Calendar Girl

by Stella Duffy

  Things improved. After about a week we realised we could argue again without the house crumbling around us. It got back to normal.

  Whatever normal is.

  We went shopping together. Like any other happy couple touring the aisles of Sainsburys. Looking for the other gay couples – easy to spot, their hands only just touching as they steered the trolleys together. The lesbians mostly in the direction of the pulses and the grains and as far from the fresh meat as possible, the gays over to the Lean Cuisine fridge. Stereotyping I know, but I can’t help it if my local supermarket attracts the more traditional family.

  She didn’t contact John Clark. Said she’d just cut him off. It would be easier that way. She wouldn’t have to do any explaining. I thought it would probably worry him sick – but didn’t feel kindly enough towards him to mention it. Her mother called but she left the message unanswered. I said she should go over if she wanted to. That I’d be all right with it. She said she’d rather not. She wanted to spend time with me, with no interruptions. She went back to work for a couple of days and then asked if she could have some time to sort herself out, told them she was still feeling pretty shaky after the accident. She wasn’t due any time off, so they gave her two weeks “compassionate leave”. That is, without pay.

  What happens if it’s uncompassionate? Do you have to pay them?

  On the Monday of the first week we stayed inside all day. It was cold outside and grey. We watched daytime TV and ate tomato soup. We sat together on the sofa in our nighttime T-shirts. We held hands for the first time in days. That night she kissed me goodnight. Calling goodnight just like the Waltons. Just like.

  The next day we went up to the women’s pond at Hampstead. It was wonderful. That space, full to overflowing in summer was virtually empty. Just us and a couple of the old ladies – the ones who swim every day of the year. The ones who break the ice so they can go in. The ones who call it the “Ladies’ Pond”. It was one of those rare beautiful winter days – high blue sky, crisp breeze, and cold and clear so that it sorts your brain out. We had a picnic. Summer sandwiches while wrapped up in thick jumpers and blanket. I was almost tempted to swim myself, but she persuaded me that the “ladies” wouldn’t approve of me going swimming in my bra and knickers.

  My bra and her knickers. Our clothes were mixed up again.

  We spent most of the daylight out in the world and then came home as it was getting dark. I spotted his car as we turned the corner but didn’t say anything to her. We’d had too nice a day to spoil it by bringing Mr Mystery into it.

  Well, that’s what I thought then. Of course, after all that, it was me who spoilt it. Fucked it up just as completely as if we’d never got back together in the first place. Only worse. It was just a couple of weeks ago. I wish I’d never seen him.

  But we did have a lovely day.

  CHAPTER 24

  Exercising BT

  At three thirty on Tuesday morning Saz was woken by the phone. She rolled out of bed and reached for where it lay under a pile of clothes. She finally pulled out both the handpiece and a dirty sock.

  “Yeah?”

  “Saz. It’s Claire.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Look, I know it’s late but I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible.”

  “You’ve fallen in love again?”

  “Come on! Even I wouldn’t call you about something as trivial as that at three in the morning. No, I just had a call from Sandra in New York – she didn’t know how late it was here, it’s still a respectable hour there, not that she’d know the meaning of the word.”

  Saz suddenly felt wide awake. She flicked on the light.

  “Claire, don’t tell me the history of Greenwich Mean Time, just tell me the story.”

  “All right then. He’s here.”

  “Who?”

  “Your Simon James – real name Simon James McAuley.”

  “He’s where?”

  “In London.”

  “Yes! That’s his name, McAuley?”

  “Apparently. Not a lot of imagination huh? Just got rid of the last name and uses his first two. He’s a very well known businessman in New York. Reputable even. Mixes with all the right people.”

  “Yeah, I’ve served most of them champagne – lots of other very well known and equally bent businessmen in New York.”

  “Maybe, but Sandra says that as far as her department is concerned he’s as clean as the driven snow.”

  “Claire, it’s too late for druggy puns.”

  “It’s too early, I didn’t even realise it was one.”

  “Get on with it.”

  “That’s it really, she hasn’t got an ounce of dirt on him, though she did say that she met him once at some benefit or something like that and wouldn’t trust him with her Rottweiler!”

  “Yeah, well, he’s not much of a dog lover. How long has he been here?”

  “Since the weekend. He’s staying in his London flat. In Fulham. Get this – above his London business.”

  “A business?”

  “Handmade, expensive furniture. Viscount Linley kind of stuff.”

  “He makes furniture?”

  “No. The staff make the furniture. He makes money by selling it to silly rich people who think one chair’s worth several thousand quid – even without a royal name on it.”

  “He’s got a business in London?”

  “Saz, I know it’s late but there’s no need to keep repeating everything I say. She said he makes a trip over here about once every eighteen months. ‘To check up on his business’.”

  “How did you get all this?”

  “Sandra’s office. She’s very well informed. And she has a tax department connection.”

  “The old lesbian mafia huh?”

  “No. Sandra’s straight. It’s her husband.”

  “Same idea. And?”

  “Well, Mr McAuley makes money here so he has to declare it for tax over there or he’d never be able to use it would he? And that’s how they know about the business.”

  “How long has it been going?”

  “Since the mid eighties.”

  “And Calendar Girls?”

  “March 1981. Calendar Girls in New York came first, he made his money there, followed it up by expanding into business in London.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “You’re gonna love this. Miss September.”

  “God, I might have guessed – all English girls.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just something he told me. Now why would he have a furniture business here?”

  “Maybe they don’t have much money to spend on ‘furniture d’art’ in Arkansas. They’re probably not ardent royalists. I don’t know. Because he wanted to. Because it was there.”

  “No, what I mean is, if he was going to expand, why have a different type of business? Calendar Girls does very well in New York. I’m sure he could get the same thing going here.”

  “Maybe he just likes chairs?”

  “Very plausible. No. Everyone knows how prohibitive business taxes can be in Britain.”

  “Only you darling, the rest of us don’t have quite such a caring relationship with our local Small Business Officers.”

  “Claire, you’ve got a big fat job with a major law firm with offices in three central city locations – I’m surprised you even know that Enterprise Allowance exists.”

  “I didn’t, you told me about it. Anyway I’m sure he’s clever enough to get round something as minor as taxes.”

  “Of course he can, but I can’t believe it’s a real business. It’s got to have something to do with whatever September was carrying for him.”

  “Heavy trade in smuggled Chippendale legs, maybe?”

  “No. The drugs or whatever it is are coming from New York, not going there.”

  “Well in that case, perhaps the chairs are worth four thousand quid after all.”

  “What?”

  “Chippendale leg
s.”

  “Claire, it’s quarter to four in the morning. Talk sense.”

  “Hollow legs, Saz. Easily filled with a certain fine white powder.”

  “You think so? Bit obvious isn’t it?”

  “Well, you didn’t get it. I don’t know, but it sounds about as likely as all the rest of this. Gambling, disguises, drugs – are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “More or less. Anyway, it’s September I’m worried about. Look, thanks for this Claire. It’s really useful. Give me the details and I’ll get on to it in the morning.”

  Saz put the telephone down and tried to go back to sleep. After about an hour she gave up, dressed and went for a run. By the time she got back, showered and breakfasted it was six thirty and just about feasible that she could ring Helen and Judith. Judith answered the phone.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Saz, did I wake you?”

  “No, but you did disturb us.”

  “At six thirty in the morning? You are eager.”

  “Helen had something important on, she only got in half an hour ago. What can we do for you?”

  Saz told them what she knew about James and Helen got on the other phone.

  “Listen, you don’t have proof of any of this do you?”

  “No. It’s all suspicion. And hearsay. And interpretation – he says ‘pigeon’, I assume drugs. Not an altogether extravagant assumption, given the coke in his desk drawer.”

  “Right, cos if you did have proof, I’d have to go official with it.”

  “I know that, but then he’d know someone was after him.”

  “Can’t be helped. If you’re right, I expect there’s quite a few people after him. Look, the best we can do is check on the records, see if this London business is legit, what he’s got it registered as. That kind of thing. Jude can check his status with immigration.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem, but you don’t have much time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Listen Saz, we’re both good little police girls who want to be big important police ladies and unfortunately neither of us are masons. We can’t keep things quiet for long. Someone’s bound to want to know why we’re asking, and we have a – a ‘duty’ – for want of a much better word, to tell them. Your job is to find Miss September, the woman I mean, it sounds like it might be a police job to deal with Mr James.”

  “McAuley.”

  “Yeah, him. But he isn’t your problem. And you shouldn’t make him your problem either. Got it?”

  “I understand, how long can you give me?”

  “A couple of days maximum, then you’ll have to come and talk to someone and we’ll start something official. All right?”

  “Yeah, ‘spose so. You’ll let me know what you find out?”

  “Soon as. Can we get back to our other business now?”

  “Yeah, go for it. Thanks.”

  Saz put the answerphone on and went back to bed. She woke in time to speak to Helen at midday who said that Simon James McAuley had a perfect record both as a citizen and a tax payer and had flown into Heathrow on Saturday morning, declaring his intention to stay in the country for two weeks – to check on his business and to holiday.

  “He’s good at his job Saz, I’ll give him that. Mr McAuley has never had the slightest problem with our boys, his staff of four are all highly qualified, very respectable – one manager, two cabinet makers and a secretary and every one of them pays their poll tax. I mean council tax. Or whatever it’s called now. They pay it.”

  “OK big sister. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “I do have some good news for you though.”

  “What’s that? Judith told her parents?”

  “Yeah really, and the Pope just married Mother Theresa. No, something much more pertinent – Annie Cox is looking for a lodger.”

  “Police computers told you that?”

  “No, you silly tart – Capital Gay, Accommodation Offered.”

  “So?”

  “So, now you’ve got the perfect excuse to see her. Not only do you have a mutual friend, you’re also dying to move into her house.”

  “Thanks Hells. Inspector Morse has nothing on you.”

  “I should hope not. Can’t stand bloody opera.”

  Saz called Annie, mentioning both Caroline and the ad, and was promptly invited that afternoon for tea.

  “Yes thanks Annie, I will have a slice of that lovely homemade gingerbread, and the name of Maggie Simpson’s girlfriend – if you don’t mind.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Things go better with coke

  Then everything happened very quickly. It was like the Christmas rush. Suddenly it creeps up on you and you find there’s hundreds of things you’ve forgotten. You’re not quite ready. You want to ask for just two more days. But you know they’d never give them to you.

  Our first Christmas together had been amazing. Initially she’d been dead against our acknowledging it at all. No fir tree had ever decorated the hallowed halls of her mezuzah-protected abode. I told her Jesus was Jewish. She said a hanukiah would be pretty dangerous among all that straw in the stable. I explained that any teenage girl who could persuade her fiancé she’d been impregnated by the Holy Spirit could probably cope with the lack of a fire extinguisher. She still wasn’t convinced, so I explained the pagan roots of the festival and how Jesus was probably born in April anyway. Like most semi-Christians, I’m much better at explaining when Jesus was probably born, than how he came to be born at all. Besides which, how could such an influential man possibly be a Capricorn? No, he had to be April and Arian. (Though obviously not Aryan – I took pains to spell the word out loud.) Pagan festival established, we set to it with a will.

  Tree, presents, mistletoe – all to my own family’s ritual specifications. No arguments here about what order things went, who did what. Not for us the endless rounds of – “Well, we always give out the presents in the morning” … “But my mother always makes her own brandy butter!”

  A week before Christmas it was ready and we ran outside to look up at our handiwork. There in the big window of our second floor flat it blazed. Christmas tree with four different strands of electric light blinking on and off in syncopated time with the flickering candles of the hanukiah. Natural light and man-made light. Man made Light. Light made Man. The Catholic metaphor was lost on her.

  For our Christmas breakfast we ate smoked salmon and latke. We began our lunch with chicken soup and ended it with plum pudding. And ate prawn crackers while we watched Dorothy fall asleep in the poppy field. Will that girl never learn?

  This year our concession to the birthday festival was a sprig of mistletoe above the door in the hall. We didn’t want to make too much of a fuss about it, we just needed some time. To see if we could get together again. Or if we were destined to be flatmates forever. She still didn’t want to go back to work so I rang around a few places, left messages to say I was available to fill in for last minute cancellations. I waited for the phone to ring. And even dared to answer it. Lucky her mother didn’t call.

  And the work rolled in. There’s always lots of work at this time of year. People want to be cheered up. They want to forget it’s cold and dark outside.

  I know I do.

  I came home late on Monday night. This Monday, the one just gone. After a gig. It was raining. His car was parked in the same place. Pissed me off. I hadn’t seen him for a few days and I thought maybe he’d gone away. I decided I’d had enough. A couple of beers and a good night’s work, applause still ringing in my ears had fired me up. I went up to the car. To tell him to go away. Whoever he was looking for wasn’t going to be coming out of Grange House at almost two o’clock in the morning. Only he wasn’t in the car. It was empty.

  I was about to put my key in the door lock when I heard him. A man’s voice, raised, angry. And her – scared. I was trying to listen even as I was fumbling with the lock. I ran through the hall and into the kitchen. S
he was sitting at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. She looked like she’d been crying for hours. He was standing over her.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  He looked up as I reached for the knife drawer. It was him. The man from the car. Not that I was really surprised. I’d almost expected him. He smiled at me but kept his hand tight on her shoulder.

  “Come on September, introduce me to your little friend.” The bastard had an American accent, she just kept crying.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Maggie, just leave it. He was just going.”

  “What? No English hospitality? No cup of tea?”

  She stood up and shook herself free of his hand.

  “Simon, piss off. There’s a witness here now. You can’t possibly deal with both of us. Just go.”

  He stood there for a minute, like he was weighing up her words. Then he just smiled at me, turned, stroked her hair and kissed her on the forehead. She let him. She was very scared.

  “Bye – ah – Maggie was it? Been nice meeting you.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Charmed, I’m sure. Well, no doubt I’ll see you later. There’s a little unfinished business to deal with.”

  And he left. Sauntered out the door like a Sunday afternoon stroll. He stopped just by the mistletoe in the hall, looked up at it and down at me. I reached past him and ripped it off the wall. I slammed the door and double locked it after him.

  Back in the kitchen she was crying. Sobbing. And shaking. She was a real mess. I made tea, hot and sweet like on telly, wrapped her in a blanket and waited. It came out bit by bit. The place in New York. How she’d met him through a client, not long before she’d met me. It was like the John Clark thing. It appealed to her sense of mystery. She said for a long time it had only been the hostessing, but then one time when she’d really needed some money he’d asked her about taking some stuff to London for him. And she’d agreed. It was in an ornament. An ugly ornament like the ones she’d sometimes have around our place. She said it wasn’t at all safe, but that was part of it. The excitement. Her safe life with her parents, the safe mapped-out future they’d had for her – she said it was a way of subverting it – but without ever having to confront them. Sort of like being in the Resistance – only the cause was herself. And she’d been running these two other strands quite separately, except where one provided an excuse for the other. It was hard to believe. I’d swallowed the Clark story even where it was being a cover for this one. There were so many lies.