Femmes Fatal

by Dorothy Cannell

  Freddy was camped out at the kitchen table, a slab of cake in one hand, the Fully Female manual in the other. Staggering toward him, I cried, “Thank God you are here!”

  “What’s that?” he asked through a mouthful of cake.

  “The twins have been kidnapped!”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Freddy cocked his legs on the table, crossed them at the ankle, and lolled back in his chair.

  “I’m telling you, Mr. Bludgett the plumber—”

  “Funny-looking chap? Gammy eye?”

  “Yes!” My voice hit the ceiling.

  Freddy swallowed his last fistful of cake and laid the manual flat on his chest. “He was getting ready to leave when I walked in and I told him to cut loose. Silly sod, he stuck his ugly mug over the playpen to say bye-bye to the kiddies and had them bawling their eyes out. Soon as he was gone, I got them sorted out and down for their naps. Say, why are you looking at me like that, cousin?”

  “You idiot!” I screamed, but whether I meant him or me I had no idea. Slamming the garden door I returned to stand, arms folded, looking down at him. Oh, the temptation to grab up a pair of scissors and snip off his pony tail … in lieu of something better!

  “Sorry if I gave you a fright,” he said. He looked genuinely remorseful. “ ’Struth, Ellie, I’m one of those hapless individuals who can’t do right for doing wrong. And the really pathetic part is that I just wanted to get back in your good graces after yesterday.”

  Blast him. He could play my heart strings like a harp, and the infuriating, frustrating part was that he had meant well. While I was racing around outside like a madwoman, he was probably changing nappies. But I wasn’t to be cheated of my wrath.

  “I suppose you also meant well yesterday when you did your ghastly impersonation of Reverend Spike—a woman whose name you are not fit to utter, let alone usurp.”

  “I know it was naughty.” Freddy removed his feet from the table—scared, I suppose, that I might tip over his chair.

  “Stupid is the word.” I was beginning to feel better. “I don’t know how you thought you could get away with it. Any one of the women at Marriage Makeover might have met the real vicar. What if Mrs. Pickle had opened the door to you? What if Moll Bludgett hadn’t missed the session because she was talking to Miss Thorn? If Moll had been there, you couldn’t have fooled her.”

  “I admit it was risky.” Freddy tossed the Fully Female manual from hand to hand. “But at least I knew I could count on you, dear Ellie, not to spill the beans. Must uphold the family honour, what!”

  I removed the manual from his clutches. “My concern was for Ben and the restaurant. Your little masquerade could be very bad for business.”

  “Ellie, I didn’t think.” His eyes were brimming with contrition. And, bother it, my heart began to soften.

  “Actors aren’t like ordinary people, Ellie,” he continued. “At times I’m a soul in torment, a madman pursuing his craft in a world where rejection is the name of the game. My part in Norsemen of the Gods isn’t enough to satisfy my thespian desires and—”

  “Don’t push it, Freddy,” I said.

  Smirking, he stood up and plopped an arm around my shoulders. “You’re a good egg, Ellie. I’ll remember you and Ben when my name is up in lights.” A pause. “I don’t suppose you have time to hear my lines for Norsemen?”

  “Freddy,” I said, casting a wild glance at the clock, “I’m up to my eyebrows—”

  “Enough said,” he soothed. “I came by because I remembered I left my horns here.”

  “Did you?” I averted my eyes from the shelf above the window. “Well, I wonder where they can be?” Before I was reduced to deceiving a deceiver, the garden door banged open and there stood Mrs. Malloy. She was a sight to behold in giant pink rollers and no eyebrows.

  “Ever so sorry to barge in, Mrs. H!” Swirling her stole over her left shoulder, she paraded forward as if walking the ramp to the royal yacht.

  “Come to borrow a cup of sugar, have you, love?” Freddy bared his teeth in a smile.

  He was close. Mrs. M had decided a half hour earlier that the successful seduction of Mr. Walter Fisher hinged on her wearing the purple caftan hanging at the back of my wardrobe. A flashy piece of apparel, dear to my heart because I had worn it the evening I first met Bentley T. Haskell.

  “How about the Aladdin slippers?” I asked. “No extra charge.”

  “Well, just to please you, Mrs. H, and while I’m here, I’ll take a packet of Healthy Harvest Herbs. I started to make dinner and got in such a shake when I couldn’t remember where I’d put the bloody stuff. No need to write you an IOU, I hope. Anything I borrow, I return. Reliable Roxie, that’s me!” Mrs. Malloy surveyed my kitchen. “I don’t see your Fully Female Formula, Mrs. H, and out of sight means out of mind.” Her mouth was piously pursed. “I’d never remember to take mine regular if I didn’t keep it handy at all times.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” I said. What an afternoon! I hadn’t drunk my Formula, I hadn’t made my cake, and I was never going to get my homework done.

  “Speak to me of love, dear heart …”

  The witching hour was at hand. Moonlight silvered the windows. The walls of the matrimonial chamber were blushed with the rosy glow of candles flickering on the mantelpiece. And Tobias had been ousted from the scene after an aborted chicken heist. Garbed in a gauzy green negligee edged with seafoam lace, I paced the stretch of Persian carpet at the foot of the four-poster bed, reciting the lines with which I would captivate my husband anew. “Come to me, my chickadee, and let me soothe your weary brow with kisses moist and sweet.”

  Fortune for once had smiled upon me, rather than baring her fangs. Abbey and Tam had gone to bed like angels. On looking in on them a few moments earlier, I had found them snuggled in their cots blowing tiny, imaginary bubbles. Funny, that’s how I pictured my love for them—shining, hand-held rainbows, filled with a joy that was lighter than air. Mr. Bludgett wasn’t the bogeyman. My darlings were safe. They had always been safe. Stroking their downy hair, the colour of candlelight, I had tiptoed from the nursery.

  The other vital plus was that Ben had telephoned at a little after six to tell me he was expecting a large party of diners late in the evening and not to expect him home before midnight. Suddenly I was wallowing in spare time. I baked my chocolate cake and it emerged from the oven puffed up with importance. So far so good, but the recipe stated it should now sink down with a steamy little sigh into a sort of hot fudge mousse. Ah, perfecto! Time for the black currant sauce. The remaining culinary preparations were kiddy simple. I rinsed spinach leaves for a salad and made up a bottle of Healthy Harvest Herb Dressing according to the recipe on the back of the reseal packet. I defrosted my chicken parts and left them to marinate in honey and lime juice while I marinated in the bath, reading Chapter Four of the Fully Female Manual.

  Husbands want to be wooed, but being stubborn little boys at heart, they don’t always know what they want. It is your job—your privilege—to lead your darling gently by the hand down Lover’s Lane. Be prepared for a little resistance at first. He may think he wants to watch the late night news, he may tell you he is too tired for sex, he may do everything possible to sabotage your attempts at seduction because he’s scared. Remember, he’s about to embark on an affair with a woman he has just met. The new you. Believe me, he’ll probably feel guilty! For your “first time” the bedroom is probably the most nonthreatening environment in which to guide him to that ultimate baring of body and mind in which the soul takes wing, secure in the knowledge that the Fully Female woman would burn at the stake sooner than reveal this side of the grave, what was done—or said—in private and passion. Save your night under the stars for next time. Have dinner in the boudoir, but no TV trays on the knees, please! Cover a table à deux with your finest lace cloth and make sure your silver and crystal are as sparkling as your eyes as you wait for the man of your dreams to open that door to find you with arms outstretched.

 
; As the clock struck midnight, I heard Ben’s footsteps on the stairs. My mouth went dry. What a time to get cold feet! I couldn’t look at the table with the bright yellow fondue pot, the glass salad bowl and earthenware dishes. What was I doing, flaunting my chocolate cake at a man who but a few years ago had been a total stranger? I had never felt so cheap in my life! But as his footsteps came e’er closer, I thought: Knickers! If I’ve gone this far, I intend to get an A!

  On with the Viking horns.

  Ben stood in the doorway, staring at me as if he had never seen me before in his life. My cheeks flamed while the rest of me turned into a slab of ice. Say something, I prayed, as he sat down on the bed, his mouth—those lips which I was supposed to rain with kisses—set in a hard, straight line.

  “By Jupiter, Ellie, sometimes I think I should have become a monk.”

  “I …”

  “That way I wouldn’t have to deal with members of the general public who consider themselves gourmands. Would you believe some insufferable sod summoned me from the kitchen this evening to inform me that his prime rib tasted like it was still alive? He wanted it rare, not raw. You would have been proud of me, Ellie. I kept a grip on my temper—and my smile. I brought him the piece of leather he demanded and listened patiently to his suggestions on how the mustard glaze on the brussels sprouts could be improved.”

  “My brave darling!”

  Surely now he would notice …

  “Hell, tomorrow’s another day.” He was dragging off his shoes. “Let’s get to bed.”

  “Ben …” I went to him in a swirl of green gauze. “Open your eyes, my love. Look around, look at me!”

  “What is it, dear?”

  “I prepared a special evening for us.” The sweep of my wide sleeve indicated the table for two, the candles on the mantel, his black silk dressing gown draped invitingly over the back of the fireside chair.

  Wearily, my better half laid his head against me as I stood over him. “That’s nice, Ellie, but can’t we have it for breakfast? I really am whopped.”

  The urge came upon me to sit down beside him and cradle him in my arms the way I would have Abbey or Tam, but there was a homework grade at stake here. I couldn’t risk an F. Mrs. Malloy would never let me hear the end of it, and I had to think of Bunty. She would think I didn’t take Fully Female seriously.

  My assignment fell back on the bed, eyes closed, nostrils working like a pair of bellows. Any second now, I would be listening to a stertorous symphony in A minor. Time to take a leaf out of Voyage to Valhalla. Surely Princess Marvel would not have stood here dangling her arms and watching her spinach salad wilt? Nay! She who lopped off the heads of her enemies with a flick of the wrist would have seized the moment—seized the man. Reaching down, I took hold of Ben’s ears and lifted his head off the pillow.

  “Wakey, wakey!”

  “What’s that?” His eyes cracked open.

  “I can’t let you sleep.”

  “Ellie, please!” He moved to roll over, but sat up instead, rubbing his eyes. “I had this nightmare. You were wearing a pair of horns, getting ready to torture me. Good heavens! You are wearing horns.”

  Straightening my headgear to a more becoming angle, I said defensively, “The object of this evening’s exercise was to introduce a little lighthearted fantasy into our relationship. I was all set to wine you and dine you as a prelude—”

  The lift of a dark, inquiring eyebrow. “Is this about sex?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “For God’s sake, why didn’t you say so!” Talk about flinging caution and clothes to the four winds! Ben was off the bed, his shirt unbuttoned, before I could light the fondue candle. Five minutes later he returned from a sortie to the bathroom, resplendent in black silk and aromatic with Mr. Right aftershave. I should have been flushed with triumph, but as we took our seats at the linen-covered table, I felt curiously deflated. The man had no eyes for my chocolate cake or the marinated chicken; he sat with hands on his lap, like a good child waiting to be dismissed from table so he could run off and play.

  “I hope you don’t find me too easy.” His demure smile did not match the roguery in his brilliant blue-green eyes.

  “Heaven forbid.” I went to lengthen the fondue flame and to my horror saw the lace edging on my draped sleeve catch fire. No doubt Princess Marvel would have relished the moment. Her warrior nostrils would have quivered with ecstasy as she inhaled the life-threatening smog. Her mischievous laughter would have quickened the flame. But Ellie Haskell was not ready for the voyage to Valhalla. My mind became one big scream, but I couldn’t open my mouth to squeak Help! let alone sing “You Light Up My Life.” In hideous slow motion I saw Ben drag his eyes away from my cleavage and lunge across the table to extinguish the blaze with his hands.

  All over; both the danger and my precious dinner, which now lay in a mucky, oily ruin on the floor. The good news was that neither Ben nor I had sustained damage. The width of my sleeve had saved my wrist and Ben assured me his hands were not scorched. Perhaps it was the same as with those people who walk on live coals—the absence of fear provides some mystical shield. Even so, I removed my horns and offered to minister first aid to my hero.

  “My hands are fine, Ellie.” Stepping over the debris, he gathered me into his arms. “You scared me to death.”

  “I’ll fetch the burn cream—”

  “No need.” He traced the line of my jaw and fingered his way down my throat to part my negligee.

  “I do think I should rub some ointment on your hands.”

  “Sweetheart, there are other parts of my anatomy in more need of attention.” His breath was a tropical breeze, gusting its way down my cleavage and, to be perfectly frank, I must say I was no longer thinking in terms of getting an A. What did bother me a smidgeon was leaving our dinner on the floor, like the aftermath of some medieval banquet, but Ben—usually such a fuss-budget—seemed unconcerned.

  “Later.” He walked me to the bed.

  “Hold on a minute.” Breaking free, I hurried to the bathroom and, opening up the medicine cupboard, removed a large pink bottle from the arsenal on the glass shelf. I returned to find Ben lying facedown on the bed. “Ready or not, here I come!” Seated beside him, I drew the black silk of his dressing gown down over his shoulders, shook a dollop of cherry-pink gook onto my hand, rubbed my palms together and began the massage. The scent of an orchard in flower filled the room. Slowly, rhythmically I worked my way down his back.

  “Do I get to turn over now?”

  “ ‘Patience is a virtue,’ ” I quoted, “ ‘possess it if you can. Found seldom in a woman and never in a man.’ ”

  “Ellie.”

  “Oh, all right.” I watched him flip over on his back and then his smile faded to a look of blank horror. “What’s wrong?” I cried.

  “I feel so tacky!”

  “Darling!” I gurgled a laugh. “We’re married!”

  “I’m stuck to the sheet!” He tried to sit up but it was as though he were held down by rubber suction cups. “What the hell have you done to me? What is that stuff?” He sounded every bit as outraged as Hercules must have been after donning the lion skin smeared with lethal gook.

  “It’s body lotion.” Picking up the pink bottle, I began reading from the label. “ ‘A pleasing blend of nature’s finest wild cherry blossom and rose hip syrup for your …’ ”

  “Continue.”

  “Well … it does say here ‘for your bath,’ but I’m sure it’s really an all-purpose—”

  “Bubble bath!” He shot up with a ripping sound, which could have been the sheet or the skin being torn from his protesting body. “For crying out loud, Ellie! How could you make such a stupid mistake? Couldn’t you have looked?”

  “Before I leaped all over you? Is that what you mean?” Yanking my negligee out from under his elbow with another ferocious rip, I got up, screwed the lid back on as tight as it would go, and banged the bottle down on the dressing table. “Next yo
u will be accusing me of forcing my unwanted attentions on you.”

  “My dear, I don’t deserve this!”

  “If you had an ounce of humour!”

  “Thank God I don’t, or I’d have died laughing at those damn silly horns.” Wrapping his dressing gown around his manhood, towel-fashion, Ben stomped out of bed. “Look, sweetheart, I’m sorry, but this has been a long day.”

  “And you’re the only one who works?” Chasing after him out the door and into the bathroom, I snarled, “For you I disrupted my busy schedule, for you I bathed and primped!”

  “Thanks for making it sound such a bloody chore!” Turning on the shower, he vanished into a cloud of steam which swiftly turned to cherry-pink foam. I was heading into the hall when his voice drew me back. “Ellie?”

  An apology so soon? Wonders would never cease. I turned.

  “Yes?”

  “I forgot to ask if you heard from the vicar. I sent round a box of—”

  “Ginger biscuits.” I didn’t get to explain that I had attained this information from Mr. Spike after nearly running him down this morning.

  “Not just any ginger biscuits,” came the disembodied voice. “They were anatomically correct gingerbread men.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “To the pure all things are pure. And we can assume Reverend Spike and her spouse have the most pristine of minds.”

  Fury choked me. I knew why he had done this! Vanity of vanities, thy name is man. On hearing the vicar boast of her husband’s culinary prowess and the accompanying blue ribbons, Ben had seen in Mr. Spike a rival to be bested before he gained ascendancy in the kitchens of Chitterton Fells. But at what cost?

  The spectre of excommunication loomed large, especially if Freddy’s escapade leaked out. For the first time it occurred to me that the reason Miss Thorn had looked right through me in Doctor Melrose’s office that morning might be because she had spotted my dear cousin dressed up as the vicar and suspected me of being in collusion with him. Perhaps she had used the excuse of returning Ben’s hanky to come round this afternoon and have it out with me. Whatever her feelings for the new vicar, Miss Thorn might well have been outraged on Bunty’s behalf.