down,’ she said firmly. ‘He’ll thank you for it in the end.’
‘Well, I’ll er… think about it.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Mark’s list, anyway.’
‘Done, dusted, and eaten by Bill with just a soupçon of anti-fungal powder,’ added Niall.
‘Mark’s list.’ They drank, a little solemnly.
‘You don’t think,’ said Spencer, after a moment, ‘that Nina would like a spider for her birthday?’