by Simon Brett
‘But she loves you . . .’
He winced. ‘Does she?’
‘No way round it. She’s got all the symptoms. That kind of permanent soupiness of expression can only mean one thing.’
‘Oh, broken biscuits.’
‘But the thing is, Blotters, marriage can only work if there’s equal love on both sides. That’s been a well-known fact since Adam popped the question to Eve. If you twiddle the reef-knot with Mary Chapstick, you’ll be condemning her to a life of unhappiness.’
‘Sorry, not on the same page?’
‘Women,’ pronounced Twinks with the authority of her gender, ‘not only want to love, they want to inspire love. Mary will pretty soon realize that you don’t love her, and she’ll spend the rest of her married life trying to make you do so. And what chance does she have of doing that?’
‘About as much chance as I have of playing croquet with Henry VIII.’
‘Exactly. So if you marry the poor old thimble, you’ll be condemning her to a lifetime of misery and frustration.’
‘Toad-in-the-hole!’ said Blotto. ‘Now you put it like that . . .’
Twinks pressed home her advantage. ‘Marrying her would be an act of great cruelty. The greatest kindness you can do to Mary Chapstick is to stand her up. It’s the only honourable course.’
Still Blotto looked undecided. While recognizing the power of his sister’s argument, he couldn’t forget the promise he had given to the girl. More than that, he couldn’t forget the Dowager Duchess’s likely reaction to his crying off from the wedding. He felt himself to be on the horns of one of those things beginning with a ‘d’ whose name he could never remember.
‘Besides,’ said Twinks silkily, ‘how do you feel about never playing cricket again and spending the rest of your life watching rounders?’
Needless to say, that clinched it. Any moral qualms Blotto may have been feeling were instantly swallowed. ‘You’re right, Twinks me old tin tray! As ever. So . . . what’s the next step on the staircase?’
‘You have to ring the number Choxy Mulligan gave you, and tell her that the attraction between you is mutual. You have to come on really strong.’
‘Mm.’ He looked troubled. ‘I think I may be a bit of an empty revolver when it’s a matter of coming on strong.’
‘Well, you must try. Remember what’s at stake, Blotto. Rounders . . .’ she repeated, knowing exactly how to screw her brother’s courage to the sticking place.
‘Good ticket,’ said Blotto. ‘I’ll come on strong to Choxy Mulligan.’
While pleased that he was taking the task seriously, Twinks was still a little worried as to whether his idea of ‘coming on strong’ coincided with her own. ‘Blotto, when you get through to her on the phone, what will you actually say?’
‘Ooh, that’s a bit of a stumper, sis.’ He tapped his chin thoughtfully. ‘Erm . . . probably “hello” . . . ?’ he hazarded.
Twinks could find no objection to that. ‘And then what?’
‘Well, I’d probably say how I got her phone number.’
‘She knows that.’
‘So she does. So I might say that at first I thought what she’d given me was a code, but then my sister told me it was a phone number and—’
‘Keep me out of it!’
‘Why, Twinks? I want you involved in everything in my life.’
‘Men in the throes of unassuageable passion do not as a rule consult their sisters about it.’
‘Oh. And is that what I’m in the throes of? “Unassuageable passion”?’
‘I think, if our little planette is going to work, then you must appear to be.’
‘Good ticket.’ There was a long silence. ‘How?’
Now Twinks was uniquely qualified to answer this question. Fatally attractive as she was, she had spent much of her young life witnessing many amorous swains in the paroxysms of unassuageable passion. So she knew whereof she spoke when she replied to her brother, ‘Men change when they are in love. Even the most hard-boiled suddenly become runny. They are hypersensitive to the slightest of slights from the object of their adoration. Their eyes tend to go poppy and they take on the expression of constipated bullfrogs. They burble a lot and are unable to think of anything but their beloved.’
After a silence, Blotto cautiously admitted that he could probably do the burbling bit. ‘But I’m not so sure about the rest of it.’
‘You have to be extremely ardent as you press your suit.’
‘But I don’t press my own suits. Tweedling does that kind of guff for me.’
‘No, I meant . . .’ But Twinks didn’t bother to pursue the explanation. ‘Listen, Blotto, haven’t you ever felt the stirrings of passion?’
‘Don’t think so. Not for a woman, anyway.’
‘Well imagine we were talking about the Lagonda . . .’
‘Aah.’ An expression of contentment settled on Blotto’s impossibly handsome features.
‘. . . or Mephistopheles . . .’
‘Mmm.’ The contentment took on a tone of greater passion.
‘. . . or your cricket bat . . .’
‘Now you’re talking!’ His manly features glowed as he waxed lyrical. ‘That bat’s got me out of more gluepots than you’ve had amorous swains, Twinks me old biscuit barrel. It was made from the finest willow and, even though it’s now scarred with the memories of boundaries in many matches, the old breathsapper’s still a thing of great beauty. When I anoint its surface with linseed oil, I feel as if I’m part of some ancient mystery, almost a religious rite. It has more power and dignity even than Mephistopheles. That cricket bat is more precious to me than life itself!’
‘Grandissimo, Blotters! Now all you’ve got to do is translate some of that passion into your forthcoming conversation with Choxy Mulligan.’
‘Hoopee-doopee!’
‘Do you think you can do it?’
‘Yes, by Denzil!’
‘So what’s the first thing you’ll say to her when you get through?’
‘“Hello.”’
‘Yes, I think we’ve established that. What next?’
‘Erm. “You know, Choxy, I feel the same way about you as I do my cricket bat.”’
‘Ye-es. I’m not absolutely convinced that this is going to work, Blotto me old kipper zipper. Do you think it might help if I were to write something?’
‘What, more of your translation of Montyflipmadoodle?’
‘No. A kind of script for you.’
‘Script?’
‘Yes, I write down a list of things for you to say to Choxy Mulligan. Things that will convince her that you are suffering from unassuageable passion for her.’
‘Ah, I read your semaphore, yes. Beezer idea, Twinks!’
It was a matter of moments for his sister’s nimble brain to provide a narrative for his forthcoming conversation. She passed the sheet of paper across and Blotto looked at it with the same reverence he so often evinced for her achievements. ‘Toad-in-the-hole, Twinks! You really are the lark’s larynx. Whatever stuff it is inside your brainbox, there’s not a lot of it about. These lines’ll absolutely fit the pigeon-hole so far as Choxy Mulligan is concerned. I’m sure the woman hasn’t been born who could resist this lot. How do you do it?’
‘Oh, it’s as easy as raspberries once you get going,’ said his sister modestly.
Blotto scanned the sheet. ‘So, what, do I say these lines to her in this order?’
‘No, no. Depends on what she says. Just sprinkle them into the conversation.’
‘Sprinkle?’
‘Yes, sprinkle.’
‘Hoopee-doopee!’
Twinks casually picked up her reticule. ‘I must go downstairs.’
‘What? Why? You’re not going to leave me to do this on my solo, are you?’
‘I’m just going to check that the coast is clear. If Mr Chapstick or Mary came back and found you making the phone call you’re about to make . . . well . . .’
Blotto nodded ruefully.
‘Do you think I should ring her straight away?’ he asked, his feet chilling a little.
‘You’ve got to do it now, Blotto. Come on strong to her, don’t get off the telephone until you have fixed a time to meet her. It’s our only way out of this particular treacle tin.’
‘Yes, but . . .’
She fixed her brother with the Dowager Duchess’s Gorgon stare and he nodded unhappy compliance.
Suddenly Twinks was gone. Blotto looked again at the list she had given him, then at the piece of paper Choxy Mulligan had thrust into his pocket. No way round it. Twinks was right. What had to be done had to be done.
He couldn’t help once again admiring his sister’s skill as he looked through the lines she had written.
I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking of you.
There’s no time in my life for thoughts that have nothing to do with you.
I can’t stand the thought of being without you.
My idea of heaven would be being alone with you.
If you refused to be my lover, my life would be in ruins.
If you were in my arms, I’d have everything I’ve ever wanted.
No one in the world is more beautiful than you are.
Every woman I’ve ever met is really ugly compared to you.
I’ll be in an agony of disappointment until we actually meet.
You’ll be my favourite fantasy for the rest of my life.
He put the sheet on his lap and reached for the telephone. He removed the speaker and juggled its rest until the operator answered. He gave the number, there were a few whirrings and clicks, then the unmistakably smoky voice of Choxy Mulligan said, ‘Hello.’
‘Hello.’ Having delivered his only personal contribution to the script, he looked down the list for the next suitable rejoinder.
But before he had time to choose one, Choxy asked, ‘Who is this?’
‘My name’s Blotto. Well, I wasn’t introduced to you as that. In fact, they got my name wrong. Boddo said I was the Duke of Leicester, whereas in fact—’
‘Oh, hi,’ the chanteuse purred. ‘You’re the bit of beefcake from last night.’
Blotto mentally added ‘beefcake’ to ‘dreamboat’ and ‘dish’ on the list of words he didn’t know but reckoned were complimentary.
‘So, I’m glad you rang,’ Choxy Mulligan husked. ‘And what do you have to say to me?’
‘Erm . . .’ Blotto looked down at the list on his knees, but a nervous hand flicked it on to the floor. Desperate, trying to remember what was on the sheet and mindful that Twinks said men in love could be recognized by their burbling, he burbled out, speeding up as his nerves took hold, ‘I couldn’t sleep last night for thoughts that have nothing to do with you. There’s no time in my life for thinking of you. I can’t stand the thought of being alone with you. My idea of heaven would be being without you. If you were in my arms, my life would be in ruins. If you refused to be my lover, I’d have everything I’ve ever wanted. Every woman I’ve ever met is more beautiful than you are. No one in the world is really ugly compared to you. You’ll be my favourite fantasy until we actually meet. I’ll be in an agony of disappointment for the rest of my life.’
Blotto drew breath. ‘What the hell,’ asked Choxy Mulligan, ‘was all that about?’
‘Erm . . .’
‘Are you saying you’d like us to meet?’
‘Erm . . . well . . . yes.’
‘OK. Come to my place six o’clock this evening. Cocktail hour. We’ll start with a cocktail and then . . .’ she breathed heavily into the receiver ‘. . . see where we go from there.’ She gave him the address.
Blotto put the telephone down with some relief. And satisfaction. He thought he’d managed the conversation rather well.
17
Blotto and the Moll
As he guided the Lagonda from Chapstick Towers into Chicago that evening, Blotto reflected once again on the perverseness of the Americans. Driving on the left-hand side of the road was so obvious, so natural. There was a bit of a pointer, for those who could see it, in the way cars were designed, for the love of strawberries! The steering wheel of the Lagonda was on the right, so that the driver could see the oncoming traffic. It wasn’t a very difficult concept, but the Americans just didn’t seem to be able to understand the simplest things. Again, like that business of saying ‘gotten’ when they meant ‘got’.
But he was feeling the first un-St Louis Steamhammered peace he’d had since he arrived in the United States. Partly, being at the wheel of the Lagonda always gave him a sense of contentment. And that was augmented by the knowledge that he’d got his cricket bat safely stowed in a valise in the back. He didn’t really know why he had brought it, but he felt he needed some talisman, some good luck charm to see him through his encounter with Choxy Mulligan.
He also felt good because Twinks had finally devised a plan to get him out of his unwelcome engagement. For too long her Grade A brainbox hadn’t been living up to its reputation, but now she had finally come up with the silverware. When Blotto’s name was publicly linked to that of the chanteuse Choxy Mulligan, Luther P. Chapstick III would have no alternative but to call off the wedding.
And he no longer felt guilty about what they were proposing to do. What Twinks had said about the misery of unrequited love inside a marriage had really struck home with him. And seeing the soupy looks Mary Chapstick had cast at him over lunch had only strengthened his resolve. The way she kept on about her wedding dress (coyly revealing no details of what it actually looked like) had made him feel positively sorry for the poor little thimble. She deserved better than the life sentence of a loveless marriage.
He was still feeling a bit nervous about the evening ahead, but determined to go through with it. All he had to do was to meet Choxy Mulligan in compromising circumstances and let the rumours flow that they were having some kind of beyond-the-barbed-wire ding-dong. The news would soon enough get to Luther P. Chapstick III and he would immediately forbid his daughter’s alliance with such a four-faced stencher. There’d be the odd awkward scene, no doubt, but very soon Blotto, Twinks and the precious Lagonda would be on the first available liner back to Blighty. Mary Chapstick would no doubt be hurt in the short term, but later in life, sharing requited love with the right man, she would realize what a narrow shave she had had, and be grateful to Blotto for doing the gentlemanly thing by doing an ungentlemanly thing.
And as for fears about news of his churlish behaviour reaching Tawcester Towers . . . well, he wasn’t worried on that score. Blotto’s sort of people had no interest in events that took place in the United States (or indeed in anywhere else that wasn’t England). True, the Dowager Duchess would be put a little out of joint when he returned without the Chapstick millions, but she’d have to find another way to sort out the Tawcester Towers plumbing. All Blotto’d need to do would be airily to tell her that for no accountable reason Luther P. Chapstick III had suddenly turned against him. (Even as he had that thought he recognized that his manner might not be quite so airy when actually confronting his mother in the Blue Morning Room, but he’d worry about that later.)
He parked the Lagonda easily opposite the address that Choxy Mulligan had given him. As he left it, unlocked (he always left it unlocked in England), he noticed a couple of men loitering outside the entrance to the unnecessarily tall apartment block. They both carried violin cases and did look astonishingly like two of the men who’d been at Spagsy Chiaparelli’s table the night before. But Blotto decided that’d be too much of a coincidence. Clearly there was a ‘Chicago type’. Just as Welshmen were short, dark and wiry, so men in this part of Illinois all had beetling brows, granite features, thick-set bodies, double-breasted pinstriped suits and violin cases.
The man behind the desk in the apartment block’s lobby also looked familiar, but again Blotto dismissed the possibility that he’d seen him the previous evening. Another of the ‘Chicago type’, sitting there with his violin case in front of him.
He asked for Choxy Mulligan. The heavy checked with the intercom and established that she was expecting him, then directed the visitor to the elevator and the eighteenth floor. Once again Blotto mentally tutted about the gratuitous height of American buildings. It was just another form of showing off, really.
Strange look the man on the desk gave him as he walked to the elevator. Mixture of disbelief, admiration and amusement. Blotto couldn’t think why. Nor could he think why the man was already whispering into the telephone by the time he’d entered the elevator.
On the eighteenth floor he walked along to the relevant apartment, lifted the knocker and gave two sharp raps. There was a moment’s pause and then the door opened.
He was immediately aware of cool jazz playing softly from a gramophone, an overpowering musky perfume and in the background another smell, almost like burning grass cuttings.
He was also immediately aware of Choxy Mulligan. She had given up the black of the night before for bright green, the skirt stopping impishly above her white-stockinged knees. Green strapped shoes and coils of white pearls dangling from her neck to below her waist. The cap of red hair and the generous slash of red lipstick were as striking as they had been on first encounter. She really was a splendid piece of womanflesh.
‘Come in,’ she susurrated.
Blotto did as he was bidden and found himself in a candlelit Aladdin’s Cave of dropping draperies and beaded curtains. Choxy Mulligan shut the door behind him and leant against it, taking in the full sight of him with rather embarrassing relish.
‘Gee!’ she murmured. ‘You really are some hunk, aintcher, Duke?’
‘I’m not actually a duke.’
‘Who cares when you look like you do? Whadda people call you?’
‘Blotto.’
‘Blotto?’ She looked perplexed for a moment, then shrugged and said, ‘Blotto it is then. Can I get you a drink?’
‘Please.’
‘I’ve just prepared a shaker of martini. Dry as a temperance Christmas. Over there on the tray. Pour them for us. I take an olive.’
