by Mavis Cheek
'I think that is very nice of you,' said Rohanne, 'but I still think she deserves a stake through her heart.'
Janice shook her head. 'Not really. She was the victim, not me. All those fancy assets . . .'
'Including Erica von Hyatt?'
'Including Erica von Hyatt. They meant nothing, really. A hole where once was a soul, never to be filled no matter how much gold she poured in . . .'
'Not to mendon Chanel suits, Gucci handbags, rugs from the Orient and a country house ...'
Janice smiled. 'But wearing a hair shirt the while. At some point Sylvia had to sit with just herself and the mirror. No. I feel sorry for her. And Fd rather be me. Soul intact.'
'And integrity,' said Rohanne wryly.
'And integrity,' agreed Janice with the slightest hint of amusement behind her spectacles. 'Sorry.'
Rohanne shrugged. 'Your privilege.' She looked up. 'Jeezus, here comes the cheese.' She gazed at it with horror.
'Judge not,' said Janice wryly, also looking at the cheese, 'lest ye be judged . . .'
An entire Stilton, blue-veined and crumbly, was set before them. Rohanne Bulbecker, putting a discreet hand to her nose, declined. Janice, savouring a morsel, said, 'Thank goodness for food. It can be such a comfort, you know. I frankly don't know where I would have been without it. . . Sure you won't try some? It's a very superior cheese, named after the town of Stilton in Huntingdonshire.'
'Er ... no thanks, all the same,' said Rohanne Bulbecker. She leaned back, discreetly gasping for air. 'But you go right ahead.'
When the meal was finished, Janice said, 'I wonder what it was really like then?'
'When?'
'Five hundred years ago. Going on a pilgrimage. Even such a short one as London to Canterbury. Dangerous, I should think, more dangerous than now - the wooded route hiding the disenfranchised, the outlawed, the mad, the diseased, the souls with nothing left to lose. Very much more dangerous. And therefore more noble, more rewarding. I've often thought I ought to tread the path they took, just to experience a real pilgrimage. Not by train or car but on foot, by mule or horse, like them. Think of all the pondering you could do on that long, slow meander . . .' Her voice sounded dreamy, seduced. She ran a fingertip around the line of crumbs on her plate and then sucked it ruminatively. 'In a way, though, I've sort of done one. Going to Sylvia Perth's apartment was like a pilgrimage. It was certainly fraught. But it's hardly the sort of thing Chaucer's lot had in mind. I wonder if it could be done today . . . There must be maps of the old route . . .'
Rohanne went pale. 'You aren't planning a trip to Canterbury, I hope?' It would just be her luck if this prize of hers underwent a religious conversion.
'Oh no,' said Janice Gentle. 'Not at all. After this I'm going to stay lodged in my Battersea cell and write. A new book, a new departure. It comes to the same thing, really. And, of course, I shall be making my own pilgrimage in due course - when I go to meet Dermot Poll.'
Rohanne kept her smile bright. 'Sure,' she said. 'I wonder how those two love birds will make out.' She raised her glass. 'Here's to Dermot Poll. And here's to the new book. What's it going to be about, by the way?'
Janice raised her own glass, and smiled. 'Ah-ha,' she said. *Wait and see.'
*
Enrico Stoat worked hard into the night. 'As if Jane Austen had lifted her petticoats,' he wrote, and he smiled at the brilliance of the comparison.
*
Square Jaw was somewhere between the desire and the spasm when a noise different from any of those emanating from himself or the alien woman made him resurface. He felt a bumping under the bed, which, he was sure, had nothing to do with what was happening on top of it. He negotiated himself into a position where he could peer over the edge and came face to face, dim in the shadows, backlit by moonlight, with Melanie's eyes.
'Bastard,' she said. 'I can't move the sodding thing.'
Not surprisingly the alien woman began to sit up and make noises of inquiry. With a reflex action he pushed her down and pulled the duvet up to cover her. There was a noise not entirely indicative of approval from beneath the bedding, but he hoped she would construe it as a chivalrous gesture.
Take this nightmare away, he begged silently, but Melanie did not vanish. She merely went on attempting to pull out her box, wildly and without success. He put his hands in his hair and hung his head. Through laced fingers and gritted teeth he said, 'Melanie, this is my bedroom. It is three a.m. What are you doing here?'
'I'm getting my things,' she said, and continued scrabbling ferociously.
He spread his hands over his knees. The nightmare faded. Now it was like starring in a very bad film. He wanted to laugh. Or possibly cry. Both, really. 'Why now?' he said, daring to look up.
'You invited me,' she said.
'I did?'
The figure beneath the duvet twitched. He felt a terrible urge to pat it and say, 'Down girl, down.'
'Look,' he said, standing up, 'I think we should go into the other room.' He could sense the rage in her, almost hear her heart thumping. He had never felt quite so naked, and he had visions of her doing him some actual bodily harm. Was he imagining it in the shadows, or were her knees twitching dangerously? He grabbed a pillow and held it to himself until in the gloom he could recognize his underpants. He picked them up and stepped into them quickly. He felt slightly more in control of things with them on.
He sidled towards the door.
'That's right,' she said, 'walk away from trouble.'
‘I am not walking away,' he said, grabbing his dressing-gown, slipping it on. 'I am walking to somewhere we can talk.'
'What's wrong with here?' she said defiantly.
There was a rustling from the duvet, a head began to appear from beneath it. He grabbed Melanie's hand and pulled her out into the corridor. There were some things he was not up to dealing with. He released her hand and dived back into the bedroom. 'Stay there,' he pleaded. He tweaked the duvet cover up again. 'Sorry about this.'
'You're sorry!' came the muffled indignation.
'I'm dealing with it, OK?'
'Tell her to piss off.'
He was thinking much the same himself.
Melanie was still in the corridor. 'Who does she think she is? And who is she, anyway?'
He ignored both questions and, with the courage of a Wild West sheriff, turned his back and walked down the passageway into the living-room.
Melanie followed. He closed the door after her.
'Well?' he said.
'Sorry to disturb,' she said sweetly.
He sat down. 'Melanie,' he said, 'you had no right -'
'I had every right.' She raised her voice, the stridency betraying that she wanted it to be heard. 'You invited me over. You said you were in all evening. You said come any time. Didn't you?'
Once more he put his head in his hands. 'Oh God,' he said, remembering.
'Well?'
'I didn't mean three bloody a.m.'
'Clearly,' she said, with potent satisfaction.
'I think we should talk,' he said.
'Talk?' she said. 'Talk? Talk? What about?'
He knew that trick. 'Melanie,' he said, not without anger, 'why did you choose to come here, unannounced, at this time of night?'
'Morning,' she corrected.
He felt dangerously close to smacking her. Instead he got up and switched on the lamp, dispelling the shadows and moonlight and bringing sanity to the proceedings.
He looked at her. She was tensed as if under starter's orders. She was also, he knew from the line of her mouth, hurt. But over all she was angry, which made him afraid of her. He suppressed thoughts of conciliation and allowed his own anger in.
'Well?' he said, folding his arms like an inquisitorial father. 'Explain yourself.'
She shrugged. 'I still have your keys. You never asked for them back.'
'And I still have yours. Doesn't mean I'd come bursting in in the middle of the night, showing you up in bed with lover boy.'
'You wouldn't find me in bed with lover boy — because there isn't one.'
'Pull the other leg . . .'
'I just wanted my things, that's all.' She was walking round the room, trailing her fingers over objects, riffling through postcards on the mantelpiece. He knew her. She was out to irritate and she was succeeding. 'I needed one or two things from the box.'
'At three in the fucking morning?'
'Do you have to swear?'
'Yes, I fucking well do. Fucking.' For a moment he hoped she was going to laugh. No such luck.
'Like what did you need?' he said belligerently. 'A hairbrush? Those pink socks with stars on them? Your Wind in the Willows ‘I-shirt?' He laughed. 'Oh my goodness, I simply can't go on without Toad . . .'
'Don't be so childish. Can I have them, please?'
'No.'
'You wanted to get rid of them. You rang me and told me you did. The only phone call you've made in the whole six weeks was to say you wanted to give me my things back.' Her lips wobbled but she righted herself.
'Don't cry,' he said warningly.
'Well, it's true, isn't it?'
'It is not true. I didn't only ring about that. . .'
'Oh. Now I'm a liar.'
'Melanie!'
She stood in front of him, cocking her head in the direction of the bedroom. 'Didn't take you long. How many's that? Six? Seven? Eight?'
For a moment he felt rather flattered. He thought about looking as if it might just be true but remembered the reality of the lump under the duvet next door. This was no time for misplaced pride.
'What about you?'
‘I haven't been to bed with anybody.' ‘I saw you.' 'What, in bed?' 'No. In Popinjay's.'
'So? It's a restaurant, not a knocking shop. At least, so far as I know. Of course, you may know different and -' 'You were all over him.' 'So?'
'Don't keep saying that.' 'So.'
'Boots, short skirt - putting it all out on display. What's the matter? Didn't he bite after all? Perhaps you didn't leave enough to the imagination.'
'You bastard. Just get my things.'
He stood up. 'Well? Did you?'
'Did I what?'
'Let him?'
'Let him? You are just so unliberated. Let him? As if I am a piece of merchandise . . .'
'That's what you looked like.'
'We had a meal and then he took me home. And why the hell am I justifying myself to you - when you've got that in the other room?'
'Melanie, it may have escaped your notice, but I live here. This is my flat, my home, my bloody bed if you want to know, and you've just barged in . . .'
She was silent. Swallowing.
Very quietly she said, ‘I apologize. If you will get my box, I'll go.' And she immediately sat down. 'It's funny,' she said, 'but I thought you'd be thinking things through. Instead you've been out fucking every Tom, Dick and Harry.'
'Hardly,' he said, feeling the first thaw of humour, 'I don't go in for that, remember?'
She looked at him. He nodded in the direction of the bedroom. 'Female,' he said. 'It's a woman.' He attempted a joke. 'Try Thomasina, Doreen or Harriet.'
'It's not funny,' she said. 'How many times?'
'One - and a half, thanks to you.'
'I don't mean that.'
'Just this once.'
'Did you use condoms?'
'Of course I bloody used condoms. Did you?'
'I . . . haven't . . . haven't —' She broke off, unable to finish the sentence. She stood up.
He was torn. Part of him was pleased. Part of him knew he had lost ground now.
'What? Not even once? What about the guy tonight?'
‘Not my type. Would you get my box? Then I can go and you' - she looked significantly at the door - 'can carry on.'
She put out her hand as if to shake his. 'I apologize again. I just thought I could come over and slip into bed beside you.'
He laughed, forgetting for the moment the seriousness of the situation. 'It might have been interesting if you had . . .'
The laugh died. Too late. He knew, quite suddenly, that he had blown it. Quite suddenly, he knew the whole thing had turned and would not turn back. Her face had set to a ghastly stone. The hand he held went rigid and withdrew itself. He heard a choir of told-you-so's singing that he shouldn't have done that. He remembered. A sense of humour was not one of her strongest points. Oh God, what the hell, that was it, then; he had really done it now.
'You insensitive shit,' she said quietly. And without another word, she opened the door, clicked it behind her, and left. 'What about your things?' he called. But there was no reply.
'Is that it?' he asked himself wryly.
It seemed that it was. For a split shard of time he felt liberated, and then from the bedroom he heard the distinct sounds of female sobbing, a familiar tune. He kicked at the couch, swore under his breath, and returned to the alien woman.
Chapter Twenty-one
THE cab pulled up outside Janice's address. 'Oh,' said Rohanne surprised. 'Here already.' Janice laughed. 'Despite Sylvia's disapproval, the place is very close to the centre. Piccadilly to Battersea High Street is a very few miles.' She raised a finger. 'Remember the old saying, "You must go to Battersea to get your simples cut"?' 'No,' said Rohanne.
'In olden days the market gardeners of Battersea grew simples - medicinal herbs - and London apothecaries came here to choose and gather what they wanted.' She looked out of the taxi's window at the brick walls and car-lined streets. 'Wouldn't believe it now, but so it was. They used the old saying to reprove a simpleton - someone who held a foolish belief. Like you.'
'Me?' Indignation overruled politeness. 'What, exactly?' 'Love, dear. Or the virtues in the lack of it. You think I'm quite dotty to have waited for Dermot Poll this long.' 'Well. . .'
Janice raised a hand. 'Oh yes you do. Well, believe me, it is better to have hope in your heart and love on your sleeve than the freedom of emptiness.'
'It weakens,' mumbled Rohanne.
'It what, dear?'
'I said it weakens.' Rohanne was about to say, 'Look at you . . .' But somehow the equation didn't hang together.
'No, no. Good love supports weakness, draws from strength. It's a state of enhancement. In its perfect state it makes all who are held in it good. It spreads to every fibre; its strength can outwit evil. And though Perfect Love is of its nature unattainable, we can at least strive for it. I am quite sure of that. And as such it will wait for ever, even to the moment of death . . .'
'Hah’ said Rohanne. 'You really are in the fourteenth century. There doesn't seem to be a lot of Perfect Love about nowadays ...'
'Oh but its essence stays the same in whatever age. Poor Ovid, happy in his lusty detachment, suddenly bewails that he has fallen in love - and in so doing he feels like a hunter who has stepped into his own snare, never to be rescued ... Dante glimpses Beatrice; Troilus, Criseyde; Lancelot, Guinevere . .. Even Victoria sees a sneezing Albert through a curtain and loves at once. There is no age in which it was not so, no time in which lovers did not seek the elusive joy - and no age which did not set out to bludgeon the purity of Love Found.'
A little coldness clutched at Rohanne Bulbecker's heart. 'Janice,' she said, 'the . . . um . . . sex thing ... in the book — it is . .. um . .. going to be all right for you, isn't it?'
'You mean all right iozjou, I think, dear?'
'Well, perhaps.'
Janice leaned back and smiled. 'Oh yes. Perfectly all right. No problem at all. Your . . . er . . . inventive action was' - she stifled what Rohanne thought might have been a giggle - 'just right. It fits exactly. You and Mr Pfeiffer mustn't worry at all. Sex you will have. That, I promise you. Six scenes, evenly distributed, just as you ask, and sensitively handled, of course . . .'
Rohanne wriggled.
The taxi-driver, too, began to show signs of restlessness. Despite the clock going into pleasant profit, it was irritating to have to sit there while two women nattered in t
he back.
'I should go,' said Rohanne, 'I have a plane to catch tomorrow.'
'Somebody nice waiting for you?'
'Morgan Pfeiffer,' said Rohanne darkly.
'No one else - of a romantic nature?'
'Nope,' said Rohanne positively. She thought about Herbie. 'Well, certainly not a case of Vous ou Mort, anyway.'
Tn all,' said Janice, 'I've been in love for twenty years. It's what kept me going.'
'And I,' said Rohanne cheerily, 'have successfully avoided love, and that's what's kept me going.'
Janice patted her knee. 'Try it the other way round for a change. Go through the looking-glass. You never know, you might prefer it.'
'I threw a Filofax at my last lover,' said Rohanne, 'the day I came to London. It hit him on the shin.'
'Better there than anywhere else,' said Janice and, with surprising suggestiveness, she winked.
Rohanne decided that the sexy passages were probably safe in her hands, after all. And that, dammit, she thought as Janice got out of the cab, was all that mattered.
*
The Boss Masculine invited the Little Blonde Secretary to dinner.
'You have been such an efficient and charming companion,' he said, 'despite your own troubles.' He let his eyes rest on hers for a moment to give solemn weight to the words, and she blinked her pretty wide eyes in pleased acceptance of the fact. She had indeed been efficient, and she was, she knew, charming, despite Derek's silly behaviour and her resultant troubles. The Boss Masculine was very understanding and kind: '. . . And I should like to thank you properly.'
'That would be very nice,' she said, 'I'll just go and change.'
The Boss Masculine watched her pert little bottom as it stepped into the lift, and it was not only his heart that leapt a little leap. It was like being eighteen all over again. How could he have got himself hooked up with Valerie so young? He deserved a bit of fun. He had been faithful for years, and where had that got him but into a bed as cold as a tomb with a wife who was a walking gynaecological text book? 'Try a little tenderness,' the counsellor had said brightly, 'and the hysterectomy could be the beginning of a whole new area of sexual pleasure.' She must be raving mad.
