evening
4.30 Start to prepare for the party. Jump in the Jacuzzi. Exfoliate every inch of my body, even my ears.
6.00 The X-pelair blows a fuse and the wallpaper is peeling off the walls. Try on new clothes. Black cocktail dress doesn’t show enough cleavage. Yellow dress too long. How adorable: Rowdy is watching. (If only Edward would show such interest). The silver harem pant-suit is very garish. Rowdy asleep.
7.00 For the third time round I add finishing touches to my makeup. I hear Edward arrive home, ‘Let’s go!’ he calls up. My heart lurches. BUT I’M NOT READY!
7.10 This silver pant suit makes me look like a 70s Jewish mama. As I rip off the trousers, I trip and fall forward, my hand sweeping my makeup onto the floor. Edward hears the crash + shouts up: ‘What’s happening?’ ‘Coming,’ I trill happily. If he hears my panic, he will go mental. Struggle into the cocktail dress + snip the front. I have cleavage. Now for the earrings. I grab a pearl cluster + remove the butterfly clip, which promptly dives into the sink and disappears down the plug hole.
7.15 Edward yells that he’s going to wait in the car. He threatens me, says I’ve got two minutes, or he’ll go without me. I stare in mirror, see myself through Payat’s eyes. Six layers of lipstick make my lips look like collagen implants; too much mascara makes my lashes rigid and spiky, and my cheeks are vivid pink. I look like an inflatable sex doll. Feverishly, I wipe away excess mascara and end up with one panda eye and one bald eye. Both have the same expression: stricken. My eyes are bloodshot from the cleansing cream. Scrabble on all fours searching for the Eye Drops among my makeup.
7.25 Edward blasts the car horn. I angle my head to squeeze the Eye Drops into my eyes. He blasts the horn. Once. Twice. Then one long angry blast. I’ve run out of time. I feel a sob in my throat.
7.27 Hurl my makeup into my bag. I’ll just have to get ready when I get to the party. Stumble from a bombsite of clothes, my nerves stripped raw. Jump into car as Edward wails: ‘Christ, Ruby, how much perfume have you put on?’ Mentally, I tell him to ‘piss off.’
7.45 Get money from cash machine at Bank of America. Go to liquor store + they load up the trunk. We arrive at Donna’s and Edward swings a box of beers towards me. I refuse to carry it. (I’ve spent all day trying to appear glamorous + do not wish Payat to see me stagger in knock-kneed clutching a pile of six-packs.)
7.55 Donna’s house has an illuminated Mary Mother and Baby Jesus. She smiles at me like she really means it + organises 2 men to go back and help Edward. Thankfully, Payat has not yet arrived, so I dash up to bathroom and re-do makeup.
8.30 Payat still not arrived. I need to relax, so I knock back 2 margaritas. The place is feminine and twee with pink rosebuds sewn on to beige-coloured cushions. Donna’s dress is colour-coded with the furnishings. From the CD player comes the sound of Tammy Wynette singing, Stand by your Man.
8.32. Watch Edward and Donna fit beer bottles into a tub of ice. They suit each other: her doll-like fragility makes him seem positively rugged.
8.35. Payat arrives. By the way he looks me over I know he’s impressed. I tingle deliciously + ask him about his tribe. I hear words like: harmony, love, fertility. I am v. disappointed when my ball-and-chain (Edward) joins us. Two-faced he’s being nice to me. Two-faced I’m being nice to him.
8.50 Donna is telling Rita and Taylor about her visit to the Retired Soldiers’ Home earlier that evening. ‘Oh, Donna, how do you do it all?’ Rita cries. ‘Visiting old folk + making all this food? I’m surprised you had time to put on your makeup!’ Donna admits she’s not wearing any. Suddenly all my layers of foundation cream, blusher + eye-shadow feel 3 inches thick. Against Donna’s fresh-faced simplicity, I feel like a jaded bar-maid from Clacton-on-Sea. Donna looks as if she’s taken 2 seconds to get ready; I look as if I’ve taken 2 days (well, I would’ve done if there hadn’t been a time constraint). Donna explains how she covered every little button of her dress with matching fabric. I stifle a yawn and walk off.
9.20. Edward catches up with me in the kitchen: ‘That’s rude walking off like that.’ I slug back a margarita + say: ‘I was getting sick of all that Donna-appreciation-society-bullshit.’ Edward stares at me as if I’ve sprouted fangs. I’m as shocked as he is. I never swear and I’ve certainly never said “bullshit” before in my life. He demands to know why I didn’t help carry the beers. ‘Cos I’m wearing stilettos,’ I say. He gazes at them: ‘But you don’t wear those things.’ He frowns at me like he’s an entomologist discovering a new, but potentially lethal, species of insect. ‘What’s happening to you?’ he whispers. I reach for aother margarita. ‘Payat thinks I’m the creative type so I’m being the creative type.’ Edward sneers. ‘By the way: Busy Beavers love Weavers? In America, beaver means a woman’s fanny.’ He sees my horror and hammers it home. ‘Crotch, pudenda.’ We don’t speak again.
10.30 Edward + Donna turn steaks on the barbecue. I’m with Payat striking up the sultry poses of a Hollywood sex kitten. (Me, not him).
12.30 The room is spinning. Try to keep Payat in focus. ‘Coo Uh gitta nutha maagreeta pliz,’ I ask. I’m trying to say ‘Could I get another margarita, please,’ and vaguely realise that it’s not coming out quite right.
*
Today, Ruby was going to put her plan into action. She phoned The Kansas City Star and spoke to the editor, Mark Wiebe.
‘I am Ruby Mortimer-Smyth, the English poet,’ she began grandly. ‘And I am considering writing an epic poem about Kansas to mark the Millennium.’
‘How many words?’ Mark Wiebe enquired.
She had no idea. ‘It’s an epic.’
‘So what are we talking about? A full page?’
A FULL page?! ‘Yes, that sounds about right.’
‘Great. We’re doing a Millennium special, so it would work. But I’ll need it finished on my desk no later than the fourteenth. My first priority is advertising revenue, but as things stand, I figure your poem could go on page two.’
This was getting better and better. ‘Good,’ she said evenly.
‘Remember, though, it’ll either be shunted to the back page, or scrapped, if something big happens New Year’s.’
Scrapped?
‘What do you mean; something big?’ she questioned. ‘Like the Millennium Bug?’
‘If that bug hits, we won’t be able to switch on the coffee machine, let alone go to print.’
‘So, let’s say the bug doesn’t hit, what would you say is big news?’
‘I guess … a bank robbery.’
‘But, surely, criminals would be too busy celebrating the New Year to rob a bank?’
‘Look, I’d like to chat, ma’am, but I’m pushed for time. What about payment? How does ninety dollars sound?’
‘Wonderful.’
After the call, she clapped her hands in glee. She was now officially a professional poet! And Ernest Hemingway had written for The Kansas Star, too! Now for the practicalities. Her poem would have to fill one page. How big was that? She found a copy of the newspaper on the coffee table and surveyed it.
It suddenly seemed gigantic.
She counted down the lines: eight hundred.
She multiplied that by ten. That makes … eight thousand words.
She had fourteen days to turn eight thousand words into an epic saga about something she hadn’t the faintest idea about.
*
I galloped lonely as a cloud,
Over prairie, hills, and paddock
when all at once I saw a herd, a crowd,
a host of munching bison
beside the lake, beneath the trees
stomping and snorting in the breeze.
Was that plagiarism? She crumpled up her poem and tossed it in the bin. She was sitting in the back bedroom with a pile of blank paper.
She began to write: Faster than britches, faster than witches, over houses, hedges and-
No, she had to be original! She put the poetry books back on the shelf; they were only constricting her cr
eativity. She would start with something easier. The title.
KANSAS, OH, KANSAS!
OH, KANSAS!
KANSAS!
She looked at the blank paper ready and waiting to be covered in her neat handwriting; she looked at the page size of The Kansas City Star; then she went to make a coffee.
She just hoped that after all the effort she would have to put into this project some idiot wouldn’t take it into his head to rob a bank on New Year’s Eve.
*
An hour later, Claire telephoned. For once in her life, Ruby was glad to hear her stepsister’s voice; glad to have a respite from the bubbling stew of cowboy words that refused to rhyme. She was about to describe her new hairstyle but changed her mind; Claire disapproved of bleached blondes. Instead, she revealed her new status as a published poet.
‘I’ve been commissioned by The Kansas City Star to write an epic poem on Kansas to mark the Millennium.’
‘Really?’ Clair was astonished. Immediately, she feigned nonchalance. ‘As I told you, the American on the ground floor has been commissioned to do a painting that will be hung in the European Parliament Building - a painting that will be seen by thousands.’
Always one-upmanship! Ruby thought irritably. If Claire couldn’t “up” me, she would find someone else who could. ‘My poem will be seen by thousands, too,’ Ruby stated.
‘What? A twee little jingle tucked in between adverts for cow fodder and fertiliser?’
‘It will have the whole page to itself. Eight thousand words. I’ll send you a copy.’
‘Do you honestly believe you have the intellect to be a poet?’
‘I do not have a PhD, but I have a heart … and I have a soul.’
‘God, you already sound like a poet.’ Claire continued sweetly, her tone masking her jealousy. ‘Surely, a newspaper demands a certain degree of savoir-faire?’
‘What about your Ground-Floor American?’ Ruby retorted. ‘He’s doing a painting of Europe, yet he’s put the Kremlin in a field in Holland. How savoir-faire is that?’
‘He doesn’t expect to be taken literally.’
‘So what’s he saying? Boris Yeltsin lives in a tulip field of the mind?’
‘Some people may see it like that, others may not.’
‘You know how I see it? Your Ground-Floor American doesn’t know his geography.’
‘Ruby, you don’t know the workings of a true artist.’
Claire was defending him! ‘Why are you defending him? You told me he was aesthetically handicapped!’
‘I have revised my opinions. One’s appreciation of art must be fluid.’
‘So it’s not because you’ll be the one cutting the red ribbon at the unveiling?’
‘Why are you being so aggressive, Ruby? It doesn’t suit you.’
Yes, Ruby was being aggressive because, for the first time, she was on the way to defeating her step-sister. ‘Your Ground-Floor American? What’s his name?’
A sigh of boredom. Ruby pushed on. ‘You don’t know, do you?’ She laughed. ‘You know the dates and biography of every artist from the Italian Renaissance to Post Impressionism but you don’t know the name of the artist living under your feet.’
‘It’s Bob … something-or-other. I don’t know. He’s abstract, completely out of my field of expertise. In fact, I’m getting rather bored talking about him.’
‘You started it.’
‘I have to go, Ruby. And good luck with writing an eight-thousand-word saga – because you’re going to bloody well need it.’
Ruby grinned. Ding! Ding! I won that round
*
KANSAS, MY KANSAS!
I have seen the dawn come up and seen the dawn go down.
I’ve seen the prairie come to life, so many miles from town.
I’ve heard coyotes howl at night and seen the snake a-slither
And wondered at the fireflies as they dance here and thither!
That’s it; that’s the first verse of my epic poem.
Chapter Twenty One
Mission Hills Police Precinct, Kansas City
12.50 am. Jan, 1, 2000
The Police Chief sat alone in his office. He’d interviewed Payat, who’d said that he’d been aiming on taking Ruby to New Mexico that night. Payat also said that the husband, Edward, had split up with Ruby. That explains the husband’s cute lady-friend, the Police Chief thought. He stared at the MVA photo. What if Ruby had been part of the robbery with Prudhomme? Clever. An English hostage would not arouse suspicion, only sympathy. So, what if Ruby had taken the money? Where would she have gone?
One, she was on her way to the airport to take a flight to France.
Two, she was sitting in some cosy diner waiting for lover boy, Payat, to pick her up. Very clever - because once she was on the Reservation the police couldn’t touch her.
Sergeant Waltz entered. ‘Sir, that pile of survivalist gear we found on the floor of the bank? It belongs to Ruby.’ He handed over a sheet of paper. ‘This was found with it.’
It was a map. IDABEL’S CABIN was written along the top. This was like looking at the roots of a tree; the interstate turning off to a divided highway to a principal highway, to a road, to a smaller road and finally tailing off to a dirt track.
“X” marks the spot. In the middle of fucking nowhere.
Along the bottom of the page was a note: For when the shooting starts!
He thrust the map at Waltz. ‘Get on to Missouri. Tell them to put out an APB. Apprehend with extreme caution. And ask Molly and the stepsister to come back in.’
As the door closed, the Chief swivelled round in his chair, hooked down the plastic tab of the window blind and stared out. Above the lights of the yard, the falling snow cut across the blackness like white slashes. Where was she heading?
Paris?
New Mexico?
Or a cabin in the Ozarks?
Six weeks earlier …
Chapter Twenty Two
Today, Edward was flying to Orlando for an eight-day veterinary conference. Since Donna’s Kriskringle party, he had barely spoken to Ruby.
Now, she and Rowdy stood on the front lawn watching the cab driver stow Edward’s suitcase into the trunk of the cab. ‘Don’t forget this,’ Ruby said, holding up Edward’s folder containing his speech. She read the title aloud: ‘“Efficacy Trials on Canine Gingival/Periodontal Disease”.’ She gave him a concerned look. ‘I do hope, for your sake, Edward, that you have a ballerina in the audience wearing a tutu.’
He frowned in bewilderment.
She explained: ‘Then, at least, you’ll have someone sitting on the edge of their seat.’
Edward didn’t laugh but the cab driver did.
She waved until Edward had disappeared from view. With a thrill she felt a wonderful sense of freedom opening out before her.
She had unsupervised playtime!
She was a free-range chick!
This was how she had felt when her father left the house to go to work. She’d never felt comfortable with him. His presence in a room suffocated the joy from it. He always had a pipe in his hand but spent more time cleaning it than smoking it.
She blocked out his image; something she had been doing for as long as she could remember.
Quickly, she telephoned Molly and the gang to invite them over. The house was a mess but, thankfully, her visitors were not the sort to trail a finger along a shelf hunting for dust. The telephone rang as she was loading beers in the fridge. The voice was pure Home Counties with a soupçon of sergeant-major.
‘Ruby, I would like to speak to Edward.’
Seemed Edward’s mother was working up to an E-minus in Social Skills. ‘Oh, hello, Charlotte!’ Ruby spoke with exaggerated charm, irritated that her mother-in-law still refused to show even a modicum of politeness. ‘So nice to hear from you. How have you been? Well, I trust-’
‘Yes-yes. Is Edward there?’
‘He’s away for a week but I’ll ask him to phone you.’
&nbs
p; ‘You do that. How is his diet?’
‘His d-i-e-t?’ Ruby paused as if considering this deeply. ‘In the morning his secretary feeds him chocolate cake, that’s before he has a couple of hot dogs, three beers and a donut. Then for lunch, he has-’
‘Is this a joke?’
‘Nope.’
‘And this is what he eats?’
‘I wouldn’t say … eats. I would describe it more as a … feeding frenzy.’
‘I don’t find this at all funny, Ruby.’
‘I’m not being funny. I’m serious. I just want to give you the full picture so you’ll know what to expect when he’s eventually winched off the plane at Heathrow.’
‘This is outrageous!’
‘Can’t talk, Charlie. Got workmen in widening the doors.’
*
Oh! Give to me the open wonder, long and large and free
The mysteries of the Shawnee gods, reveal them all to me
Show me what the Indians eat, show me their beads and arrows.
How they fly towards their targets like laser-guided sparrows.
Name me, name me, like they name their kiddies and their wives;
Dancing Bear and Howling Dog and Man Who Good with Knives
Garland me with buffalo teeth and dress me up in feathers
Put me bareback on a horse and dress me up in leathers!
Excellent.
Ruby went out to collect the mail, and found an envelope with copper-plate handwriting and post-marked Wiltshire. Who did she know in Wiltshire?
Aunt Abigail.
Ruby found two photos inside. The first one showed her as a grinning toddler standing between her parents. And both her parents looked so happy! The second photo was an ultra-sound scan. “It’s a boy!” was written along the top. Who was the baby in the ultra-sound scan? There was no note of explanation. What was her Aunt Abigail trying to tell her?
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