by Isabel Wolff
And now here Luke was with the tea. He was a good ten feet away from me but I could see that his brow was beaded with sweat. And now, just like a nervous girlfriend desperate to impress, I asked Magda about the goats. It was a good move. Her face lit up. And as she began her exposition about pygmies I made a mental note to try and incorporate some caprine questions into the quiz.
‘So what qualities should one look for when choosing a pygmy goat as a pet?’ I asked her politely.
‘Well the most popular ones are the “wethers”,’ she explained. (Q. What, in goat husbandry, is a “wether”? A. No idea.) ‘These are castrated bucks. I much prefer them castrated,’ she went on, as I stole a glance at Luke, ‘because, when they stop thinkink about sex the whole time, then they seem to develop their intelligence and…I don’t know,’ she gave an elegant little shrug, ‘their…personality.’
‘Goatonality,’ said Luke affably.
‘Personality,’ she corrected him with a smile. ‘And you see, the lack of testosterone makes them more interested in socializing with people rather than their four-footed friends.’
‘Really?’ I said.
‘Oh yes. Our pygmies follow us around like dogs, don’t they, Jessica?’
Jessica nodded. ‘Especially Sweetie.’
‘They bleat when they hear our voices. They like to sit on our laps.’
‘How adorable.’
‘But we do not allow them on the sofa or beds. Do we darlink?’
‘No,’ said Jessica seriously. ‘Or the table.’
‘Well, that’s…sensible. And what do they eat?’
Magda smiled. ‘Oh, that depends. We call Heidi “Pig Me!” because she’s such a greedy little guts, don’t we Jess?’
Jessica nodded. ‘She’ll eat anything.’
‘But the others are fairly picky. But all pygmies need hay in their diet.’
‘Alfalfa hay!’ I almost shouted, suddenly remembering something Luke had once said and desperate to drop it into the conversation.
‘Alfalfa hay—yes, that’s right.’ Magda smiled at me delightedly, revealing a row of orthodontically perfect white teeth. ‘But the problem with alfalfa hay…’
‘Yes?’ I said.
‘Is that it has a very high sugar content.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Which could lead to increased weight, even obesity, and the chance of kidney stones.’ I arranged my features into a mask of anxiety. ‘And they need a lick-block of minerals and salts. That’s verrry important,’ she added.
Jessica nodded sagely.
‘Is that why Phoebe was ill recently?’ I asked solicitously.
‘Yes. It was a mineral deficiency. She had a bad fever, but she is much better now.’
‘And what do they sleep in?’ I asked. ‘I’ve often wondered.’
‘Well they have to have shelter of course. In Chiswick I have two large igloo-shaped dog kennels. They can climb on top of them and play “I’m the king of the castle.” That’s their favourite game.’
‘And they can sleep inside,’ said Jessica happily.
‘Or just have some private time during the day,’ said Magda. ‘But they like to go to bed early…’
‘With a good book?’ I suggested gaily.
Puzzlement momentarily distorted Magda’s lovely features. ‘No, Laura. Pygmy goats can’t read. What I am saying is that they are creatures of habit. They retire at dusk and get up at dawn.’
‘They don’t like getting wet,’ Jessica added.
‘No they don’t, do they, darlink. You’d think they were made of sugar!’ We all laughed. ‘But you can take them for walks on a lead, you know.’
‘Do you do that with yours?’
‘Yes, because I show them, so that’s all part of the training.’
‘Any prizes yet?’
‘Oh yes, Laura. So many.’ She then launched into a list of all the rosettes Sweetie and Yogi had won at the Surrey County Fair, and the Royal Show, and at Windsor. ‘Phoebe was expected to take gold at the South of England show,’ she added. ‘She was definitely best in her class, but I’m afraid she only got bronze.’
‘Really?’ I felt a flicker of genuine disappointment.
‘But between you and me—it was fixed.’
‘Fixed?’
She and Jessica were nodding slowly. ‘I’m afraid the world of pygmy goat showing can be quite corrupt,’ Magda went on, pursing her lovely, curved lips. ‘But my pygmies have done very well. Yogi is currently Goat of the Month on the Pygmy Goat Club website.’
‘You must be very proud of them.’
‘Oh I am. They are such delightful animals—and so intelligent.’
‘I’m not sure about that,’ Luke said. ‘Let’s face it, Magda, goats have an IQ of thirty-five.’ There was another quiz question, I realized. Q. What is the Intelligence Quotient of the average pygmy goat? A. Thirty-five.
‘No! They are verrry intelligent,’ Magda insisted. She looked at her watch. ‘My goodness I must go. I have to feed the darlinks their supper, then Steve and I are going to a party. So I must get my skis on.’
‘Skates,’ Luke corrected her benignly.
She smiled at him. ‘Yes, of course. Anyway, it’s been delightful meetink you, Laura.’ She embraced me warmly and I hoped she didn’t notice the stench emanating from my armpits. ‘Bye bye Jessica my darlink.’ She kissed her. ‘Be good for Daddy my little angel. Goodbye Luke.’
He saw her out, then came back into the drawing room, smiled, then clapped his hands.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Wasn’t that fun?’
ELEVEN
‘How bizarre…’ said Felicity a few days later when I told her about my encounter with Magda. She was feeding Olivia at one breast while expressing milk from the other. I suddenly imagined the cross section of the lactating breast with its network of milk ducts, alveoli and Montgomery’s tubercles. ‘So she shreds your clothes and is then delightful to you. How…’
‘Capricious?’ I said as the electric pump droned away like a dentist’s drill, the silicone valve lifting up and down as though the gadget was breathing.
‘I was going to say “weird”. Perhaps she’s got bipolar disorder or something. You get massive mood swings with that. The two halves of the brain aren’t on speaking terms.’
‘She was so charming,’ I said wonderingly. The bottle of milk was already two thirds full. I wondered if Fliss ate grass to have such a good supply. ‘But it was obvious that she was quite mad.’
‘Mad Magda,’ Fliss said. ‘But Luke must have been relieved that she was at least civilized to you.’
‘He was.’
‘And did she apologize for what she did to your clothes?’
‘No. On the contrary, it was as though she was generously forgiving me, graciously choosing to overlook my appalling
behaviour.’
‘How Magdanimous of her.’
‘I think being pleasant was as near as she could get to saying sorry.’
‘But why her volte-face?’ She switched off the pump, then gestured to me to put the yellow top on the filled bottle. As I took it in my hand, it felt slightly warm.
‘Luke says it’s because Magda seemed to be genuinely contrite—she realizes she’d overstepped the mark, even for her. He also thinks it’s because it’s going well with her boyfriend. They had a dodgy moment when she had a punchup with one of his key clients—but they’re back on track now, apparently.’
‘What does he see in her?’ she asked as she flopped her left breast back into her bra.
‘What Luke did, I guess.’
‘Which was?’
I imagined Luke’s hand trembling slightly as he drew her naked form for the first time. ‘She’s absolutely gorgeous.’
‘Really?’
‘She’s…beautiful. You can’t help staring at her.’
‘How annoying,’ Fliss said. I was touched by her loyalty.
‘I do, meanly, wish she was more ordinary, but unfortunately s
he looks like Catherine Deneuve.’
‘But Luke wasn’t happy with her, was he, Laura?’
‘That’s true. Her behaviour was so bizarre that he fell out of love with her.’
‘And it’s you he wants.’
‘That’s what he says. He’s told me that he wants us to be together.’
‘Good. That’s obviously his agenda now. And what about children?’ she asked as she sat Olivia up and burped her. ‘Presumably he’d like to have more?’ She wiped a dribble of regurgitated milk off her shirt with a crumpled tissue.
‘We haven’t discussed it, but I’m sure he does.’
‘That would be wonderful,’ she said as she put Olivia on my lap. Then she opened the freezer and put in the bottle of expressed milk. I could see several more already in there, lined up like skittles. ‘It’s such bliss being pregnant, Laura.’
‘I know,’ I said. She looked at me. ‘I mean—you’ve told me often enough.’ And I thought, but I’ve never told you. I’ve never told anyone but Nick that I was once pregnant.
‘It’ll be such fun if you could have one soon—Andwouldn’t-thatbeLOVELYforyoumydarlingbaby!’ she said, stroking Olivia’s nose with her index finger. ‘AlicklecousintoPLAY-wivwouldn’tatbeLOVELY?’
‘Khosaalthagazagoyagoya,’ Olivia replied.
‘It’s such a pity Hope doesn’t want the stork to visit her,’ Felicity added.
‘Yes, that is a shame,’ I said. I’d told her nothing of Hope’s problems.
‘Not that Mike seems to mind. He’s obviously not that bothered.’
‘Hmmm.’
‘Do you know where that business about the stork comes from?’ I heard her say.
‘No.’
‘It’s from a Norse legend that the souls of unborn children live in watery areas such as marshes and lakes. And since storks are known to visit such areas, they were thought to have gathered up the babies’ souls and delivered them to the parents. Isn’t that lovely?’ she sighed.
‘Yes. It is.’
As Felicity took Olivia, I wondered where my baby’s soul had lived—in a spring or a stream, or by a river. I imagined the stork scooping it up, and carrying it towards me with its big, slow wing flaps. Then suddenly turning round in mid flight.
‘I’ve never asked you this, Laura, but did Nick want children?’
I felt a wave of bitterness. ‘I’m not…sure…But in any case it’s not really worth thinking about is it?’
‘Still no news then?’ she asked. I shook my head. ‘Even with all this publicity?’
‘No. The Daily Post were asking readers to phone in if they knew where he was, so the Daily News, not to be outdone, have got two of their top investigative journalists on the case.’
‘Then they might very well find him.’
‘I don’t think they will—he’s the invisible man.’
‘And what would you do if they did?’
I looked at her. ‘God…I don’t know. That’s a scary question.’
‘Well, you might have to answer it—if they do track him down.’
‘They won’t,’ I repeated, ‘because they won’t commit resources to it for more than a few days, so if they were going to, it would have to be soon. By the way did Hugh tell you that he’d seen me at Luke’s gallery the other night?’
‘Yes. He was there with Chantal.’
‘I thought she looked…embarrassed, Fliss. She was blushing with self-consciousness when she saw me.’
‘I know you’ve never liked her much, Laura, but you shouldn’t always think the worst of her.’
‘And you shouldn’t always think the best. I’m telling you, Fliss, she looked…shifty. She’s after him.’
‘Look, I know Chantal—and it’s fine. The reason they were there together is because they’d just had another meeting about this mysterious “invention” of Hugh’s—and he’s now told me what it is.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. The patent application’s been registered, so they can talk about it.’
‘So what is it then?’
‘Well…it’s a baby thing. You know how I’m always complaining that I never have a muslin to hand when I need one?’
I gazed at her posset-spattered t-shirt. ‘Yes.’
‘And how when I do, the damn thing always slips off?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well this is what gave Hugh the idea. What he’s come up with is a burping bib—but it’s not a loose cloth, like a muslin, it’s attached. It consists of a piece of pvc-lined flannel—it goes over the front and back here, so that you’re completely protected—but it’s shaped so that it sort of goes round here and then down…here…‘ She was gesturing, awkwardly, by her left shoulder. ‘Actually, it’s easier if I demonstrate on you.’ Fliss leaned forward, touched my left shoulder, then ran her fingers down it, just brushing against my breast. ‘It tapers under the arm, here…where it either ties, or is fixed with Velcro, and there’d be a hook or something here—’ she touched my neck—‘so that it could be securely attached to the collar.’
‘You just touched my breast,’ I said.
‘Sorry.’
‘No—it’s not a complaint. I’ve just realized something.’
‘What?’
‘Well, I think that may be why I thought that Hugh was groping Chantal.’ I cast my mind back to that evening at Julie’s. ‘He and Chantal were obviously discussing the bib thing…’
‘They were—as I said, that’s why they were there. Chantal’s done all the patent work on it, which involves a very detailed technical description, so she had to know exactly how it worked, and how it fitted.’
‘And Hugh was simply explaining it to her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah.‘ I realized that I might have been totally unfair. I replayed the scene in my mind again. Then again. I had been unfair. I felt a pang of guilt. ‘So that was what he was doing.’ There was a perfectly innocent explanation! ‘But I still think they looked suspiciously happy.’
‘They were happy,’ Fliss said. ‘But only because they think the bib is a real possibility. I’d kept telling Hugh to invent something that we really need, and I think this may be it. With this there’d be no more hunting for muslins, or wiping off baby sick. The bibs would be sold in a packet of five, and the idea is that you just put one on in the morning, then replace it as needed, putting the used ones in the wash. I think it’s a good idea.’
‘It is—good old Hugh.’
‘Yes—he might even make us some cash. He and Chantal are quite excited about it—she’s putting some money in to develop it properly—although it could take a long time to come good, and we’re down to our last few grand. But, luckily,’ she went on, ‘Olivia got the Coochisoft ad—didn’toomy-cleverbaby?—so that should keep us going for another month or so—and then she’s got those two TV castings at the end of this week so I’m holding out for one of those, and that’ll be three thousand at least because of syndication rights…’
Then Fliss told me about all the auditions she was taking Olivia to, and the mums she’d met, and about how nauseatingly competitive they were etc. etc., and then she started droning on about how Olivia had already grown out of the Baby Einstein videos and had graduated to The Fimbles and was ‘obviously’ following the stories, even though it’s aimed at two to four year olds, so I was relieved when my mobile went. It was Darren Sillitoe phoning me again to see whether I’d made a decision about the interview.
‘I can understand why you’re hesitating,’ he said. ‘But I just wanted to let you know that my editor has given me an undertaking that if you do agree, not only will we make a donation to the National Missing Persons’ Helpline, we’ll actually make it our chosen charity for our Christmas Appeal this year.’
‘Really?’
‘And as we have a readership of over two million, that would bring in a lot of money—at least two hundred thousand. Possibly more.’
I thought of how supportive the charity had been t
o me when I was in the depths of despair. I thought of my case-manager, Trish, who had phoned me three times a day for those terrible first four months when I hadn’t known whether Nick was even alive.
‘Think what two hundred thousand pounds could do,’ I heard Darren say. His voice was low and soft. Almost tranquillizing.
‘Well…’ It would be selfish of me not to do it plus, yes, I did want to put the record straight. I did want to correct all the rubbish and lies. ‘All right then,’ I said. ‘I will. But only if you put it in writing that I will have copy approval.’
‘Yes, of course I’ll do that,’ he said.
The next morning I went up to Tom’s office to tell him about the Semaphore interview. He was reading the paper, and smoking a rare cigarette.
‘Tom?’ He looked up. ‘Good God!’ I exclaimed. ‘What’s happened to you?’ He looked as though he’d skied into a large rock. The entire socket of his right eye was the colour of a damson, with a glowing yellow corona. Through the swollen lids you could just see the watery blue of his iris.
‘Oh.’ He gingerly tapped his temple. ‘I had the pleasure of meeting Gina’s ex properly last night.’ He stubbed out the cigarette. ‘He’s a charming guy.’
‘So I see. What happened ?’
‘He turned up at midnight, drunk as a monkey. He was just trying to see if I was there. Gina had left the chain off and he managed to force his way in, so I politely suggested he should leave. He didn’t like it.’
‘Was there a fight?’
Tom shook his head. ‘He just launched himself at me, socked me in the eye, then left muttering that the next time he found me there he’d kill me.’
‘Did you call the police?’