‘They do,’ she said. ‘They give him computer-time. Now if you don’t shut up I’ll have to move upstairs.’
The last set of files were the ones I was after Undergraduate Moral Tutees. 1945–1948. I looked inside that one to check that the last date was the graduation date: it was. Flick, flick, flick. 1968–1971. Got it.
I pulled the file out, looked at Nick, whose whole body was quivering with concentration, and took it outside to the car. I don’t think she noticed me go.
Within the file, there were subdivisions by name, arranged alphabetically. Five names. No Webb.
Shit!
No Webb. But there was an O’Neill, Bartholomew.
Barty. Now I scratched around in my memory, I dimly recalled that he’d read Maths at Balliol. And he would have graduated in 1971; that made sense.
It was strange, holding three years of his life in my hand. Should I look?
Of course I shouldn’t. This was confidential.
Of course I did.
There wasn’t anything much. A complaint from the Proctors (who were they?) that he was involved in a drunken incident and hit a Bulldog (what was that?). The Bulldog was evidently human, because he was called Herbert Evans and he’d suffered contusions to the right cheek-bone.
Apart from that offence, for which he’d been gated for three weeks, Barty hadn’t done much. There were complaints from the Deans of four of the women’s colleges of his being found in their precincts after hours. On the iceberg principle I assumed that he’d spent most of his nights chasing tail and only been caught four times. Not bad. It was a retrospective comfort that most of the women involved probably now looked like Elspeth Driscoll.
Although at least one of them still looked like Grace Macarthy.
I shut Barty’s file on the information that he’d added a First in Schools to his amatory achievements, and thought about Webb.
It had to be Webb. It had to be. So why wasn’t he here?
I took the file back indoors. Kinross had turned over, but he was still out of it. Nick was smiling as she scribbled, and she didn’t notice me come in.
Back to the heaps of files. Webb must have been reclassified. Why?
If he went on to graduate work, perhaps. He’d ended up a lecturer at London University so he must have done a doctorate.
Graduate Superviseés was another classification. These were much slimmer and had open-ended dates, like 1950–, presumably because it took varying lengths of time to complete the work. I found 1971– and took it to the car, superstitiously not opening it before I sat down and closed the door.
Two names. Zhukov. And Webb.
Got it!
I read enough to check that the undergraduate file was included, and then headed for the nearest photocopying machine I knew of, in a Prontaprint in Summertown.
I parked illegally, dashed in and handed over the Webb file for copying.
Time was running out. I had to be back in Central London for lunch, with or without Nick.
Chapter Twenty-Four
It had to be without Nick. She wouldn’t come. I packed the files back into the tea-chest, checked that she had enough money for a day or two, copied Kinross’s number from his telephone, and left. I said goodbye to them both. Kinross was still comatose and I got no response from Nick either.
I made good enough time back to London to reach Shepherd’s Bush by quarter to twelve, so I went back to the flat to change. If I was going to Quaglino’s myself I wanted to look posh enough not to be shown the tradesmen’s entrance. I’d go for broke and borrow something of Polly’s.
On the mat just inside the front door there was an envelope. Addressed to me, in printed letters.
The Womun again. I stuffed it in my bag, unopened, between the hammer and the photocopies of Edward Webb’s file. I’d read it later. I had the nagged-at, I’ve-been-responsive-long-enough feeling that comes from dealing with an attention-seeking child.
Up the stairs; into my flat for Polly’s keys. No Peter. No messages on the answering machine, but a note propped up beside it.
11.30 a.m. Friday. Sorry, spilt coffee on the ansafone and wrecked the tape. Think you lost three messages. Hope one of them wasn’t last-minute call for six weeks’ work starting tomorrow. Have put new tape in. Back nineish tonite. Love, P.
Probably one of those messages was Grace’s. Couldn’t be helped. I checked the carpet near the machine for coffee-stains, but there were none visible.
I had to hurry. Down again to Polly’s flat below, into her bedroom and into the walk-in cupboard. I’d wear my own leggings. What I needed from her was a scoop-neck Lycra top and a drop-dead jacket.
I was spoilt for choice. And this was what Polly had left behind; she’d taken so much luggage with her that she’d had to pay overweight on the flight, even with her first-class baggage allowance. I stopped myself calculating how much money was hanging in her wardrobe. And how much interest it would earn, if it was invested, instead of just hanging here smelling faintly of Mitsouko.
In a good cause, I thought, riffling through the jackets, picking a narrow-cut, long, bright green, crumpled linen one. Polly wouldn’t mind. She’d been pushing me at Barty for years. I didn’t even feel guilty when I saw the label on the jacket I’d chosen. Armani.
I showered quickly, brushed my teeth and moussed my hair, put on a Janet Reger black lace underwired bra Polly’d given me last Christmas, and squeezed my size twelve torso into her size ten Lycra top. Must remember not to lean forward, or breathe too deeply. Pants. Leggings. Looked at myself. Leggings off. Pants off. Leggings on again. Better line.
I couldn’t wear my Docs. Pity. I feel safer rough-shod. I wasn’t going to cripple myself, though, so I compromised on a pair of patent-leather flatties Polly’d given me last birthday.
Now the jacket. Longer on me than on Polly, of course, but that helped my thighs: they’re meaty. Grace’s magic mirror might show them as voluptuous, but I knew they were meaty.
Jade earrings. Must remember not to move my head too quickly or I’d be in Casualty with a broken jaw.
I stepped back so I could see all of myself in the mirror.
It was good. It was as good as it could be.
Geronimo, then.
I clattered downstairs and checked the time. Twelve-thirty. Good. I could get over to Quaglino’s, park, and swan in a quarter of an hour after Alan and Barty arrived.
I’d have to take a bag. The jacket was designed without pockets, presumably for women who were always followed by retainers with credit cards and money and keys. Or perhaps for women who merely turned to the man beside them and murmured their thanks.
I could borrow a bag of Polly’s.
No, I’d just take my own. Drop-dead gorgeous, but casual, that was me.
I found a parking-meter straight away; not far from Quaglino’s, either. It was definitely my day. I fed the meter and got back in the car. It was only five to one. Alan would arrive dead on time, Barty seven minutes late. The seven minutes of protocol, he’d once said. I hadn’t known what he meant and I hadn’t wanted to give him the satisfaction of asking.
That was a long time ago, though, when I still thought him snobbish, because his brother was an earl. He’s actually one of the least snobbish men I know. But I could count on the seven minutes, for him. So I’d wait till they’d both arrived, then I’d go in.
I settled down to watch. Another routine surveillance. A few minutes went by. Alan should be here any time now. I checked my face in the rear-view mirror. Not bad. Liked the earrings.
Kept watching. Alan was now three minutes late. I fiddled with the Lycra top, reinserting most of what the push-up bra was pushing up, and smiling briefly as I remembered Teddy.
This was ridiculous. Good presentation was one thing, self-obsession another I needed a distraction.
Still watching the street, I fished around in my bag for the Womun’s letter, found it, and opened it.
I WILL SMASH THE GLASS CEILING
&n
bsp; THEY WILL SUFFER
THEY DID NOT ACKNOWLEDGE ME
THEN
NOW THEY MUST
AT ONE-THIRTY TODAY, FRIDAY
THEY WILL LIFT THEIR BLIND EYES
AND SEE
BUT NOT FOR LONG – UNLESS YOU STOP ME.
I half read it once, my eyes on the street.
Then I read it again, with all my attention. I remembered Peter asking about the first letter, ‘Where’s this glass ceiling, then?’ and me patronizing him: ‘It’s not a thing or a place, it’s a feminist idea.’
I’d been wrong. As Freud said, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.
And it was now ten past one. I had twenty minutes to get there, and stop her.
Get where?
And did I need to stop her?
Yes, if I could. Glass ceilings were potentially lethal. I couldn’t risk the casualty list moving up from rodents through dogs to people. Plus she obviously expected me to. Was counting on it. But why hadn’t she told me where?
Then it hit me. She probably had. One of her probably had. Grace Macbloodycarthy, so eager to know where I’d be today, who was going to ring and leave a message for me. Who almost certainly had, on the tape that Peter had wiped. And in that message, casually, she’d have given me the information I needed.
The whole thing was a set-up. Why they were doing it, I still didn’t know, or who besides Elspeth and Grace were involved. But they were drip-feeding me information, to keep me on my toes, to keep me interested. The whole thing was some kind of Oxford, Lewis Carroll joke.
That was only mildly irritating. I was being paid. But now they’d miscalculated, and it had gone wrong, and as far as I could see there wasn’t a Plan B. Unless the ceiling would only be smashed if I was there; unless they’d wait for me to get there before playing whatever prank it was.
I couldn’t count on it, though. I’d have to be Plan B, all by myself, in case people got hurt.
THEY DID NOT ACKNOWLEDGE ME THEN, the note said. It didn’t narrow it down for me. If the Womun was Elspeth, as far as I knew she was unacknowledged everywhere. Even supposing Grace wasn’t involved, she’d know how Elspeth thought, what she was likely to be referring to. But she was on her way to a literary festival in the West Country. So she’d said.
I wouldn’t hang from her word at twenty thousand feet, but she was the most quick-witted of them, and the most practical. I didn’t think she’d want casualties. I could call her place, and see if she’d left a number
Failing her, Melanie might help.
I needed a phone.
Barty might have his mobile with him. Alan certainly would.
And both of them would probably be in Quaglino’s by now. I hadn’t seen them go in, but during the last few minutes Saddam Hussein could have gone in with Hillary Roddam Clinton on his arm for all I’d have noticed.
So I went in.
The girl at the reception and cloakroom desk, French, thirtyish, elegant in black and white, greeted me politely. ‘The Prozzeroe table? Oh, so sorry, that booking was cancelled yestairday. Are you Alex Tannair?’
I was.
‘I have a messahge for you.’ She took a slip of paper from the reservations book, and passed it across to me. Nice try, it said.
If Barty’d been there I’d have slapped him. This was no time for jokey messahges. This was no time for anything, except a mobile.
I looked across at the tables in the bar, spotted a man with a mobile beside his drink, and went over to him. He was with another man; both fortyish, trendyish, in polo-necks and linen trousers and loose Italian jackets, both flushed enough to have been in the bar some time. I sat down on the extra chair at their table, leant forward to give them the benefit of the scoop neck in case they weren’t gay, babbled something about being very grateful and it being very urgent, picked up the phone, flicked through my organizer, and dialled Grace.
I cut off as soon as the answering-machine message clicked on.
I dialled Melanie. Three rings. Another answering machine.
Now what? Who? Melanie at the newspaper she wrote the column for. Tried it. She wasn’t there.
I looked at my watch. One-sixteen.
‘Can I get you a drink, at all?’ said the owner of the phone. He had a round face, blond hair in a beautiful haircut, and smart glasses. He seemed entertained rather than annoyed, which was just as well. His friend had less hair, had spent less on his haircut, and showed no emotion.
‘No thanks,’ I said. Who was left? Janet Wilson was out. She hadn’t even remembered Elspeth’s name accurately. Unless she’d been putting it on. And getting any information out of Janet, even supposing she knew it, would take much too long.
‘Oh, do have a drink,’ said Cool Haircut. ‘I insist.’
‘Mineral water, please,’ I said. I groped in my bag for the letter and read it again. THEY DID NOT ACKNOWLEDGE ME THEN. That first night I’d met her, she talked about the disappointing reception of her book. And about her lack of advancement at work.
The book angle was hopeless. Reviewers? Readers? It didn’t point to a place. But the work just might. Who’d know where Elspeth had worked?
‘Sparkling or still? Ice and lemon?’ said Cool Haircut. His friend giggled.
‘Still, please, ice, no lemon,’ I said, and looked at my watch again.
One-seventeen.
I didn’t know anyone else who knew her. Or who might, by the wildest stretch of the imagination, know anything about her.
Yes I did. Barty.
I smiled at Cool Haircut. ‘This really is very urgent,’ I said as I dialled, and gave what I hoped was a seductive smile. The first I’ve ever tried. Pity I didn’t see his reaction, because Jacqui answered straight away. ‘Jacqui? This is Alex . . . Yes, hi . . . Listen, Jacqui, this is VERY IMPORTANT.’
Jacqui giggled. ‘He said you’d say that,’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘Who what?’
‘Who said I’d say that?’
‘Barty, of course. He told me all about the game you were playing. And it was very mean of you to trick me yesterday. And I know where he and Alan are having lunch, but you’re not going to trick me again. So there. I’m going to ring off now.’
‘Jacqui, wait—’
I was left holding a dead line.
I groaned. ‘Do have some water; said Cool Haircut. ‘I ordered Evian; is that right?’
‘Perfect,’ I said, and gulped some, to shut him up while I thought.
I looked at my watch. One-eighteen.
I needed an angle of approach that would grab Jacqui straight away.
Soap-opera. I scraped together my memories of the nightmare month I’d worked as floor manager on Love is the Answer, then I dialled again.
‘Jacqui, don’t ring off— Jacqui, I want to tell you a secret. i’m having his baby!’
I must have spoken louder than I realized, because I stopped a waiter in his tracks, and conversation died at the nearby tables. But Jacqui didn’t ring off. She whispered, in her little voice, ‘Oh, Alex, I’m so happy for you! If it was planned, I mean?’
‘Yes, oh yes,’ I said. ‘We’ve been secretly married for months.’ The more ridiculous guff I gave her the more overwhelmed she’d be.
‘Congratulations,’ she said.
‘Congratulations,’ said Cool Haircut. His friend giggled again.
‘I haven’t told anybody but you. About the marriage. You won’t tell anyone, will you?’
‘Oh, no.’
‘And I haven’t even told Barty about the baby. And I want to, but we’ve had a stupid fight.’
‘What about?’
My stock of clichéd invention was running out. I scraped the barrel. ‘We’ve had a misunderstanding. He – he was jealous. He thought I was seeing another man.’
‘But you weren’t, were you?’ she said anxiously.
‘Oh, no. It was . . . it was the gynaecologist.’ I had momentary doubts about whether she’d handle the word, but I’d un
derestimated her.
‘Oh, poor you!’
‘And I must see Barty, I must talk to him. If I don’t, the gynaecologist says I could miscarry. From the stress. I must speak to him today. Now. i mustn’t lose our baby!’
I took a deep breath and a sip of water. Cool Haircut patted my hand.
‘Of course not,’ said Jacqui. ‘Of course not, Alex. They’re at Daphne’s.’
‘Is Alan on the mobile?’
‘Oh, yes. I have to ring him at one-thirty.’
‘Can I have his number? Do you have it in front of you?’ I asked cautiously.
‘Yes.’
I grabbed my organizer and scribbled the number, while Cool Haircut held the phone to my ear.‘Thanks, Jacqui. You’re a mate—’
I rang off. I felt mean. I rationalized it: this was important. But all the same I hadn’t just been scraping the barrel, I’d been shooting a dim, sweetnatured fish in it.
‘Are you all right, my dear?’ said Cool Haircut. He looked half concerned, half unconvinced, as well he might.
One-twenty. Dial. Ring.
‘Alan Protheroe,’ said Alan, loudly.
‘Alan, this is Alex. Don’t hang up. I need to speak to Barty. Urgently. This isn’t part of our game. This is work. This is money.’
Two key words, for Alan, foolish as he was. He wouldn’t have survived so long as an independent producer if they hadn’t been.
He covered the mouthpiece and I heard him mumbling to Barty.
‘Sorry, Alex. Barty doesn’t want to speak to you.’
‘Alan, hold the phone so Barty can hear me.’
‘Really, Alex . . .’ Alan began.
‘JUST DO IT!’ I shouted.
‘Very well,’ he huffed, and then I could hear back-ground noise.
‘BARTY, I’M NOT KIDDING! BARTY! PLEASE! THIS IS URGENT!’
Pause.
Barty’s voice. ‘Alex?’
‘We’ll discuss us another time, OK? I need your help. I’m working on a case involving Grace Macarthy and the other Vestal Virgins. Do you know who I mean?’
‘Melanie and Elspeth,’ he said promptly.
‘OK. After Elspeth left Oxford, where did she work for years? Where they didn’t acknowledge her, before she left in a huff for the country?’
The Glass Ceiling Page 15
