by Neil Gaiman
“Apparently not.” He shook his head. Then he looked at her. She stuck out a small, extremely pink tongue at him.
“What’s your name?”
“You mean you’ve forgotten? I remember your name. You’re Fat Charlie.”
“Charles,” he said. “Just Charles is fine.”
“I’m Daisy,” she said, and stuck out her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
They shook hands solemnly.
“I feel a bit better,” said Fat Charlie.
“Like I said,” she said. “Kill or cure.”
SPIDER WAS HAVING A GREAT DAY AT THE OFFICE. HE ALMOST never worked in offices. He almost never worked. Everything was new, everything was marvelous and strange, from the tiny lift that lurched him up to the fifth floor, to the warrenlike offices of the Grahame Coats Agency. He stared, fascinated, at the glass case in the lobby filled with dusty awards. He wandered through the offices, and when anyone asked him who he was, he would say “I’m Fat Charlie Nancy,” and he’d say it in his god-voice, which would make whatever he said practically true.
He found the tea-room, and made himself several cups of tea. Then he carried them back to Fat Charlie’s desk, and arranged them around it in an artistic fashion. He started to play with the computer network. It asked him for a password. “I’m Fat Charlie Nancy,” he told the computer, but there were still places it didn’t want him to go, so he said “I’m Grahame Coats,” and it opened to him like a flower.
He looked at things on the computer until he got bored.
He dealt with the contents of Fat Charlie’s in basket. He dealt with Fat Charlie’s pending basket.
It occurred to him that Fat Charlie would be waking up around now, so he called him at home, in order to reassure him; he just felt that he was making a little headway when Grahame Coats put his head around the door, ran his fingers across his stoatlike lips, and beckoned.
“Gotta go,” Spider said to his brother. “The big boss needs to talk to me.” He put down the phone.
“Making private phone calls on company time, Nancy,” stated Grahame Coats.
“Abso-friggin‘-lutely,” agreed Spider.
“And was that myself you were referring to as ‘the big boss’?” asked Grahame Coats. They walked to the end of the hallway and into his office.
“You’re the biggest,” said Spider. “And the bossest.”
Grahame Coats looked puzzled; he suspected he was being made fun of, but he was not certain, and this disturbed him.
“Well, sit ye down, sit ye down,” he said.
Spider sat him down.
It was Grahame Coats’s custom to keep the turnover of staff at the Grahame Coats Agency fairly constant. Some people came and went. Others came and remained until just before their jobs would begin to carry some kind of employment protection. Fat Charlie had been there longer than anyone: one year and eleven months. One month to go before redundancy payments or industrial tribunals could become a part of his life.
There was a speech that Grahame Coats gave, before he fired someone. He was very proud of his speech.
“Into each life,” he began, “a little rain must fall. There’s no cloud without a silver lining.”
“It’s an ill wind,” offered Spider, “that blows no one good.”
“Ah. Yes. Yes indeed. Well. As we pass through this vale of tears, we must pause to reflect that—”
“The first cut,” said Spider, “is the deepest.”
“What? Oh.” Grahame Coats scrabbled to remember what came next. “Happiness,” he pronounced, “is like a butterfly.”
“Or a bluebird,” agreed Spider.
“Quite. If I may finish?”
“Of course. Be my guest,” said Spider, cheerfully.
“And the happiness of every soul at the Grahame Coats Agency is as important to me as my own.”
“I cannot tell you,” said Spider, “how happy that makes me.”
“Yes,” said Grahame Coats.
“Well, I better get back to work,” said Spider. “It’s been a blast, though. Next time you want to share some more, just call me. You know where I am.”
“Happiness,” said Grahame Coats. His voice was taking on a faintly strangulated quality. “And what I wonder, Nancy, Charles, is this—are you happy here? And do you not agree that you might be rather happier elsewhere?”
“That’s not what I wonder,” said Spider. “You want to know what I wonder?”
Grahame Coats said nothing. It had never gone like this before. Normally, at this point, their faces fell, and they went into shock. Sometimes they cried. Grahame Coats had never minded when they cried.
“What I wonder,” said Spider, “is what the accounts in the Cayman Islands are for. You know, because it almost sort of looks like money that should go to our client accounts sometimes just goes into the Cayman Island accounts instead. And it seems a funny sort of way to organize the finances, for the money coming in to rest in those accounts. I’ve never seen anything like it before. I was hoping you could explain it to me.”
Grahame Coats had gone off-white—one of those colors that turn up in paint catalogs with names like “parchment” or “magnolia.” He said, “How did you get access to those accounts?”
“Computers,” said Spider. “Do they drive you as nuts as they drive me? What can you do?”
Grahame Coats thought for several long moments. He had always liked to imagine that his financial affairs were so deeply tangled that, even if the Fraud Squad were ever able to conclude that financial crimes had been committed, they would find it extremely difficult to explain to a jury exactly what kind of crimes they were.
“There’s nothing illegal about having offshore accounts,” he said, as carelessly as possible.
“Illegal?” said Spider. “I should hope not. I mean, if I saw anything illegal, I should have to report it to the appropriate authorities.”
Grahame Coats picked up a pen from his desk, then he put it down again. “Ah,” he said. “Well, delightful though it is to chat, converse, spend time, and otherwise hobnob with you, Charles, I suspect that both of us have work we should be getting on with. Time and tide, after all, wait for no man. Procrastination is the thief of time.”
“Life is a rock,” suggested Spider, “but the radio rolled me.”
“Whatever.”
FAT CHARLIE WAS STARTING TO FEEL HUMAN AGAIN. HE WAS NO longer in pain; slow, intimate waves of nausea were no longer sweeping over him. While he was not yet convinced that the world was a fine and joyous place, he was no longer in the ninth circle of hangover hell, and this was a good thing.
Daisy had taken over the bathroom. He had listened to the taps running, and then to some contented splashes.
He knocked on the bathroom door.
“I’m in here,” said Daisy. “I’m in the bath.”
“I know,” said Fat Charlie. “I mean, I didn’t know, but I thought you probably were.”
“Yes?” said Daisy.
“I just wondered,” he said, through the door. “I wondered why you came back here. Last night.”
“Well,” she said. “You were a bit the worse for wear. And your brother looked like he needed a hand. I’m not working this morning, so. Voilà.”
“Voilà,” said Fat Charlie. On the one hand, she felt sorry for him. And on the other, she really liked Spider. Yes. He’d only had a brother for a little over a day, and already he felt there would be no surprises left in this new family relationship. Spider was the cool one; he was the other one.
She said, “You have a lovely voice.”
“What?”
“You were singing in the taxi, when we were going home. Unforgettable. It was lovely.”
He had somehow put the karaoke incident out of his mind, placed it in the dark places one disposes of inconvenient things. Now it came back, and he wished it hadn’t.
“You were great,” she said. “Will you sing to me later?”
Fat Charlie thought despera
tely, and then was saved from thinking desperately by the doorbell.
“Someone at the door,” he said.
He went downstairs and opened the door and things got worse. Rosie’s mother gave him a look that would have curdled milk. She said nothing. She was holding a large white envelope.
“Hello,” said Fat Charlie. “Mrs. Noah. Nice to see you. Um.”
She sniffed and held the envelope in front of her. “Oh,” she said. “You’re here. So. You going to invite me in?”
That’s right, thought Fat Charlie. Your kind always have to be invited. Just say no, and she’ll have to go away. “Of course, Mrs. Noah. Please, come in.” So that’s how vampires do it. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Don’t think you can get around me like that,” she said. “Because you can’t.”
“Er. Right.”
Up the narrow stairs and into the kitchen. Rosie’s mother looked around and made a face as if to indicate that it did not meet her standards of hygiene, containing, as it did, edible foodstuffs. “Coffee? Water?” Don’t say wax fruit. “Wax fruit?” Damn.
“I understand from Rosie that your father recently passed away,” she said.
“Yes. He did.”
“When Rosie’s father passed, they did a four-page obituary in Cooks and Cookery. They said he was solely responsible for the arrival of Caribbean fusion cuisine in this country.”
“Oh,” he said.
“It’s not like he left me badly off, neither. He had life insurance, and he owned a share of two successful restaurants. I’m a very well-off woman. When I die, it will all go to Rosie.”
“When we’re married,” said Fat Charlie, “I’ll be looking after her. Don’t you worry.”
“I’m not saying you’re only after Rosie for my money,” said Rosie’s mother, in a tone of voice that made it clear that that was exactly what she did believe.
Fat Charlie’s headache started coming back. “Mrs. Noah, is there anything I can help you with?”
“I’ve been talking to Rosie, and we’ve decided that I should start helping with your wedding plans,” she said, primly. “I need a list of your people. The ones you were hoping to invite. Names, addresses, e-mail, and phone numbers. I’ve made a form for you to fill out. I thought I’d save on postage and drop it off myself, since I was going to be passing by Maxwell Gardens anyway. I was not expecting to find you home.” She handed him the large white envelope. “There will be a total of ninety people at the wedding. You will be permitted a total of eight family members and six personal friends. The personal friends and four members will comprise Table H. The rest of your group will be at Table C. Your father would have been seated with us at the head table, but seeing that he has passed over, we have allocated his seat to Rosie’s Aunt Winifred. Have you decided on your best man yet?”
Fat Charlie shook his head.
“Well, when you do, make certain he knows that there won’t be any crude stuff in his speech. I don’t want to hear anything from your best man I wouldn’t hear in a church. You understand me?”
Fat Charlie wondered what Rosie’s mother would usually hear in a church. Probably just cries of “Back! Foul beast of Hell!” followed by gasps of “Is it alive?” and a nervous inquiry as to whether anybody had remembered to bring the stakes and hammers.
“I think,” said Fat Charlie, “I have more than ten relations. I mean, there are cousins and great-aunts and things.”
“What you obviously fail to grasp,” said Rosie’s mother, “is that weddings cost money. I’ve allocated £175 a person to tables A to D—Table A is the head table—which takes care of Rosie’s closest relations and my women’s club, and £125 to tables E to G, which are, you know, more distant acquaintances, the children and so on and so forth.”
“You said my friends would be at Table H,” said Fat Charlie.
“That’s the next tier down. They won’t be getting the avocado shrimp starters or the sherry trifle.”
“When Rosie and I talked about it last, we thought we’d go for a sort of a general West Indian theme to the food.”
Rosie’s mother sniffed. “She sometimes doesn’t know her own mind, that girl. But she and I are now in full agreement.”
“Look,” said Fat Charlie, “I think maybe I ought to talk to Rosie about all this and get back to you.”
“Just fill out the forms,” said Rosie’s mother. Then she said suspiciously, “Why aren’t you at work?”
“I’m. Um. I’m not in. That is to say, I’m off this morning. Not going in today. I’m. Not.”
“I hope you told Rosie that. She was planning to see you for lunch, she told me. That was why she could not have lunch with me.”
Fat Charlie took this information in. “Right,” he said. “Well, thanks for popping over, Mrs. Noah. I’ll talk to Rosie, and—”
Daisy came into the kitchen. She wore a towel wrapped around her head, and Fat Charlie’s dressing gown, which clung to her damp body. She said “There’s orange juice, isn’t there? I know I saw some, when I was poking around before. How’s your head? Any better?” She opened the fridge door, and poured herself a tall glass of orange juice.
Rosie’s mother cleared her throat. It did not sound like a throat being cleared. It sounded like pebbles rattling down a beach.
“Hullo,” said Daisy. “I’m Daisy.”
The temperature in the kitchen began to drop. “Indeed?” said Rosie’s mother. Icicles hung from the final D.
“I wonder what they would have called oranges,” said Fat Charlie into the silence, “if they weren’t orange. I mean, if they were some previously unknown blue fruit, would they have been called blues? Would we be drinking blue juice?”
“What?” asked Rosie’s mother.
“Bless. You should hear the things that come out of your mouth,” said Daisy, cheerfully. “Right. I’m going to see if I can find my clothes. Lovely meeting you.”
She went out. Fat Charlie did not resume breathing.
“Who,” said Rosie’s mother, perfectly calmly. “Was. That.”
“My sis—cousin. My cousin,” said Fat Charlie. “I just think of her as my sister. We were very close, growing up. She just decided to crash here last night. She’s a bit of a wild child. Well. Yes. You’ll see her at the wedding.”
“I’ll put her down for Table H,” said Rosie’s mother. “She’ll be more comfortable there.” She said it in the same way most people would say things like, “Do you wish to die quickly, or shall I let Mongo have his fun first?”
“Right,” said Fat Charlie. “Well,” he said. “Lovely to see you. Well,” he said, “you must have lots of things to be getting on with. And,” he said, “I need to be getting to work.”
“I thought you had the day off.”
“Morning. I’ve got the morning off. And it’s nearly over. And I should be getting off to work now so good-bye.”
She clutched her handbag to her, and she stood up. Fat Charlie followed her out into the hall.
“Lovely seeing you,” he said.
She blinked, as a nictitating python might blink before striking. “Good-bye Daisy,” she called. “I’ll see you at the wedding.”
Daisy, now wearing panties and a bra, and in the process of pulling on a T-shirt, leaned out into the hall. “Take care,” she said, and went back into Fat Charlie’s bedroom.
Rosie’s mother said nothing else as Fat Charlie led her down the stairs. He opened the door for her, and as she went past him, he saw on her face something terrible, something that made his stomach knot more than it was knotting already: the thing that Rosie’s mother was doing with her mouth. It was pulled up at the corners in a ghastly rictus. Like a skull with lips, Rosie’s mother was smiling.
He closed the door behind her and he stood and shivered in the downstairs hall. Then, like a man going to the electric chair, he went back up the hall steps.
“Who was that?” asked Daisy, who was now almost dressed.
“My fiancée�
�s mother.”
“She’s a real bundle of joy, isn’t she?” She dressed in the same clothes she had worn the previous night.
“You going to work like that?”
“Oh, bless. No, I’ll go home and change. This isn’t how I look at work, anyway. Can you ring a taxi?”
“Where are you headed?”
“Hendon.”
He called a local taxi service. Then he sat on the floor in the hallway and contemplated various future scenarios, all of them uncontemplatable.
Someone was standing next to him. “I’ve got some B vitamins in my bag,” she said. “Or you could try sucking on a spoonful of honey. It’s never done anything for me, but my flatmate swears by it for hangovers.”
“It’s not that,” said Fat Charlie. “I told her you were my cousin. So she wouldn’t think you were my, that we, you know, a strange girl in the apartment, all that.”
“Cousin, is it? Well, not to worry. She’ll probably forget all about me, and if she doesn’t, tell her I left the country mysteriously. You’ll never see me again.”
“Really? Promise?”
“You don’t have to sound so pleased about it.”
A car horn sounded in the street outside. “That’ll be my taxi. Stand up and say good-bye.”
He stood up.
“Not to worry,” she said. She hugged him.
“I think my life is over,” he said.
“No. It’s not.”
“I’m doomed.”
“Thanks,” she said. And she leaned up, and she kissed him on the lips, longer and harder than could possibly fit within the bounds of recent introduction. Then she smiled, and walked jauntily down the stairs and let herself out.
“This,” said Fat Charlie out loud when the door closed, “probably isn’t really happening.”
He could still taste her on his lips, all orange juice and raspberries. That was a kiss. That was a serious kiss. There was an oomph behind the kiss that he had never in his whole life had before, not even from—
“Rosie,” he said.
He flipped open his phone, and speed-dialed her.
“This is Rosie’s phone,” said Rosie’s voice. “I’m busy, or I’ve lost the phone again. And you’re in voice mail. Try me at home or leave me a message.”
