Femmes Fatal

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Hold your horses.” Opening up the supply bag, she produced a toilet roll. “Here, I can spare this. I took a couple from your airing cupboard this morning when I got all teary.”

  She expected me to beg Mrs. Norman for a signature on toilet paper? Not even a pencil? A lipstick was the best she could produce. Still, beggars can’t be choosers. I was stumbling up from my seat, when the door to the inner sanctum opened and out came Mrs. Huffnagle, unquestionably the snootiest person in Chitterton Fells, one of those well-corseted women whose own hair never dares to come unpermed or stir in the wind. Amazing to find her here, cradling an armload of plastic containers and pamphlets as she stalked past without deigning to recognize any presence but her own.

  “Barracuda.”

  I dropped the toilet paper. The words fitted Mrs. Malloy’s style of commentary, but the voice … Mesmerized, I watched the woman in black slide back her head scarf and unpeel her sunglasses. “Relax, girls. If hoity-toity Huffnagel isn’t afraid to show her chassis here, why should we worry?” Raising a well-groomed eyebrow, she smoothed back her ash-blonde hair. Not a beauty exactly, but she possessed a ropy thin chic. Those sleepy eyes had a downward tilt and her mouth an amused twist. “Did either of you bring an extra toothbrush? We are planning on being here overnight, aren’t we?”

  “It looks that way,” I managed.

  “Indeed it do!” Mrs. Malloy contributed in her poshest voice. “It has been a frightful long wait. I were just saying to Mrs. H here that it don’t make a speck of difference to us. We’re nobodies. But a lady such as yourself, well, it do seem wrong, it do indeed.”

  “We guessed who you were.” I leaned forward in my chair. “The glasses didn’t fool us at all, Mrs.…?”

  “Diamond. Mrs. Norman Diamond.”

  It suited her. In removing her gloves she revealed enough rings on her fingers to light up a room. “But feel free to call me Jacqueline.”

  “And I’m Ellie Haskell.”

  “Roxie Malloy.” Snap went the catch of the supply bag. “If I may present me card—all household services provided and I do mean all. Ceilings, gutters, chimneys—you name it!”

  I bent to retrieve the toilet paper, but it got away from me and went unravelling its way across the room.

  Mrs. Diamond … Jacqueline … put out a foot to stop it going under her chair and sent it rolling back to me. “You sure came prepared.”

  Encouraged by this small jest, I babbled, “You can’t know what a privilege it is to be in the same room with you … I wish I could express … But there are no words … except to say that my children and I are your husband’s biggest, most devoted fans. We hate to miss a program.”

  “Aren’t you sweet! You see more of him than I do.”

  “Our all-time favourite segment was when he returned the broken toys to Santa’s workshop.”

  “The one where he hung suspended from Rudolph’s sleigh fifty thousand feet up? I’ll let you in on a secret.”

  “Such a thrill!” The cutie-pie was Mrs. Malloy.

  “At home, Normie is afraid to stand on a chair.”

  “Would it be imposing dreadfully to ask for your autograph? And if you would be so kind as to sign it Mrs. Norman The Doorman.” I bent down after the toilet paper, but didn’t get to pick it up. My eyes fixed on the gap in my raincoat and I became totally paralysed. My heart did a flip flop to join the lead weight in my apron pocket. How unutterably ghastly! In rushing to leave the house, petrified of being late for the appointment, I had forgotten to remove my apron. What must the impeccably groomed Mrs. Diamond think of me? And she didn’t know the half. The gun! Fool that I was, I could have blown off my knees just bending down to pick up that damned T.P. But thank God for small reprieves. Mrs. Malloy was making a great business of scooping up the toilet paper and putting it away. By the time she had produced a couple more of her cards and presented them, along with an eyeliner pencil, for the coveted signature, I had regained my composure.

  “Excuse me, I have to find a loo.” So saying, I scuttled from the room, closed the door, unbuttoned my raincoat, whipped off the apron and tried to shove it into my raincoat pocket. No go. I’d have to stash it somewhere until I was through with this cursed interview—should it ever come to pass this side of the grave. The splash of the waterfall beckoned me to the pebbled pool under the spiral staircase. Standing next to the drippy-faced nymph on her rock among the water lilies stood a terra-cotta urn. Neptune be praised! Not so fast—I looked up the well that formed the inside of the staircase and saw a dark scurry of leotards. How embarrassing if anyone should look down and see me cowering here clutching a suspicious-looking bundle! But time was awasting. And life is a game of chance.

  I had just dropped in my bundle, getting spattered in the process, and was wishing I were home doing something meaningful like scrubbing the kitchen floor when the waiting room door smacked open. There stood Mrs. Malloy, hands on her leopard hips.

  “Couldn’t find the lav?”

  Blushing a deep terra-cotta, I assured Her Mightiness I had not used the pot for the purpose she suspected.

  “Neither here nor there to me, Mrs. H, where you go. Didn’t you hear the buzzer? We’re being summoned for our interview. I did offer to let Mrs. Diamond go in ahead of us but being a proper lady she wouldn’t hear of it. That’s how you can tell real class, you know—by how they treat the little people. Cat got your tongue? You look like you’ve come over queer.”

  “I’m nervous.”

  “Piddle. You’ve got me.”

  “But Mrs. Malloy,” I said, as she took hold of my arm and marched me back into the waiting room. “I had thought it might be better if we went in separately. After all, we will both have things of a personal nature to discuss.”

  “Any secrets I had from you, Mrs. H, went out the window this morning. When I bared me soul, I hoped it went both ways. Pardonnez-moi for forgetting the difference in our stations. Seems I’m good enough to scrub your toilets but not good enough to know the ins and outs of your married life.”

  Couldn’t she have phrased it some other way?

  Realizing Mrs. Diamond was lapping up every word, Mrs. M lowered her voice a boom or two. “I’m not saying you haven’t hurt me feelings something cruel, but never let it be said I don’t know me place—in the back of the bus.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a ninny.” My hand on the doorknob of the inner sanctum, I turned to flash a smile at Mrs. Diamond, got a thumbs-up sign in return, and pushed Suffering Sarah in ahead of me. Not so fast. She backed up, treading on my feet.

  “When she asks for me married name, I’ll say Mrs. Alvin Vincent-Malloy. Me first husband was Albert and the second Vincent so it’s a bit of sentiment like.”

  “Got you,” I whispered back.

  The she who would do the asking was a bubble-haired blonde wearing a black leather mini-dress. Talk about posed for success! She was perched cross-legged on the edge of the enormous desk in a room that looked like a glass house transported there from Kew Gardens with tropical plants intact.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hapskill.” Ms. Fully Female looked up from the date book she was examining. Her big eyes sparkling, her glossy mouth stretching into a wide smile, she threw out her arms, dropping the date book in the process.

  “Ellie!”

  “Bunty!” My delight was not unmixed with horror. I had been braced for a stranger. The anonymity of the impersonal. Bunty Wiseman—ex-chorus girl and wife of Chitterton Fells’s most prominent solicitor—and I had seen quite a bit of each other for a while. Illegal activities on the part of a white gloves ladies’ club had brought us together and we’d had some chummy times. But after said excitement died down, we lost touch. Bunty was busy at the health club and I was busy being pregnant. She and husband Lionel had sent a gift when the babies were born; I’d sent a thank-you note and had really meant to have them over for dinner. But you know how it is.

  “That stupid secretary! She wrote down Ellen Hapskill and I never
dreamed it was you! For starters I know your name isn’t Ellen and …” Bunty stopped hugging and held me at arm’s length by the shoulders. “To be straight with you, ducky, you are the last person I’d have expected to be in need of my services. My clients aren’t usually married to dreamboats like Ben!”

  I stared back at her, not knowing what to say.

  Bless Mrs. Malloy; she could always be counted on to get things back on an even keel.

  “Excuse me, am I expected to stand here like a doorstop, or can we get down to business?”

  I explained that we were taking advantage of the two-for-the-price-of-one offer.

  “Right you are, ducks, let’s all get comfy.” Long-legged in heels that were even higher than Mrs. M’s, Bunty dragged forward a couple of chairs, waved us into them, and perched back on the desk. “There, loves! I’ll take it from the top. You want to know how come I founded Fully Female? Well, here goes. You know how people always talked about Lionel and me—what with him being a good twenty years older and me not being up to scratch class-wise. We used to have some good laughs about it. I’d look at those women in their pearls and tweed skirts and think, you poor dopes, you don’t know the half of how to keep your men happy. Li didn’t give a bloody hoot when I’d flub at cocktail parties. You should have heard him laugh the time I told some bigwig I didn’t care for ballet because it wasn’t in English. Li said the old fart would trade places in a minute, to slip between the sheets with me. But after a while of living here in Chitterton Fells …”

  “Spit it out,” urged Mrs. Malloy.

  Bunty picked up a pencil and twirled it between her manicured fingernails. “After a while I got to know some of those tweedy dames … and there was you, Ellie …”

  “Thanks awfully.”

  “You get what I’m saying?” A flash of her pearl-pink smile. “I began to see that under their toffee-nosed exteriors and my cockney ways we were sisters after all.”

  “Anyone got a harp?” asked Mrs. Malloy.

  Bunty went on as if there had been no interruption. “It was just that some women never let themselves be women. I’d been thinking for some time that it might be fun to go back on the stage and work summers. There’s a bloke runs the theatre on the Shipston pier who’d been after me—in more ways than one. Then my hairdresser suggested I teach aerobics and it came to me like a stroke of genius. I’d teach the works. I’d offer a program for women wanting to be Fully Female. Li saw the possibilities right off. We sold The Laurels …”

  Mrs. Malloy’s brow darkened. “Sold it out from under me without so much as a do-you-mind—after all me years of loyal service. That’s when I walked out their door, Mrs. H, for the last time.”

  “Worst day of my life,” Bunty said. “I haven’t been able to smell Johnson’s Lavender Wax since without bursting into tears.” Her wink surprisingly wiped the cross look off Mrs. M’s face.

  “Now where was I? Oh, yes … Li was all for my becoming an entrepreneur. He sent me to spas all over Europe and to the States. I studied aroma therapy, vita-nutrition, aphrodisia, you name it, and … Bob’s your uncle.”

  My eyes followed Bunty’s to a cabinet lined with clear plastic jars such as Mrs. Huffnagle had carried out earlier. “Everyone who signs up for Fully Female uses our diet supplement and herbal beauty aids prepared for us by a clinic in Switzerland. And things are going great, despite the occasional bugaboo. Can’t get good secretarial help, as you can tell, Mrs. Hapskill.” Wrinkling her cute little nose, Bunty tossed down the pencil she had been twirling, raised her arms above her head, clasped her hands palms upward and stretched. “One of the things we teach, duckies, is to always take time out to remobilize after you’ve been sitting for a while—no matter where you are, even in church.”

  “I’d like to see the vicar’s face.” Mrs. Malloy gave a heathen chuckle.

  “Bit of an old stick, is he?” Bunty arched her neck, so that her blonde curls shone golden in the full beam of electric light. “Must be why he’s being put out to pasture.”

  “Oh, but he isn’t!” I cried, aghast. “He’s a healthy young man.” Church would never be the same without Reverend Rowland Foxworth. “Where could you have heard such a thing?”

  “From Gladys Thorn, I suppose. You know, the church organist. Which brings us back to what I was saying about office help. Li even suggested I offer her a secretarial job. She’s been pitching in at his office since his secretary left. You remember Teddy Peerless? She finally tied the knot with Edwin Digby, the mystery writer. From what Li says, old Glad Bag is a whiz at the typewriter but to be frankly bitchy, she isn’t exactly front desk material. I ask you! A woman whose hobbies are bird-watching and collecting telephone directories! Everyone clucks about the mystery of her sex appeal, but if you ask me, it’s the con of the century. Even my miracle products couldn’t help—”

  Bunty was rudely interrupted by the telephone. “Won’t be a sec.” Reaching out a manicured hand, she held the receiver to her ear. “Li, darling! You’ve got it, sugar, this isn’t a good time but … oh, no, don’t change things around and come home for dinner. I’m up to my belly button in work. At this very moment I have two women in my office who are considering signing up.” She placed a hand over the receiver, eyes dancing, and mouthed, “You are going to join? Pretty please!”

  “What do you think, Mrs. Alvin Vincent-Malloy?” I asked.

  In the days of my spinsterhood I fantasized about the Halcyon Hour, that moment gentled by twilight when on the last stroke of six, the front door would open and that sweet serenade would be heard: “Darling, I’m home.” Fantasy always found me marinating in a bubble bath, one tempting knee rising from the foam, my Grecian curls spilling from a satin ribbon. Hubby would stride into the bathroom, lay a bottle of champagne in the heart-shaped basin and stand transfixed. “My God, woman, you’re lovely! Don’t move an eyelash, my sweet. Let me imprint this vision upon my soul for all eternity.”

  Ben, entering by the back door, found me in the kitchen, up to my elbows in nappy suds.

  “Don’t tell me you’re home!” Accusing eyes on the clock. “You just left.” All four walls got splattered as I wrung my hands.

  “Glad I took the evening off.” Eyes darkening, he looked for a vacant space to toss his coat, but the table was cluttered with remnants of the babies’ five o’clock feed and every chair was up to its kobs with folded clothes or bags of groceries. Tossing the coat over his shoulder, he stood, hands on his hips, looking the place up and down. Nelson on his column surveying the pigeon poop in Trafalgar Square. The man had me with my back to the sink.

  Swatting soap suds off my forehead, I said, “So, it’s a jungle in here.”

  “Babies cranky?”

  Only a coward hides behind her children. “Good as gold and already in bed.”

  “Didn’t Mrs. Malloy show?”

  “Yes, but she was feeling poorly … and had to leave early.” I was bracing myself to tell him that I had gone with her to Fully Female when he began loading the dishwasher. I knew how he hated having his concentration broken during said procedure. Heaven forbid that a cereal bowl might end up in the wrong slot.

  “Ellie, don’t think I’m criticizing—”

  “Perish the thought!”

  “—But you might try making lists.”

  I continued wringing nappies as if they were chicken necks. “I suppose your mother …”

  “Well, you know Mum—a perfectionist.”

  “To the death!”

  Yanking the plug out of the sink, I listened to the gurglings—so reminiscent of a person, preferably male, being choked to death. And to think I had been ready to rebuild myself from the ground up in the interests of making this marriage work. Well, no dice. Mrs. Malloy would have to be a big girl and go to her first Fully Female meeting alone. Tomorrow morning I would telephone Bunty and …

  My thoughts came to a screeching halt. I’d gone to wipe my hands on my apron and found I wasn’t wearing one. It was back at
Bunty’s house, wadded up in the clay urn by the waterfall—with Mrs. Malloy’s gun in the pocket.

  “What’s up, Ellie?”

  “Nothing.”

  Dumping the nappies in the wash basket, I looked around the kitchen. What a transformation! In five minutes flat, Ben had rendered order from chaos. Every surface was wiped clean. Foodstuffs were returned to the pantry and the ironing board banished to its cupboard. Not by a grease spot on a shirt cuff did the man betray that he was reduced to being a skivvy in his own home; in his elegant grasp the broom might have been a silver-topped cane.

  The smile Ben bestowed upon me would have once turned my heart to pâté. “Why don’t I pour us both a glass of white wine before dinner?” His eyes strayed to the cooker, standing wantonly idle.

  “Frozen dinners all right?” Crossing to the freezer, I removed a tinfoil package. “How do you like your meat thawed, dear?”

  It was a moment of such exquisite fragility that it took only a whimper filtering through the intercom from one of the babies to shatter the mood.

  “I’ll go up to them,” he said.

  “The steak tartare will be ready when you are.” My smile stuck to my face the way the frozen package stuck to my palms.

  “Forget it. We’ll pig out on cheese and crackers at the Hearthside Guild.”

  Blast! Ben was out the door before I could explain that the stupid meeting had completely slipped my mind. Surely he could understand there was no way on God’s green earth that I could be at the vicarage by seven. Even if Freddy could be cajoled into watching the twins for the second time in one day, I wasn’t up to the rigors of making myself presentable for the Reverend Rowland Foxworth. No way could I lose two stone in an hour’s time. Ben would have to go on his own, that was all there was to it. As program chairman for the Doting Dads Committee, he’d undoubtedly have such a thumping good time he’d never miss me.