I went along the landing, opened the door to the dumbwaiter and reached for the light cord. Somehow it had become looped high on the rope pulley and even stretching my arm to the limit I was unable to reach it. I considered fetching a chair, but vanity stopped me and literally proved my downfall. I was sure the wooden platform with its heavy slats would support skinny me. Stepping confidently aboard I held onto the hand rope with one hand and reached for the light cord with the other. An ominous creaking filtered into my ears. Too late I tried to back off; the platform plummetted wildly to one side, spinning me dizzily off balance. With feet fighting empty air, I clutched desperately for a stronger hold on the rope. I was going down.…
THE
THIN
WOMAN
This edition contains the complete text
of the original hardcover edition
NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED
THE THIN WOMAN
A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
St Martin’s edition published 1984
Bantam edition / June 1992
All rights reserved
Copyright © 1984 by Dorothy Cannell
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eISBN: 978-0-307-81672-6
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v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Dedication
Other Books by This Author
About the Author
CHAPTER
One
Nice people everywhere know that family reunions are occasions of wholesome pleasure, more innocently rewarding than lavender-scented sheets in the airing cupboard or fresh pots of homemade bramble jelly cooling on a marble pantry shelf. I hope, therefore, that posterity will not judge me harshly when I confess I read the invitation to Merlin’s Court with the same panic I would have accorded a formal notice that I was to be executed at the Crown’s convenience. The gently worded letter on thin violet writing paper summoned me to a gathering of the clan at the ancestral home of an aged uncle. My horror lay in the knowledge that I could no longer conceal my disreputable secret from the relations I had cleverly avoided the past few years. Advertising campaigns describe such as I in soothing terms—full-figure girls. But who are we kidding? One simple three-letter word says it all.
Camouflage might help. Not the new outfit kind (I no longer put faith in clothes), but a broad-shouldered man to stand behind. Ideally what I needed was a handsome, devoted spouse and a circle of adorable golden-haired children, who always ate with their mouths closed and never swore in public. Surrounded by all that moral support I might feel better equipped to look my wretchedly beautiful cousin Vanessa in the eye. Daydreamer! I was, needless to say, single, and unless Zeus came down from Olympus and made me an offer, likely to remain so.
The weather that evening matched my mood. It was bleak and blustery, typical of late January in London. I had returned from work, my face rubbed raw, to find the letter on the doormat. My flat was at the top of a gaunt Victorian house, run by a phantom landlady who was never to be found when the taps leaked but materialized the instant the rent was due. Having hung my coat on the peg by the front door, I arranged my umbrella so it could rain over my geranium plants, and headed for the kitchen, where I did what I always did in times of trial—opened the refrigerator door. This time I was tempted to climb inside, blotting out the intrusive world. But that would have solved nothing. The ensuing scene would have been a remake of Pooh Bear getting stuck while visiting Rabbit, and no one was going to use my legs for towel racks. So I did another comforting Pooh-Bearish thing. I filled a plate with a loaf of French bread and six chocolate éclairs, tucked a pot of Mrs. Biddle’s Best Strawberry Jam under one arm and grabbed the butter dish. Planting my loot on the scrubbed wood table next to the African violet the cat had knocked over, and the morning newspaper ringed with coffee stains, I stuck a candle in a Coke bottle and lit it with a flourish. I downed two éclairs and four slices of crusty bread lavish with sweet yellow butter; thus strengthened, I reread the invitation to Merlin’s Court—my nickname for my antiquated relation’s abode. The real name was something prosaic like The Laurels or Tall Chimneys, not at all in character with the whimsical quality of the house.
The letter, of course, was not penned by the great man himself. Such attention might have given me an undue sense of my own importance. Aunt Sybil, who lived with the old dear and doted on his every whim, had scratched the missive in her quaint Victorian hand, all wispy loops and curls like fallen eyelashes. I was afraid to breathe on the paper in case the writing disappeared. The weekend party was to commence on the evening of Friday, the thirteenth of February, and to conclude (promptly, no doubt) on the Sunday after four o’clock tea. Refusal of this genteel invitation was obviously deemed unthinkable. I was demurely asked to apprise Aunt Sybil if I would be escorted by a gentleman friend so that a separate bedroom could be prepared.
What a lovely word: escorted! It makes one think of seaside promenades, top hats and twirling canes, and delicious young men with evil on their minds. The last escort I had was the ward orderly who wheeled me into Outpatients the night I twisted my ankle running for a taxi. “Have another éclair, Ellie!” “I don’t mind if I do.” The thick yellow cream oozed between my fingers. I wiped a splotch off the newspaper, and there it was in big bold black letters, shouting just for me! Eligibility Escorts, Male and Female. A Highly Legitimate Service. Don’t Go Alone! Pick Up the Phone.
“And get murdered,” said a little voice in my ear.
“What for?” said another little voice. “You don’t have any money. You’re not gorgeous.”
I finished the last éclair and wished I hadn’t. How much would it cost to rent a man for the weekend? A packet, no doubt. But I had Mother’s money. I rarely bought clothes or furnishings for the flat. As an interior designer, I got my kicks doing up other people’s houses. Being selective was my business. I could apply those same professional skills to choosing a man, the kind who would enhance any drawing room décor. He would be tall and elegant, with finely moulded features and a pair of darkly arched sardonic eyebrows. I had met such paragons often, between the pages of Regal Romances; they were suavely named Julian St. Tropé or Eduard Van Heckler and were the perfect accessory for a girl wanting to make a nice impression.
“Fool.” I crumpled the paper and picked up the empty plate. “You’d land up with someone called Fred Potts who moonlights selling floor polish door to door.” As if on cue, the doorbell trilled. It was my roommate, Tobias Feline. A very conventional cat, he refused to come up the fi
re escape and through the window. Perched on the hall table outside my door, he would nudge the bell until I got the message and opened up. Tobias was not alone. My neighbour Jill, from downstairs, followed him in, which did not please him. Tobias hates company. His scowl said, “Kick the witch out.” Sniffing disgustedly at his food dish, he stalked off to sharpen his claws on the sofa in my tiny sitting room. Poor Jill was looking a little witchy. She had dyed her short spiky hair once too often (she uses the every-other-day kind), and it was now a sullen-looking green, which clashed with her eyebrows. I’ve tried to hate Jill because she is tiny with a capital T—four foot ten, weighs less than I did at birth, and always sucking in her nonexistent stomach, saying she simply must go on a diet. But she is also nice with a capital N. Dropping down on a kitchen chair, she kicked off her Cinderella-sized shoes and rolled a bottle of plum wine onto the table, stretched her skinny little arms above her head, and said she was exhausted. I wasn’t surprised. Jill teaches self-defence to women who are afraid to go out alone at night, and she has a judo chop that would send Mr. Universe through three floors and bounce him back up again.
“Wooh! What a night. That wind. I practically flew home. Time for a warm-up. Fetch a couple of mugs, Ellie dear, and I’ll pour us each a slug of plum yum-yum.”
“Do you mind drinking alone?” I reached into the cupboard and came back to the table with a glass marked Present from Blackpool. “Sorry, but I don’t want to curdle my éclair.”
“What’s up? You look a little sour already.” Jill topped up her glass and looked at me intently. Priding herself on being an amateur psychiatrist, she has been thumbing her way through my neuroses for the past three years. So far she has prescribed group therapy, meditation, macramé, yoga, and a pen friendship with a guru. I handed her the invitation and poured myself a double Andrews Liver Salts.
“So? It doesn’t sound like the most exciting bash of the season, but it’s a weekend at the seaside. Boring probably, but harmless.”
“You haven’t met my aunt Astrid or her dear, delectable daughter, Vanessa—the girl designed with men in mind—not a brain in her head, but who notices?”
“Meow!” Jill ran a finger round the rim of her glass and poured herself another shot.
Tobias cocked an ear round the corner, decided he wasn’t being spoken to, and retreated.
“Cattiness is one of my few pleasures in life—I don’t smoke, I don’t drink (much), and I don’t have sordid affairs with men lusting after my body.”
“If you didn’t eat for six you might have a hope. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I keep telling you, I’ll go on a diet if you will. We’ll make it a team effort. An early morning jog down to the station and back, calisthenics while you’re working, and three teeny-weeny meals a day—no cheating!”
“Thanks a lot, Jill, but I couldn’t take that tomato, vinegar, and stale cake routine again. Besides, it’s all too little, too late. The gala event is only three weeks away. And don’t suggest my refusing the invitation. They would all guess why I didn’t dare show.”
“Even though they haven’t seen you for over two years? You weren’t as heavy then as you are now.”
“No, but I was always chunky. When I was a teenager, Aunt Astrid predicted I would end up as big around as the dome of St. Paul’s. My failure to answer all letters and Christmas cards will have confirmed their worst suspicions.”
“Didn’t you tell me your uncle Merlin is a recluse, that he hasn’t seen you since you were a child? Why this sudden yearning to entertain his kith and kin?”
“Goodness knows. Perhaps the old boy is about to kick the bucket, although the last I heard he was threatening to live to be a hundred. You know the type—hasn’t seen a doctor in fifty years and never gets a cold. Anyway, Uncle Merlin isn’t my problem; he’s not interested in women. He can sit on his mothballs until he croaks. It’s the others I’m worried about, not just gorgeous Vanessa and Mummy, but Uncle Maurice, Aunt Lulu, and my cousin Frederick. I don’t want them asking what a nice girl like me is doing in a body like this!”
“Being flip isn’t helping, Ellie. You’ve got to come to terms with whatever is driving you to destroy yourself. Probably some trauma at an early age …”
“All right! But miracles sometimes take time, which I do not have. What I do have is this!” Pushing the newspaper across the table, I pointed to the ad for Eligibility Escorts and awaited her reaction. If Jill scoffed … but she didn’t.
“Ellie, this is super! Will you try it? You’re always so hide-bound.”
“Only if I can feel safe that the agency is legitimate. A lot of these places are cover-ups.”
“For immoral purposes? You’re afraid they’ll interview you for a post as lady of the night? Ellie, you’d never get the job.”
“Thanks a lot!”
“Not just because you’re, hmmm, large. It’s your depressing aura of blatant respectability.” Jill poured another drink and waggled it in front of my face. One of the reasons I liked her was that she didn’t skim over the subject of my weight. “Here’s to Ellie! I wonder how this outfit works? Do you rent the man by the hour, the day? In your case I would ask about their special weekend package deal!”
“You are ridiculous.” I was hungry again but decided to try the last of the wine instead. “I’ll ring them tomorrow. Nothing definite; just a few discreet enquiries. If the person on the other end sounds sane, I will ask for an appointment. I can always decide not to go at the last minute.”
“You’ll go. Come to think of it, my cousin Matilda went there or to a similar place. She was between husbands at the time. She literally cannot stand up if she doesn’t have a man’s arm to clutch. She decided if the groom could rent a suit and a top hat it was perfectly proper for her to rent a man. I believe he was mistaken for the father of the bride or the maître d’, one or the other.”
“Let us drink to presentable men, however they come,” I cried, raising my glass. “Whatever the price.”
The next day I did not feel quite as swingingly sophisticated. I put off telephoning Eligibility Escorts until late in the afternoon. Going into the back area of the showroom where I worked, I poured a cup of coffee from the electric pot perched dangerously on a packing case, sharpened three pencils until they were lethal, sat down behind the desk, stood up, organized a box of paper clips, picked up the phone, put it down, and finally dialled the number. It was engaged. Five minutes later I got through and was informed by the anonymous voice at the other end of the wire that appointments were not necessary. Office hours were 8:30 to 5:30, and I would be expected to provide three references, type-written, in triplicate. Click.
Not very friendly, but definitely businesslike. I began to feel better. Cancelling my late afternoon appointment with a woman who wanted her suburban three-bedroom, prewar house turned into a French château, I took the tube to the Strand, checked the address in my purse for the fourth time, and began the ten-minute walk to Goldfinch Street.
My feet slowed it to twenty. They also walked me into Woolworth’s, where I bought a lipstick I didn’t need in a colour I would never wear, and a bag of potato crisps which I tucked into my bag for a little security.
Unfortunately, I had no trouble finding the building that housed Eligibility. No one could miss it. The architect had not bypassed an innovative trick. Riding the lift—a glass funnel revolving on its own axis with no visible means of support—through a jungle of hothouse plants was an experience in itself. My only hope was that some exuberant tenor would not forget himself, burst into song, and with one glorious ping splinter the lot of us. I kept my eye on a stout, swarthy gentleman with a black operatic beard and silently dared him to breathe. In the nick of time the great globular machine drifted to a halt, hung in the air for a second, then, in a silent yawn, opened its doors. Briefly I considered making an immediate return voyage. But I despise cowards, even if I am one most of the time.
Turning a corner, I found myself immediately in front of a glass do
or proclaiming in blazing letters Eligibility Escorts. Underneath was a nauseating little etching of two hearts entwined.
Scrambling in my bag, I fished out a pair of dark glasses, and turned up the collar of my camel coat. Who was I hiding from? Me? My insides plummetted; I did a bit of Lamaze breathing I had picked up on the telly and opened the door.
As is often the case when one expects the worst, nothing sinister lurked inside. It was the usual kind of reception room where exorbitant fees are collected: bleached bone walls, bamboo window blinds, and a sparing, eclectic use of accessories. The room’s focal point was a silicone-upholstered blonde, cleverly disguised as the receptionist. Seated behind a crescent-shaped orange Formica desk, she was filing her already razor-sharp nails and genteelly chewing gum, blowing cute little bubbles which exactly matched her candy-pink lipstick. She didn’t look up as I came in on waves of Johnny Mathis crooning enticingly.
I cleared my throat and noisily swallowed my voice. “Excuse me?”
“Yes?” Blondie Locks sucked in the neat little dollop of gum and managed, if possible, to look more bored than ever. “If you’ve come about the job”—the emery board continued to hum—“it’s taken. Sorry, but first come, first served.”
“Job?”
She looked blank. “Janitor, male or female, no experience necessary, no fringe benefits, age forty-five and”—she paused—“you mean you didn’t want it?”
Surely I could not have aged that rapidly since morning? This bottle-blond, sugar-coated idiot was going to be a real treat. From her X-ray stare I might have been a maggot crawling out from a silver tray of neatly trimmed cucumber sandwiches. Nerves be damned, I was not going to be treated like the cat’s lunch.
I took off the dark glasses and put them in my pocket. “I’m here as a client, not as a full-time employee. You may remember”—I cast a glance round the empty waiting room—“I rang up this afternoon, and you told me I could come in without an appointment. I hope I haven’t wasted my time? I have clients of my own that I have neglected for this.” Take that, I thought, feeling her mean little eyes work slowly up and down taking in my parachute-shaped coat and serviceable shoes. Why had I done this to myself?
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