Janice Gentle Gets Sexy

by Mavis Cheek

  It was not so much the Arabian opulence of the furnishings that kept Gretchen there. Nor the yellow light that beat against the half-draped windows, bringing mysterious shadows amid the sunbeams. It was not even the heady scent that hung about the still room, nor the exotic objects scattered about. No. What held Gretchen O'Dowd in a flattened position was the sight of the room's occupant. The figure lay across the couch, asleep, dreaming perhaps, illuminated and enriched by the light that fell upon it from between the half-closed curtains. Gretchen thought that she had never seen anything quite so beautiful in all her life.

  Erica Von Hyatt was still taking a nap. The Jack Daniel's mixed with chocolate milk drink was of soporific effect in its own right but, sipped slowly after a long, steamy, perfumed bath while reclining on cushions in the late morning's heat, it would have taxed the profound resolve of even Cerberus to stay awake. Erica guarded no one save herself. Erica felt safe. Erica slept. She slept the sleep of contentment. Not a hungry sleep, not an escapist's sleep, but the sleep of one who has merely chosen to enjoy the experience. And the enjoyment showed. She was rosy like a child, and her golden hair - washed, combed and sparkling in the light - streamed around her on the velvet couch. About her smiling mouth were the milky traces of her favoured cocktail. One cheek held the trace of a dimple, her pale eyelids were smooth and unmoving as pebbles. Beneath all this, sumptuously spread, was the pink gown, its heavy silver tassels scattered on the floor. This was the legend come to life, this was the dream of childhood, here was the princess of fantasy as pure and beautiful as in any fairy tale. Gretchen, immobilized, stared in wonder.

  Rohanne Bulbecker, on the other hand, saw nothing but the roots of the carpet tufts and a tassel or two. What she was saying, louder and louder into the carpet tufts was not an unknown language to Erica, who — though asleep - began to register the rude and brutal message. In the Moving On of the streets, she had long learned to shift herself without wakening completely. Whoever was speaking clearly wanted her, Erica von Hyatt, off out of it, and in Pavlovian response there was nothing to do but oblige. There never was.

  She rose from the couch, still half asleep, and stumbled across the room. 'OK, OK,' she muttered wearily, 'I'm going, I'm going . ..' And as she opened her eyes, she found herself impeded, and then falling over a couple of strangers who appeared to be At It on the floor.

  Muffled expletives, indistinct but full of ire, rose from the one at the bottom of the pile. Rohanne got some air, gasped, and managed, 'What the hell is this?'

  'Sorry,' said Erica von Hyatt humbly, righting herself. She took the flailing hand and pulled at it, freeing the speaker, while Gretchen O'Dowd rolled gracelessly on to her back.

  Gretchen stared up at the vision. 'Who are you?' asked the supine adorer.

  But before Erica could respond, she found her arm held in a tight, leather-gauntleted squeeze and the air was charged with excitement. 'Are you — by any chance - Janice Gentle?' said the mouth beneath the sunglasses.

  'Why?' asked Erica von Hyatt, recognizing the desperate urgency of the question, playing for time. She eyed the talking woman's outfit up and down. Black leather, and in this heat. It was clear to Erica what sort of thing this person had in mind.

  'Because that's who I'm looking for,' said Rohanne as nicely as she could. 'I have a proposition for her.'

  I bet you have, thought Erica von Hyatt.

  'Well,' said Rohanne Bulbecker encouragingly, 'are you?'

  The glove tightened, the heat radiated out from the gleaming black body, Erica pondered. S&M was something she had encountered before, after all, though this time, from the way the woman was dressed, it didn't look as if Erica, or this Janice Gentle person (good name, good name), was going to be asked to play the dominatrix. Which was a pity. If it had only been one of those 'Tie me up and don't give in to my pleas' situations, she would have done it cheerfully. Or, rather, with firm and hard-mouthed positivism, as she had been instructed once by a fish merchant from Hull. These S&M people never seemed to see the funny side . . .

  'Oh do say you are,' said Rohanne, suddenly weary. 'Please.'

  So Erica did.

  With extraordinarily gratifying results. The woman in black held her shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks and went on and on and on about how glad she was to have found her, etc, etc, so that Erica got a bit lost.

  'You took quite a bit of tracking down,' continued Rohanne Bulbecker. 'Sylvia Perth was very protective of you.'

  Erica decided to condnue along an oblique path for a time, the Jack Daniel's and the sudden arousal making her a little foggy. 'Where is Sylvia?' she said.

  Gretchen, glad to have something to contribute, said, 'I think she's still with the police at the moment, but she'll be coming to Mr Mole's parlour very soon.'

  Erica thought it was rather a good name for a knocking shop. She did not ask for further clarity. 'Oh good,' she said.

  'Oh yes,' said Gretchen. 'It'll be a lovely ceremony.'

  Ritual too, thought Erica von Hyatt with a heavy heart. 'What do I have to do?' she asked wanly.

  'You don't have to do anything,' said Rohanne Bulbecker. 'Everything will be just the same - only without Sylvia Perth. We'll be just as protective of you. You don't have to worry about a thing.'

  I've heard that before, thought Erica von Hyatt. 'You must want something,' she said.

  Rohanne held up a hand and smiled cheerfully. 'Nope. Just one more' - she gave a little moue of encouragement - 'baby, that's all, and we'll do all the rest.'

  Erica, still rather fuzzy and shaky, sat down again. 'You're not S&M, then?'

  'Were you expecting them?' said Rohanne Bulbecker, suddenly alert for a rival.

  Erica eyed her up and down. 'Well, sort of. . .'

  'No, I am Rohanne Bulbecker.' She began feeling about her person, annoyed to have forgotten her card case.

  Erica watched the suggestive antics and sighed. The peaceful independence had been so lovely. 'When you say baby, what exactly do you mean . . .?'

  Rohanne laughed. 'I mean that Sylvia told me all about you. She was extremely enthusiastic about your next one. Well, we all are.'

  She beamed at Erica. Never in Rohanne Bulbecker's wildest imaginings had she dared to hope her prey would be this beautiful. Just wait until she got back and introduced her to Morgan Pfeiffer and Enrico Stoat. They'd go wild. The whole project was going to be sensational.

  'Morgan Pfeiffer is just going to love you,' she said.

  'Who's Morgan Pfeiffer?' asked Erica, eyes widening. How many more were going to be involved for God's sake?

  Rohanne laughed. 'Just about the biggest publisher in America,' she said. 'And' - she laughed again and tapped Erica's forearm teasingly — 'I guess you could call him the prospective father of your baby.. .'

  Neither Sisyphus without his stone nor Prometheus without the eagle could have felt more relieved than Rohanne Bulbecker at that moment. She was therefore unusually disposed to banter with metaphor. 'He'll make a great dad,' she smirked. 'Just great!'

  Suddenly Erica von Hyatt understood. It wasn't S&M at all. It was that thing called surrogate motherhood. She knew people who had done it. You got looked after while you were pregnant and quite a lot of money afterwards. Erica could see no wrong in it. If you could knit, you would make a jumper for someone who was cold, and they would pay you for it; if you could cook and someone was hungry, they would pay you to make a meal. Why not make a baby for someone?

  'How do you feel about that?' asked Rohanne.

  'Fine,' said Erica von Hyatt. 'What's the . . . er . . . dWlike?'

  Rohanne Bulbecker was delighted with the game. 'He's very distinguished, Morgan P. Pfeiffer. Very clever. Loves the books . . . Well, don't we all?'

  'How much?'

  Rohanne liked the directness and told her the dollar sum. Erica von Hyatt was mute. Rohanne sucked her fingers.

  Gretchen, who had found the whole conversation confusing, fluffed her moustache and waited for enlightenment. The s
ilence in the room was exquisite. She took a breath, about to speak.

  'Be quiet,' said Rohanne Bulbecker. 'Janice is thinking.' Gretchen gazed at the thinker in silent worship and Erica fluttered her eyelashes with intuitive response. Beyond that, she could neither move nor speak. Gretchen O'Dowd sighed like swains of old. Erica fluttered again. Gretchen O'Dowd sighed deeper. She was, she knew, radically and for ever in love.

  'Janice,' said Rohanne beguilingly, 'where were we?'

  Erica was a little unsure. Very probably, she thought, where they were was in a dream.

  'Well?' asked Rohanne. 'Does that figure sound about right? Of course it's only the advance and there will be all kinds of synergy, but that's the sum Morgan Pfeiffer will pay you up front. Half now, half on delivery. What do you think?'

  'Sounds all right to me,' said Erica. She shrugged carefully. It would not do to look astonished or the price might drop. She couldn't, really, believe it, anyway — but she'd go along the road in case it was true. In her head she was pretending that she had just been offered a free meal. It was much easier to think of it in those simple terms. And anyway, she had already been a sort of surrogate mum - with Dawn. What was the difference between one made out of a mistake and one made out of a paid-for plan?

  Rohanne touched the back of the couch lightly. 'And . . . er . . . how long do you think this one is going to take to. . . er. . . produce?'

  Erica felt on safer ground but a little surprised at the question. 'The usual nine months, I suppose. Do I have to go over there and fuck him, or what?'

  Much taken aback by the crudity of this, but not inclined to upset the delicacy of the moment, Rohanne smiled. She had heard that the British had a strange sense of humour. 'I don't think -hah hah — that will be necessary.'

  'Really,' said Erica, eyes wide again. 'Well, he can hardly send it over by post. Can he?'

  'Of course he can,' said Rohanne. 'In fact, it's already here at the bank, waiting for you.'

  Erica von Hyatt had heard of sperm banks. 'Oh, I see. He's going to do it that way. We don't even have to meet.'

  'Well,' said Rohanne, 'I think he would like to meet you eventually.'

  'Doesn't this Mr Pfeiffer like sex?' Given that amount of money, he was owed a bit of pleasure and rules were made to be broken. 'He'd enjoy it. I'm quite good at all that – if I say so myself.'

  Rohanne Bulbecker felt as if she had just arrived in heaven. 'Well, that is just brilliant’ said Rohanne. 'That is exactly what we want. Morgan Pfeiffer has asked for two little changes from you . . .'

  'Yes?' said Erica obligingly. 'What?'

  'Sex. And to make it a bit longer.'

  'I've gone on a night and a day once,' said Erica with pride. 'Length is no problem. I'm very amenable.'

  Rohanne coughed. Despite her hopes, she had not expected Janice Gentle to be quite so raunchy. There was no hint of it in her work. 'Oh no,' she said hurriedly, 'you wouldn't need to go that far. Just a little lust, the thigh beneath the silk, know what I mean?'

  Erica smiled. 'I know what you mean. Something a bit classy.'

  'Exactly.'

  Erica leaned back on the couch and closed her eyes. She didn't know who or where this Janice person was, but she, Erica, had got in first. And just let them say she hadn't.

  Rohanne Bulbecker looked at her. She could quite see why Sylvia Perth had kept her hidden. Well she would, wouldn't she? And secret from the moustachioed one too, if her expression of amazed admiradon was anything to go by. Funny old devious Sylvia, thought Rohanne Bulbecker, now your secret is out.

  'Are you recluse?' she asked the golden beauty before her.

  'What do you mean?'

  'Do you prefer to hide away from the world?'

  Erica thought. In a big lie it was always best to stick as close to the truth as possible. She had not found the world a place in which she would choose to spend a lot of time. Not if she could live like this. This kind of hiding away seemed perfection. 'Yes,' she said positively, 'but I'm not hung up on it.'

  'Good,' said Rohanne Bulbecker, 'because I'm going to call Mr Pfeiffer right away with the good news, and I just know he will want you to go over there whenever you feel ready to do so. Is there a phone here?'

  Erica pointed to the sequinned scatter cushion on top of an inlaid desk. Gretchen lifted it. Rohanne was doubly blessed -happy are the technocrats - for behind a beaten-brass bowl that hid its undecorative outline also nestled a fax machine. 'Great,' said Rohanne, her eyes lighting upon it as one might light upon a hidden jewel. 'That's just what I want. I can send this off to him straight away.' And from the unzipped deeps of her jacket front pocket she produced the Pfeiffer contract. 'If you could look this over and then sign here,' she said to Erica von Hyatt, 'that would be great. Let me know if there are any problems,'

  Erica flipped over the pages, understood nothing, nodded for authenticity and obediently took the pen. 'How do you spell

  Gentle?' she asked. Feeling Rohanne Bulbecker start nervously, she quickly added, 'Just a joke.' Her eyes were heavy with Jack Daniel's. She badly wanted to snooze again.

  Morgan Pfeiffer stopped listening at the point in Rohanne Bulbecker's glowing description where she said 'slender as a willow'. Slender as a willow was not what he considered beauty. He sighed. Still, the rest of the world, almost without exception, would consider it so. Certainly, Enrico Stoat, listening on the other extension, was twirling his wrist-watch and rolling his eyes in a lather of jubilation. Morgan Pfeiffer sat back in his chair and recalled the Black Sea resort he and Mrs Pfeiffer had so enjoyed in the old days. There they had recognized the beauties of real flesh. Those women had rotated rather than walked, and when they lay on their backs in water the sea had held up their breasts like ripe pumpkins - mmmm, mmmm . . .

  'Sure,' he heard Stoat say. 'Get her over here as soon as possible. It's good to know she's a looker. I was shit scared she'd be some kind of freak .. .'

  'Well done, Miss Bulbecker,' added Morgan Pfeiffer. 'I felt certain you would bring the deal off.'

  'I'll fax the contract immediately.'

  Behind Rohanne, on the couch, Erica von Hyatt slept. Behind the couch Gretchen O'Dowd stood guard. Gretchen removed her jacket because of the noon heat and, as she did so, the letter she had been handed that morning crackled beneath her hand. She had forgotten all about that. The tableau of beauty before her stirred, moved a little. She forgot about the letter all over again.

  Rohanne Bulbecker began pulling out the drawers of Sylvia's desk, idly at first, then, as she began to pause and read some of the documents, her eyes grew luminous and large. She picked up several files and slipped them into the front of her jacket, pulling up the zip with a flourish. Here was news indeed.

  *

  Arthur smiled at her across the breakfast table. She caught the look, could not avoid it this time, and smiled back. There were delphiniums in the room, past their best, the colour fading to peppered blueness. They echoed her eyes, eyes which held a secret nowadays, eyes into which her smile had not quite reached.

  'Perhaps,' he said, 'you should buy a hat.'

  'Why?' she asked, curious despite her misery.

  'Isn't that what you ladies are supposed to do to recover your spirits?'

  'You're old-fashioned. All that went out with cloaks over mud. Anyway, my spirits are fine,' she said, and then, since it was patently untrue and the look in his eyes told her that he knew, she shrugged, 'Or almost fine.'

  'Then, why,' he said, 'are you crumbling toast between your fingers like the despairing heroine of a Gothic novel?'

  'For the birds,' she said defiantly. 'They are God's creatures, after all.'

  'Shall I butter and marmalade it for them?' Her laugh was no less dry than the toast.

  He set aside the letter from their South-East Asian mission. He had been going to ask her to get the Guides to do something -less (if he was honest before his God) for the good of the mission and the Guides than to keep her occupied. Usually activity release
d her melancholy or defused her scratchiness, but this sad and almost total detachment was new to the pattern. It came back with her from London. He knew that she needed to take it back there if it was ever to be shed.

  She put her chin on her hands and looked at him. She had begun to hate him for his ability to love her, for his clumsy attempts at gallantry, his mannered wooing. He saw the look in her eyes, somewhere between pain and contempt. He moved his head, questioning.

  'It's the tea-urn,' she said. *You know how I loathe the bloody thing.'

  'Ah,' he said, 'the tea-urn. Then perhaps we should buy you a new one instead of a hat.'

  'It's love-hate, Arthur,' she said. 'Take that away from me and what have I got left?' That, she thought, was a fair metaphor. 'Besides, as you say to your souls, if God had wanted to make things easy for us he would have taken us straight to heaven without all this three-score-and-ten fuss on the way. The tea-urn is my cross to bear.' She smiled.

  Somehow, from her lips and at that moment, this was no blasphemy.

  'You can't appreciate heaven until you have suffered a little.' He folded his hands together and looked over the fingertips compassionately. 'Nor choose martyrdom. Bind and loose, as Eliot would have it.'

  'You look exactly like a vicar should look when you do that.'

  For a moment her eyes were very blue again, flashing fire, angry. The red of her hair seemed to sharpen.

  'And you,' he said mildly, 'look nothing like a vicar's wife when you do that*

  'What?'

  'Rage with your eyes.'

  'It's the tea-urn,' she said firmly.

  'Then we shall buy a new one.'

  'Oh no,' she said. 'Too easy.'

  'Even Our Lord had his Simon of Cyrene.'

  'The cross-carrier?'

  He nodded.

  'Was he willing, or was he made to do it?'

  He leaned back in his chair and no longer looked at her. 'Willing or unwilling, it helped. We will . . .' - he stared at the letter from the Asian mission, then picked it up and folded it neady back into its envelope. A child and a grandmother stared up at him warily. Strictly the Guildford money had been for local benefit, after all - '. . . buy a new, improved, dynamic, state-of-the-art tea-urn.'