‘Really?’ she said, automatic politeness making her look at him but trying not to show interest.
‘I know. Dull.’
‘Is it?’
‘Well paid, though.’
‘That’s something.’
‘Enough to run an SLK 200.’
‘Sorry?’
‘A Mercedes-Benz. Two-seater. Vario roof. Compressor. Cruise control. Silver. Very fast.’
She was meant to be impressed.
‘Is that so?’ she said as flatly as she could.
‘Not interested in cars?’
‘No.’
More coffee.
‘Ever had a run in a Merc sports?’
‘Never.’
‘You’d enjoy it.’
She said nothing.
‘Just name the day and time.’
Imogen would have told him to get lost because of his brazen approach. Beatrice would have accepted and then dumped him, because she was up for anything and would have liked telling about it afterwards. Typically, Ursula didn’t know what to say. Half pleased that this man wanted to pick her up; half annoyed by his cheap pass. Not to mention his hair. And thought again, as when she was wolf whistled, that it was only because of the way she looked today that this was happening. It had never happened before, not here where she’d been a few times, not anywhere.
‘Got to go,’ she said, and stood up.
‘Don’t know what you’re missing,’ he said. There was a hardness in his tone now that resembled the hardness of his face.
‘Nor you,’ she heard herself say just as hard and quite unthought, which made her smile with pleasure at herself. ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ she added, and left.
Now what? Where now?
Aimlessness was not her. She disliked being without a plan. Each morning, when she woke, she spent a few minutes going over what she would do that day. It was her sisters and her mother interrupting her plans by asking her to do this or that that annoyed her more than doing things for them. If their wants had been part of her plans she’d never have minded.
But today she had set off without any plan in mind. And now she was feeling the miss of it.
Then she remembered there was something she wanted to do. Borrow from the library a new book by one of her favourite authors, Griselda Walsh.
She crossed the road and walked down the High Street to the central library. Here she was in familiar territory. She’d spent many hours doing homework and preparing for exams away from her sisters’ noise and their demands. And anyway, she liked being surrounded by books. They were comforting and stimulating. She felt more at home among them than she did anywhere else except in her own room.
As soon as she entered the library she felt better. Felt she was herself again.
She made straight for the section of ‘New Books’. A librarian she’d seen often before was there, tidying the shelves, a young man with a shaggy little beard whisping from his chin. She had always wanted to clip it off because she thought it was silly and he’d look better without it. She guessed he grew it to try and look older, but even with it he still looked like a lanky boy. He said nothing to her, didn’t even look, as she scanned the shelves, but then, he never had said anything or paid her any attention, even when he had checked out books for her, except for the usual routine questions.
When she couldn’t find what she wanted, she turned to him and said, ‘Is The Lover’s Inspection by Griselda Walsh in yet?’
The librarian looked at her—looked her over as if she were a new book cover would be more accurate—smiled—which was also a first—and said, ‘We put six copies out this morning and they’re gone already.’
‘Rats!’ she said, crestfallen. ‘You’re sure there’s none left?’
‘She’s very popular at the minute,’ he said.
‘She’s one of my favourites,’ she said.
‘There’s copies of her earlier titles,’ he said. ‘I can show you.’
‘I know where they are,’ she said. ‘And I’ve read them all.’
‘Not your first time here, then?’
‘No! What makes you think it is?’
‘Haven’t seen you before.’
She was about to protest and put him right, but held her tongue. Instead, she said tightly, ‘Never mind. Forget it.’
And was turning to leave in a huff when the librarian said, ‘Hang on a mo!’
She stopped and turned to him.
He looked round to make sure no one was in ear shot, moved close, and said hardly above a whisper, ‘There’s a copy in the office. I was keeping it to read before shelving it. I’ll let you borrow it, if you like.’
The same thing again! Ursula thought. First a wolf whistle, then a coffee pickup, now him! He doesn’t recognise me, even though he’s seen me loads of times. But now that I’m all dolled up in someone else’s flashy clothes, and with a face plastered with makeup, and hair sculptured in a style I would never have thought I’d be seen dead in, he turns on the charm and tries to bribe me with his condescension.
She felt like telling him to get stuffed. But why not let him play court in his pathetic way? she thought. Let him give me what I want. When—smiling to herself—he’s not going to get what he wants!
So she said, coyly, ‘Really? That’s so great of you!’
The librarian returned with the book concealed in a Co-op plastic bag, and handed it to her with a wink, saying, ‘Sorry about the bag. Bought a sandwich for my lunch and don’t have anything else to put the book in.’
‘No problem, thanks.’
‘When you bring it back, can you give it to me similarly disguised?’
He was such a boy, passing secrets, she rather liked him after all, and smiled, saying, ‘Sure. Of course.’
‘I’m Martin, by the way. If I’m not around, ask for me.’
‘I will. I’m Ursula.’
‘And by the way,’ he said up close again, ‘did you know she’s in town this morning?’
‘Who?’
‘Griselda Walsh.’
‘Really? Where?’
‘The Queen’s Hotel. Her publishers are holding a sales conference for their reps and main booksellers. She’s giving a talk about her next book. Her autobiography apparently. Due next year. I tried to get in, but no go for lowly librarians.’
‘What a shame! At the Queen’s?’
‘Yes. Maybe you should go. Hang about in the lobby or something. Pretend to be waiting for somebody. You might see her. Get an autograph even.’
His boyish enthusiasm imbued her with unusual confidence.
‘What a good idea!’ she said, warming to him even more. ‘Why not?’
‘Wish I could come with you, but I’m on duty at the desk till five today.’
‘I’ll go. I’ll try.’
‘Come and tell me, if you see her.’
‘I will.’
‘Great! And enjoy the book.’
‘Thanks again for letting me have it.’
‘No prob, Ursula. Be seeing you.’
Have I made a new friend? Ursula wondered as she left the library and walked to the hotel. There’s a turnup for the book! A friend with a whispy beard. Well, at least he likes books and reading, which is more than I can say about some people I could name.
IV
The hotel lobby was bustling.
As she approached, Ursula was a touch nervous, less sure of herself than when Martin had suggested she go there. What would she say if one of the hotel staff accosted her? She was not familiar with hotels and their ways.
Inside the lobby was a large notice on a kind of easel displaying the message:
RODNOCK PUBLISHERS
SALES CONFERENCE
PRINCESS DIANA HALL
Ursula considered the situation.
The clock behind the reception desk said ten fifty.
When, she wondered, was Griselda Walsh giving her talk?
Maybe if she found her way to the Princess Diana Hall there’d b
e a notice showing the programme, or someone she could ask.
It wasn’t difficult to see where the Hall was. A sign pointed the way up a staircase to the first floor. Various people were climbing the stairs, most of them carrying black linen bags with a logo on them in white and the word RODNOCK under it.
The people with the bags were coming out of the restaurant beside the lobby, no doubt from their morning break, to judge from the incense of coffee drifting out.
With a resurgence of confidence that surprised her, Ursula followed the Rodnock crowd and arrived at an open area in front of the Hall. Tables with black covers draped over them, each with the Rodnock logo and name on them, lined one wall. On the tables were sheaves of paper, piles of what looked like catalogues, and copies of books displayed on little stands. Large posters of book covers were stuck on the wall behind the tables, and equally large pictures of the faces of what Ursula assumed must be writers, because she recognized a couple of them.
The largest poster of all, and most prominently displayed, was a book cover with the title Words of My World and the name Griselda Walsh. Beside this was an equally outsized photograph, head and shoulders, of Griselda Walsh, which Ursula recognised from the covers of the many Griselda Walsh books she’d read.
Slim young women in white blouses and smart tight jeans and black leather boots were standing behind the tables, talking across the tables to Rodnock-bag-carrying men in suits, who were apparently asking questions, but more likely, to judge by their body language, flirting with the young women, who wore smiles as tight and smart as their jeans.
Ursula was about to approach one of the tables to ask about the time of Griselda Walsh’s talk, when the doors of the Hall opened and everyone started to go inside. Including the young women behind the tables.
At which Ursula’s confidence slipped again. She remained where she was, wondering what to do next.
Within a couple of minutes everyone had gone inside and the doors of the Hall were closed again. Ursula felt conspicuously isolated standing alone in that large space. Instinct drew her to the tables, where she looked for the information she wanted among the documents littered there. She searched until she discovered a page with the Rodnock name and logo on it and the title Sales Conference Programme.
She scanned down till she came to:
11.00-11.25 Children’s book editors present new books.
11.30-12.30 Griselda Walsh.
12.45-2.00 Lunch in the Prince William Restaurant.
She was considering this and wondering whether she had the nerve to hang around in the hope of seeing Griselda Walsh, when a voice behind her said, ‘Have they gone in?’
She turned, to find Griselda Walsh a few feet away, unmistakably her, though somewhat older than the photograph displayed on the wall and on the covers of her books. Or, to be honest, more than somewhat. Her bobbed hair was white and her face, though well made-up, obviously wrinkled. She was slim, dressed in a sleek linen shift in autumn colours, a pale blue silk scarf loosely wound round her neck, the long ends drifting below her waist. But the effect was spoilt by a pair of reading glasses dangling from a silver chain round her neck.
Ursula was so taken aback she couldn’t speak.
‘Have they gone in?’ Griselda Walsh repeated.
‘Oh! Yes,’ Ursula said. ‘Yes—’
‘Damn!’ said Griselda Walsh. ‘I thought I’d sit in on this session and assess the atmosphere and the audience before my session. Were you waiting for me?’
‘Yes,’ Ursula said, wondering how she knew.
‘Jock said he’d make sure one of his girls was deputed to look after me. What’s your name, dear?’
‘Ursula,’ Ursula said still in shock.
‘My goodness, Ursula, but it’s chilly down here, don’t you think? Is it like this in the hall? I hate air-conditioning, don’t you? It’s always so cold and artificial. I never think it’s real air at all, do you? You couldn’t do something for me, could you? There’s a linen jacket in my room. On the bed. I thought of wearing it and decided against at the last moment. Wrong! I never learn! Could you pop up and get it for me?’ She approached Ursula, and handed her a piece of plastic like a credit card. ‘Here’s the key to my room. Five-four-five. I really would like to attend this session and rev myself up for the fray. I’ll sit at the back so as not to disturb the current proceedings.
Could you bring the jacket to me? Very good of you, dear. You girls are always so efficient. And always so well turned out and such good-lookers. I don’t know where Jock finds you all!’
She turned, went to the Hall door, opened it with elaborate caution, and slipped inside before Ursula could find her voice again.
What else could she do but as she’d been asked?
As she waited for the lift, she couldn’t help laughing at being mistaken for one of Jock’s girls—whoever Jock was—by the famous Griselda Walsh.
But when she got into the lift and pressed the button for the fifth floor the thought suddenly hit her: My favourite author, and what does she do? Calls me dear when she’s never met me before and knows nothing about me, and treats me as Cindy just because she thinks I’m a member of somebody’s staff! What a cheek! Just because she’s a famous author. Because what is it she’s doing, Miz Famous Walsh? She’s treating me like a Cindy!
On the heels of this thought, admiration turned to bile.
I am not your dear, Ursula said to herself as the lift ascended. You do not know me. And I am not a girl on someone’s bimbo staff! I will not be Cindied by anyone, not even by you, Miz Griselda Walsh! I am Ursula Oracod I will have you know, Miz Walsh. And today is my day out, when other people do things for me not me for them.
What’s more, Miz Walsh, I hereby declare and swear I will never be anyone’s Cindy dear ever again.
And I also hereby announce, she continued to herself as the lift doors opened, that you, Miz Griselda Walsh, are no longer one of my favourite authors. You were a favourite author of Cindy Oracod. Therefore you cannot be a favourite of Ursula Oracod.
She had trouble working out how to use the plastic key. In her irritation and nervousness, she put it into the little slot above the door handle the wrong way up, panicked for a second, till, trying again, she found it had to be a certain way round and up.
The door admitted her to a large room furnished with a bed the size of which would have accommodated all five of the Oracods at one go (not that she’d like that), a sitting area in front of a window the length of the outside wall, with a two-seater sofa in blue leather, a wide armchair, and a coffee table with a glass top on which was a vase of red and white roses, and a large tray bearing the remains of what must have been Miz Walsh’s breakfast. (Not that she could have eaten much, as there were slices of toast in a rack, half a jug of orange juice, and an assortment of little bottles of jam and marmalade left untouched.) On the wall opposite the bed was a desk with files and a laptop on it, a mirror on the wall behind it, and next to the mirror a black flat-screen TV. On the wall above the bed was a picture of a seascape. A built-in wardrobe with sliding mirror doors occupied the little entrance hall, opposite which was a door standing open into a bathroom tiled in cream marble, a round hand basin with gold taps set into a mahogany stand on which were bottles and other toilet items and a considerable quantity of what Ursula assumed must be Miz Walsh’s makeup, all of this reflected in a wall-length mirror. Opposite the hand basin was a deep bath and a separate shower cubicle and against the far wall a lavatory. Thick-looking white towels were draped from rails on the wall beside the basin.
She had never seen a room so sumptuous, except in magazines of course.
The author’s linen jacket was on the bed.
Ursula picked it up and went back down to the first floor.
Ursula hesitated outside the Hall. The last thing she wanted was to be noticed and found out.
She opened the door a crack. The room was in semi-darkness. She could see over the heads of the audience a PowerPoint projec
ted onto a screen at the front and a young woman in a black business suit standing at a lectern to the side of the screen, her voice amplified through loudspeakers.
‘It is such a sweet story,’ she was saying. ‘The breakthrough for this author we’ve been waiting for. It’ll sell like hotcakes, I promise!’
At which the audience broke into applause.
Ursula spotted Miz Walsh’s white hair. She was in the back row only a few steps from the door.
Ursula took her chance while the audience was applauding to slip in, hand the linen jacket over the author’s shoulder, drop it onto her lap, and slip out again before anyone was any the wiser.
She walked to the stairs and down to the lobby as quickly as she could without attracting attention.
It was only when she was crossing the lobby towards the front entrance that she realised she was gripping the key to Miz Walsh’s room as if her fingers were paralysed round it.
She stopped on the spot, swore at herself for her stupidity and stood for a moment, indecisive, between the urge to flee and the urge to do the right thing.
While she was standing there a man in a suit, like the others now in the Hall, went past her, looking her up and down as if assessing a pile of goods in a shop, and that decided her.
She turned, walked to the lift with a new determination, rose to the fifth floor, and entered room five-four-five again.
Having acted on the impulse of the moment, now she was in the room, her nerve failed her. And suddenly she felt hungry.
She sat in the armchair and gobbled up the slices of toast and drank the remains of the orange juice as if she hadn’t eaten in days. It was comforting and made her feel better at once.
She was beginning to relax when there was a knock at the door.
She sat still while her heart raced. Surely it couldn’t be the author? She’d be giving her talk by now. And anyway, why would she knock?
The knocking again, followed this time by a man’s voice, ‘Room service.’
Ursula kept still, more from fright than intention.
Then she heard a key being inserted and the door opened.
The Kissing Game Page 2