by Robyn Sisman
“Forget it. The cleaners can pick it up.”
Two pairs of shoes appeared side by side under the panelled front of the desk, inches from Suze’s nose—men’s loafers with tacky gold buckles, and patent leather high heels that narrowed sharply to Cruella De Vil toes.
“This is one of the ideas we’ve ostensibly been working up for Friday,” Sheri was saying. “Naturally, I never intended for us to actually present it. But if Plan B comes into operation, all we have to do is this”—another rustle—“and bingo! What do you think?”
Bernie was breathing rather heavily. “Let me take off my jacket. It’s kind of stuffy in here.” The black loafers retreated.
“Of course I hope we can keep Passion,” Sheri went on, “but this way we’re covered, however Ross Bannerman jumps.”
Bernie’s shoes reappeared somewhat closer to Sheri’s than they had been. “How did you get Quincy’s department to do this? There’s no way it could ever be a Passion ad.”
“Stop worrying, Bernie.” Sheri’s voice was as smooth as honey. “Quincy’s never even seen it. I used that designer woman from London. She’s just a babe in the wood. She knows nothing. That’s why I chose her.”
Under the desk, Suze stiffened indignantly and almost cracked her head on the underside of a drawer. As she crouched back down into a new position, she caught sight of a small chrome object gleaming faintly on the carpet. That must be what had fallen off the desk. But it wasn’t a pen. It was Bernie’s Dictaphone.
“That was smart. You know, I really think this is going to work. In a way, Rockwell has done us a favor . . .”
Rockwell! Suze didn’t know what the two of them were talking about, but whatever it was sounded distinctly fishy. Stealthily she reached out and picked up the Dictaphone. Through a small Perspex window she could see the reel running; the fall had switched it on. Suze slid the volume dial to “MAX,” and gently replaced the machine on the carpet.
“One good thing,” Bernie was saying, “if this thing with Stateside comes off, maybe I can get that asshole Fox off my back.”
“A couple of months from now, he could be begging you to buy him out.”
“You’re quite a girl, Sheri, smart as well as beautiful. You know, when I retire, it would be comforting to know the agency was in good hands.”
“Retire?” Sheri managed to sound as amazed as if he’d just announced his intention to form a rock band. “I don’t believe it! What are you—fifty-two, fifty-three?”
“I’ll be sixty-one this winter.”
“Bullshit.” Sheri stretched the word out into a long, low siren call of seduction.
Bernie rose to the bait like a greedy trout. “I’m still firing on all cylinders,” he growled, “and I mean all.”
For several moments after that no words were spoken, but the slithery sounds and panting breaths told their own story. Suze listened in dawning horror. Bernie’s shoes were now toe-to-toe with Sheri’s. An acrid tang of male sweat seeped into the air, overlying Sheri’s perfume. Right in front of Suze’s eyes, an ice-blue jacket suddenly plopped to the floor.
“Oh, baby,” groaned Bernie, “I’ve been wanting you so much.”
“Me too . . .” There was a sudden gasp. “Oh, Bernie,” whispered Sheri. “Just look at it. I don’t know if I can fit the whole of that huge, gorgeous thing inside me . . . Now, just a minute, Bernie. Wait for—uhhh!”
Sheri’s shoes were suddenly whisked from sight. Suze felt a tremendous thud above her head, and the desk began to rock and judder, its joints squeaking. It was like being trapped inside her own personal Mount Etna. She watched Bernie’s trousers concertina slowly to his ankles and turned her head away. On the other side, locks of golden hair dangled from the edge of the desk. Poor old Sheri. There now followed a series of slurping noises, interspersed with sharp gasps of breath, as if Bernie and Sheri were having a race to see who could eat the most Kentucky Fried Chicken. Pained grunts from Sheri suggested that she was getting indigestion early in the game.
“Wouldn’t this—ow!—be more—ahh!—comfortable on the couch? . . . Bernie? Sweetie? . . . I could show you some of my special tricks.”
Suze watched them stagger across the room like two drunks. Bernie clutched his trousers at knee height, his elephantine rump sagging from blue boxer shorts patterned with gold crowns. Sheri was half naked, her skirt rucked up around her waist. “Come on, big boy.” She toppled Bernie on to the sofa. “This time I’ll be on top.” And flinging out one long leg, she straddled his bulk as if mounting an exceptionally fat pony. They were off.
It was time to leave. Suze switched off the Dictaphone, removed the tape and tucked it inside her bra. She replaced the machine on the carpet, leaving the flap open. With a bit of luck, Schneider would think the tape had fallen out and been swallowed by a vacuum cleaner. Then she began to squirm her way commando-style out of her hidey-hole, past the legs of Bernie’s executive chair and around to the side of the desk. Here she was screened from the couch. The half-open door was before her, but to reach it she would have to cross perhaps eight feet of carpet in full view of the sofa and illuminated by the slanting light from the hallway. Did she dare?
The sounds from the couch were settling into an insistent rhythm. Suze had the feeling that Sheri would not prolong the pleasure beyond what was strictly necessary. It was now or never. She rose carefully on to all fours. There was a loud crack from her knee-joint.
“What was that?” asked Sheri sharply.
“Don’t stop,” Bernie yelled, “or you’re fired!”
The noises resumed. Slowly, silently, Suze crawled across the carpet to the doorway. All they had to do was turn their heads and they would see her. Any second she expected a shout of outrage.
None came. She had escaped. Rising to her feet, Suze ran down the corridor, calculating swiftly. She would have to risk the noise of the elevator, she decided: the doors to the stairs would be locked. But her timing must be perfect. Finger poised over the “DOWN” button, Suze listened with total concentration to the muffled noises from Bernie’s office. It sounded a little as if a large woodpigeon were locked up with a yappy Pekinese.
Then suddenly Sheri was shouting, “You’re the best! . . . The biggest! . . . The baddest! . . . The Berniest!”
Her words seemed to do the trick. “I’m coming,” bellowed Bernie. “This is it! Oh, God . . . Oh, God . . .”
Suze pushed the button. While the lovers panted for the final frontier, the elevator rose silently. They came together.
Chapter Twenty-four
Betsy sat on the edge of the bath in her nightgown, turning the little pink and white package around and around in her hands. Balanced on the rickety chair beside her was a tall glass of water, in case she still hadn’t drunk enough. Next to it lay her wristwatch, to check the timing. She had locked the bathroom door—not that it mattered, since Lloyd had still not come home. Everything was ready. What was she waiting for?
Taking a deep breath, she opened the package and set out the little pieces of plastic equipment. They looked way too flimsy and cheap for their momentous function. She unfolded the leaflet of instructions and started to read. The process was frighteningly simple. In less than five minutes’ time she would know the answer. Pink or white. Yes or no. Good or bad. Suddenly cold, Betsy wrapped her arms around her ribcage and rocked nervously back and forth. The truth was that she no longer knew what she wanted.
Until last Tuesday, it seemed that everything was turning out as she had hoped. Lloyd had proposed. Mother had been silenced at last—if silence was the word. After the initial babble of delirious rejoicing, in which Betsy had detected an unnerving echo of Mrs. Ben-nett praising Lizzie for capturing the disagreeable but delightfully monied Mr. Darcy, her mother had not so much withdrawn her maternal attention as shifted its focus. When was the wedding to be? She needed to know in good time so that all her friends could be there to witness Betsy’s triumph. What about the color scheme? She wanted to order her outfit. Where would Betsy and
Lloyd live? How soon was she to become a grandmother?
Into this bubbling broth of happy speculation Betsy had not dared to drop the cold, hard stone of Lloyd’s dismissal from Schneider Fox. There was no point in worrying Mother before she flew over. Besides, it was embarrassing to confess that the man she was about to marry was currently out of work. If Lloyd would only hurry up and get another job it might not be necessary to tell Mother at all. They could simply announce his new post as a triumphant promotion.
But Lloyd was not hurrying. He was not telephoning his contacts. Lloyd was doing nothing except hanging around the apartment like a saggy old birthday balloon, or disappearing for hours on end. Lots of people lost their jobs. Betsy had read about them in newspapers. Why did Lloyd have to make such a big drama out of it? Even before the Schneider Fox trouble Betsy had sensed him changing, as if some virus in the English air had infected his character, weakening the elements she loved and strengthening those she feared. How could he have enjoyed those Fox children, for example? On the way back from Chawton they had totally destroyed her sense of communion with the spirit of Jane Austen by singing “Waltzing Matilda” at top volume from the back seat. And this awful apartment: Lloyd had amazed her the other day by saying it had “character.” She had even caught him listening to some Jimi Hendrix tapes he found here. Since he had lost his job, the only time she had heard him laugh was on the telephone to the Wilding woman. Telling jokes! He had said more to her in one phone conversation than he had to Betsy in days.
Then there was his unreasonable fixation about her getting a job. This had never been part of the scenario. Honing her intellect in an environment of cultured tranquillity was one thing. The thought of actually working in academia—the rigors of research, the scramble for tenure, term papers, classes, the squalid banality of real, live students—was enough to bring on one of her migraines. It wasn’t wrong to expect a man to provide a home, security and lovely furnishings. That’s what marriage meant.
Betsy felt a spasm of panic. She stood up and paced the floor in small, tight circles until she caught sight of herself in the mirror. She looked sad-eyed and strained. Next birthday she would be thirty-five. Closing her eyes, Betsy smoothed her fingers across her forehead and temples in a gentle, repetitive motion until her thoughts settled. She had invested two years of her life in this relationship. Lloyd had proposed and she had accepted. It could be her last chance. Suddenly decisive, Betsy took her sample and filled the plastic tube to the black line. Lloyd might try to persuade her that he was a poor marriage prospect, but he would never run away from his own child.
Betsy had completed the next stage of the process and was waiting for the required three minutes to pass when she heard the phone ringing. Suddenly fretful that something might have happened to Lloyd, she abandoned her vials, struggled with the door lock and hurried to pick up the receiver. “Yes?”
“Hello. Could I speak to Lloyd, please? Sorry to ring so late, but it’s frightfully important.”
She might have known. It was that Susannah person, she was sure—not that the English woman had the courtesy to give her name, or to address Betsy as if she were a real human being and not some answering service.
“Lloyd’s not home right now,” she said repressively.
“Blast!” came the exasperated reply. “Where is he? Will he be in soon?”
“May I know what your call concerns?” Betsy was not going to admit that she had no idea of Lloyd’s whereabouts. “Perhaps he can reach you when . . . when his business is concluded. If, that is, you wish to leave your name and telephone number.”
There was a ripple of laughter. “Heavens, how rude of me! This is Suze Wilding, and of course you know the number as I’m in your flat. You must be Beth.”
“Betsy.”
“Of course. Betsy. Well . . . hello at last.”
“Hello.”
There was an uncomfortable pause.
“I’m actually ringing about Schneider Fox,” persisted the voice.
Just hearing the name fired Betsy with anger. “Lloyd doesn’t want to hear from Schneider Fox again. He doesn’t need Schneider Fox. There are lots of other jobs, you know.”
“Ye-es,” came the doubtful reply. “But that’s not really the point, is it?”
“It seems pretty much of a point from where we’re sitting.”
“But surely the important thing is to clear his name. Jay thinks so too.”
Betsy marveled at her casual confidence. It sounded as if she had been living with them all for years. She assumed her frostiest tone, the one Mother used with repairmen. “You have been discussing Lloyd with Jay Veritas?”
“Yes. We’ve become quite good friends. He’s lovely, isn’t he?”
Lovely? That sardonic, cigarette-smoking homosexual with unnatural hair color? Betsy felt as if she were losing her grip on her own private universe. Here was a woman she had never even met, a total stranger, using her telephone, probably lounging on her bed, acting as if Jay was her best friend, telling Betsy what was best for her own fiancé—and all in that patronizing, polite, English voice that seemed to dismiss her as of no account. It was time to take control. “Please give me your message. I’ll make sure Lloyd gets it.”
“I can’t do that. It’s a bit complicated.”
“I’m sure I could understand if you spoke very slowly.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that I have to talk to him personally. I . . . well, I owe it to him.”
The suggestion that this woman and Lloyd had some secret business that Betsy could not share flooded her veins with venom. “Speaking of owing, I hope you’re going to appreciate the microwave I bought for you. They’re such a boon for you single women.”
“Oh, great!” the voice flashed back. “If there’s some stray cat I fancy getting rid of, I won’t have to bother with the vet. I can just cremate it myself.”
Betsy gasped. Lloyd promised that he had taken the blame for the cat incident. How could he have lied to her? She opened her mouth to deliver a crushing retort, but the English woman got there first. “I’m sorry,” she said crisply. “That was very rude. Look, this conversation is going nowhere. If you want to help Lloyd, I suggest you ask him to ring me. OK?” And she hung up.
Betsy was trembling. She glared vindictively around the living room, hating its gaudy clutter. Who did these uppity career women think they were? Suddenly she remembered what she had been doing and ran to the bathroom with an anguished cry. The test well was colored neither pink nor white, but a muddy gray-green. Betsy snatched up the instructions and read what she already knew. She had waited too long and the test was negated. The kit could not be reused. She would have to buy another.
In a rage of frustration she swept up all the containers and stuffed them violently into the box, ready to throw away the whole stupid mess. But of course she couldn’t. This was England. The English didn’t believe in wastebaskets in the bathroom—like they didn’t believe in table napkins or iced water. Betsy started kicking the bath panel and went on kicking until she burst into tears. Sobbing pitifully, she limped into the living room. She located the wastebasket through a blur of tears and dropped her trash into it, then collapsed onto horrible Susannah Wilding’s horrible couch. Never had she felt so alone and abandoned. Where was Lloyd?
The minutes passed. Betsy’s tears dried. At length she reached for the telephone and began to dial. Mother would know what to do.
Three miles away, in the heart of Covent Garden, Lloyd was standing at the bar of the Lamb and Flag. My kind of pub, he thought woozily, surveying the low dark beams, yellowed plaster and the polished brass of the beer-pump handles. The yeasty air and genial roar of conversation were pleasantly narcotic. He sipped his drink and stared about him absently, moving occasionally to peer at old prints and odd memorabilia. “I should be getting home to Betsy,” he said to himself, but the words made no impact.
He had gone out right after breakfast so that Betsy could get on w
ith her thesis. It must be aggravating for her to have him cluttering up the apartment. Today his aimless wanderings had taken him southward toward the river, into a tangle of twisting streets and high-walled alleyways that must once have formed the heart of Dickens’s London. Garlick Hill, Oystergate, Cinnamon Street, Tobacco Dock: the names conjured up a teeming, bustling world of entrepreneurial vigor, alive with color and exotic scents. Now the British Empire was long gone, the businesses were extinct, the buildings deserted. One narrow passageway brought Lloyd to a steep stone stairway, slimed with green, that led down into the pewter water. He stood for a while looking westward, with the sour smell of the Thames in his nostrils, watching cloud-shapes form and dissolve over the turrets of the Tower, where a succession of tyrants had rid themselves of dangerous rivals and unwanted wives. Gloom, decline, decay, the oppressive weight of history: the area suited Lloyd’s mood to perfection.
Afterward, he had followed the river’s sinuous loops as far as Chelsea and almost back again until, exhausted, he had stumbled into a movie theater and fallen asleep even before the advertisements had finished. When he came out he was hungry. A plate of “shepherd’s pie” had filled the cracks; several whiskies had taken away the taste. Now the day was almost over. Once again, he had managed to complete it without feeling a thing.
As he stepped back from his perusal of a framed eighteenth-century cartoon, Lloyd nudged the elbow of another drinker and made him slop beer onto the floor. The man grinned at him sheepishly. “Sorry,” he said.
Lloyd shook his head with a slow smile. He was charmed by the ingrained politeness that made the English apologize for their physical presence, as if having a foot stepped on or an eye almost gouged out by an umbrella spoke were social faux pas that deserved censure. “My fault,” he countered. “Let me buy you another.”
“I shouldn’t really.”
“Me neither, but I’m going to.”
“Right. Cheers. Half a bitter, then.”
