The Thin Woman

by Dorothy Cannell

  “Management requirements are, I am afraid, very exacting—”

  “Exactly what are these requirements? If I’d known you wanted 36–24–35, I wouldn’t have eaten lunch.”

  “Look, miss, I don’t make the rules. Life isn’t always fair.”

  Profound thought for the day.

  “Listen, if I looked the way you think I should, I wouldn’t be here. Now can you help, or may I speak to someone who will?”

  Her sigh rattled the paper clips. “I don’t make the decisions for E.E.… Oh well, Mrs. Swabueher will want these completed before you go in.” A sheaf of application forms, miniature hearts stamped in each top right-hand corner, and stickily clipped together with a bent paper clip, was thrust into my hands. “Go into that little cubbyhole near the window.”

  Blondie Locks did not bother to get up; she just waved a packet of gum. “You’ll find what you need, pens, pencils, and an adding machine.”

  I heard a door open and close at the far end of the room but not before I caught the words, “Wooh, we’ve got Miss World out there.” Always before, I had rather enjoyed filling out application forms. They assert in nice dear print that I am a person with past accomplishments, ideas, and goals—all neatly tabulated. Check Box A, B, or C, sign on the dotted line. Never much room for soul-searching. I have not been arrested, practised bigamy, or belonged to a far-out tropical religious cult. But this interrogatory was obviously the brainchild of some Freudian disciple who wanted me to dig my own grave and lie in it.

  When using the bathroom, did I always close the door?

  Did I smoke other people’s cigarettes?

  What kind of nightwear did I prefer?

  Somewhere between these skilfully dotted lines lay booby traps to be detonated by the unwary. Having chewed off the ends of two pencils and decided that if this drivel did not finish me off, lead poisoning would, I skipped a few lines and came to a question in large type, several times underscored. This was obviously the biggie. “What did I want most out of life?”

  A. A fulfilling sexual relationship.

  B. Money.

  C. Approval of one’s peers.

  I was tempted to respond, “Fish and chips with plenty of vinegar and peas, a large Coke, and a chocolate ice-cream sundae with extra cream, two cherries, no nuts.”

  An alarm went off, puncturing my right eardrum. Blondie Locks was back, holding a natty-looking timepiece expertly between her cherry-ripe claws.

  “You’d better see Mrs. Swabucher now. She leaves for a conference the day after tomorrow.” From her smirk, Blondie Locks had apparently decided I was Joke of the Day. Everyone hold your sides and roll in your seats; here comes Miss Woollen Underwear looking for Mr. Right.

  The inner sanctum was like a great big powder puff, all fluffy and pink and softly scented. Everything was pink—the carpet, the wallpaper, the curtains, the lampshade that looked like a parasol; even the large desk in the centre of the room was a pearly pink, heart-shaped of course. Behind this sat a fluffy elderly lady, who looked a bit like a powder puff herself. In that rosy light her hair had a pinkish glow.

  “Miss, er, Ellie Simons.” Blondie Locks plopped down my test papers on the desk and skittered out on her nine-inch pencil heels.

  “Come in, come in, my dear. My! You look scared to death, poor pet.” Mrs. Swabucher came trotting out from behind the desk, and I was amazed to see she was wearing cosy bedroom slippers with large silk pink pompoms, which quite cancelled the effect of her rose wool suit.

  She caught my eye and gave an improbable wink. “I know, I know they make me look like an old tabby cat, but I do suffer so with my feet, and my daughter Phyllis gave them to me last Christmas. She’s the tall girl in this photo, the one standing next to the boy with the hamster—my grandson Albert. Let me take your coat, dear, pull that chair up so we can have a really jolly natter. How about some coffee?”

  This was the master-mind of E.E.? I noticed with mild surprise that my hands had stopped shaking. I was able to hold the delicate coffee cup with its gentle tracing of tiny rosebuds quite steady. The room was deliciously warm despite the rain prattling down outside. I might have been spending a quiet evening with an elderly friend or relative, except that my relatives were all as warm as snakes.

  “Has that girl been giving you a hard time?” Mrs. Swabucher sat down again behind the photograph frames and sipped her coffee. “I knew she was wrong the minute I set eyes on her. But what can one do? It’s absolutely impossible to find good help these days: sloppy, rude, and dreadfully underbred. Now you, Miss Simons, I can see, are a lady.”

  “About the test?”

  “Oh, don’t worry your head about that nonsense for a minute. That was my son Reginald’s idea. He’s an accountant, and you know how they are—‘Mother, you must be efficient, up to the minute, go by the book.’ What I do go on is instinct, and I’m never wrong. That’s how I got into this business in the first place. I understand people. My dear late husband always said I was a born match-maker, and when he passed on … what else did I have to do?”

  She ran down momentarily like an old watch, and I murmured something about not requiring anything quite as permanent as a husband.

  Mrs. Swabucher beamed at me. “One never can tell! Have a chocolate, all soft centres. I order them specially.”

  I eyed them hungrily, but refused.

  “Worry about your weight, don’t you, dear? Shouldn’t. At your age it’s probably just puppy fat.”

  “I’m twenty-seven.”

  “Dear, oh dear! About to die of old age, are you!” Mrs. Swabucher chuckled throatily. “Come on, be a devil. Enjoy yourself! Ah! You’re afraid—you think this is another test, like that rubbish outside. Let’s get one thing straight, Miss Simons. I’m not devious, not clever enough for it. Now eat up, and well get down to business. Tell me all about yourself.”

  It was easy. I had one chocolate, two chocolates. Mrs. Swabucher handed me the box and told me to keep it on my lap. She kept pouring me coffee. I told her about the invitation to Merlin’s Court, described Vanessa and how dreadfully inadequate I felt in her presence, how I hated my weight but felt powerless to control it, and how I thought even a make-believe relationship would give me the confidence to get through the big weekend.

  By the end of my recital Mrs. Swabucher had tears in her eyes and was blowing noisily into a pink silk handkerchief. “What a pity my youngest boy, poor William, never had a chance to meet you.”

  I had visions of an early and tragic death. But Mrs. Swabucher explained that last June her offspring had married a very undeserving liberated person who believed in separate holidays and disliked children.

  I, however, was the present and could be helped. The dear lady began taking copious notes in a peculiar-looking shorthand interlaced with blots and arrows: Jobs, hobbies, likes, and dislikes all went into the pot, where they would be allowed to stew for a while, said Mrs. Swabucher. In the meantime, she would examine her files and put on her thinking cap. Somewhere out there was the man whose life would briefly touch mine.

  “Aren’t you going to a conference in a couple of days?” I asked, suddenly realizing how late it was. I had been sitting in this room for two hours.

  “That girl can’t tell the truth to save her life. Conference indeed! Sounds grand, doesn’t it? What I’m really doing is visiting my grandchildren for a few days. But business before pleasure. Before I go anywhere I am going to find that man for you.”

  We lifted our coffee cups and drank a toast to Mr. Right, wherever he was.

  CHAPTER

  Two

  During the week following my visit to Eligibility Escorts I tried to console myself with the old adage that no news is good news, but even to my ears the cliché rang hollow. Either Mrs. Swabucher was unnecessarily choosy or so far her scouting expedition had met with dismal failure. I had given her Jill’s number, having finally thrown my telephone out. Ideally, I should have sent it to a monastery. Each time I heard Jill’s f
ootfall on the stairs I held my breath until my cheeks turned blue. Usually she was just coming up to borrow an egg. Her latest fad was mixing one in a glass of salt water for a late-night gargle. The only telephone calls she reported were three obscene ones from a lady in Knightsbridge who thought Jill was her paper boy. On Wednesday she did call me down and handed me the receiver. He sounded dreamy! False alarm, it wasn’t him, just Mr. Green from the cleaners at the corner, jubilantly reporting he had found the belt to my blue-and-white-spotted silk dress. I was tempted to tell him to keep it for a clothesline, but he was a kind little man supporting an aged mother.

  Saturday arrived, and Jill insisted on a shopping spree. I absolutely must have a new outfit for the weekend. Bleating miserably that He was bound to ring up the moment my back was turned, I trudged after her into a decrepit little boutique in Soho. We were greeted with repellent ecstasy by the owner herself: a frowsy-looking woman with matted shoulder-length hair and a tattoo of a headless chicken on her left wrist. Serena would transform me. The question was, into what? Against my insistence that I did nothing for it at all, I was bullied into purchasing a full-length purple silk caftan sporting pearl beading round the neckline and gold braid round the sleeves and hem. Serena and Jill insisted I looked opulent. The term I would have chosen was Arabian Fright. But I did feel I had preserved a small measure of integrity in rejecting the gold cloth Aladdin slippers with the raised pointed toes.

  “What’s that burbling noise?” I asked, when we finally reached Jill’s door, drenched from the rain that had met us when we came out of the tube. “Sounds like Tobias trapped somewhere. I think he’s suffocating.”

  Jill got out her key. “That’s not Tobias. You know how irritated Miss Renshaw, from the basement, sets if the phone rings all day and no one answers it. Now when I go out for any length of time I shove it under a beanbag.”

  Her hand paused at the lock. We looked at each other. “The phone!” we screeched in unison. “It’s ringing!”

  I grabbed for the key. Jill dropped it, and we heard the soft metallic thud-thud as it went flipping across the dark linoleum floor. “Idiot,” we said together. Getting down on our hands and knees, we crawled in circles, rear-ending each other every now and then in our panic.

  “Too late!” cried Jill.

  “Has it gone down a crack?”

  “No! Drat you. The phone’s stopped. Ah! Found it!” She held the key as far away from me as possible and dared me to move until she safely unlocked the door.

  “What do you expect me to do? Stay down here forever? I’m getting lockjaw in my knees.”

  Jill made a throaty little growl as I staggered up and followed her inside. We both stood disconsolately in the middle of the floor, still in our wet coats; the telephone squatted on its haunches saying nothing at all.

  “Ring, you big black toad,” I ordered, and obediently it did.

  “You answer.” Jill peeled off her coat. “And if it’s that laboratory person again asking if I will donate my body for experimentation, say I give while I’m alive.”

  “Riverbridge 6890,” I croaked. How can a woman’s voice break at twenty-seven?

  “Ellie Simons?” An accusing voice came from the other end.

  “Um, ah, what, who is …?”

  “Bentley Haskell. I’ve spent half the day on the phone trying to reach you. I understood from Mrs. Swabucher at the service that this was some kind of emergency. If you have perhaps made other arrangements that’s fine with me, but I do like to know where I stand on these assignments.”

  “Yes, quite! Naturally I do understand your position.” In my terror I dropped the phone and it went down with a rattling thump.

  Jill perched on a stool by my left ear. “Stop grovelling.”

  “Shush.” I yanked the cord away from her and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Don’t worry, that was the phone I dropped, not my false teeth.”

  Impatient breathing came over the wire. “Miss Simons, I only take a couple of appointments a month. Escorting unattached females is not a full-time profession with me so I endeavour to set up my calendar as much in advance as possible. Exactly how much time are we talking about, and when?”

  “When?” I echoed. “I thought Mrs. Swabucher would have—just a moment, please. I’m so sorry about all this. I know I have the invitation right here, somewhere, in my bag. You want to know the dates?”

  “You don’t suffer from amnesia, do you, Miss Simons?”

  “Oh, how amusing, Mr., eh …!” I did a Blondie Locks titter. “I always enjoy men—people—with a sense of humor.” Covering the receiver, I mouthed frantically at Jill, “When am I going?”

  She closed her eyes in pain. “Do black cats and ladders strike a chord? Friday the thirteenth! And stop whimpering at his feet. It’s dehumanizing.”

  Jill was right. Enough of this nonsense! Squaring my shoulders I did an impersonation of my bank manager when he is letting me know he can bounce my cheques with one hand. “Mr. Hammond, I have all the information right here at my fingertips. The dates are February thirteenth to the fifteenth.”

  “Haskell. Bentley T. Haskell. I gather from our mutual associate Mrs. Swabucher that your situation is somewhat unusual, that you are looking for more than a mere escort. You wish me to pose as the devoted gentleman friend?”

  “Will there be an extra charge? No problem. You may have the money in cash if you prefer.”

  “Thank you, and in unmarked bills if you can arrange it.”

  Funny man. Did he despise his work, find it demeaning? He sounded in a hurry to move on to whatever eligible men do for indoor entertainment on dreary winter evenings.

  “Shall we arrange a meeting before we make this trip?” he asked. “That way you can fill me in on the details.”

  “No, I don’t think that will be necessary.” No point in giving this already hostile male an excuse to back out. Mrs. Swabucher’s kindly description of me might not match the truth. “If you give me your address, Mr. Haskell, I will send you an agenda—time of departure, destination, etc.”

  “Thank you, but direct all correspondence to the agency. I don’t give out my home address to clients.”

  Was the man afraid I might appear on his doorstep one dark and stormy night and try to rape him?

  “Perfect!” What was I thinking of? “Like you, Mr. Haskell, I want to keep this matter strictly business.” I gave a little trill of laughter aimed at showing him how amusing I found all this.

  “Am I interrupting your dinner?”

  “No.” Was he going to let down his defences and ask me out?

  “I thought you were choking.”

  So much for the light approach! Before he hung up I mentioned transportation. I had thought we would travel by train, but when he suggested our talking his car I found the offer irresistible. Immediately I envisioned us sweeping regally between the iron gates at Merlin’s Court.

  “Fine,” I told Mr. Haskell. “Add petrol expenses to the bill.”

  He assured me he would and rang off.

  I sat by the phone staring at the ceiling and holding my knees together. They were chattering worse than my teeth.

  “What’s his name?” asked Jill.

  I told her.

  “Sounds like a car,” she said.

  “Jill, you know I am very sensitive about name jokes.”

  “Sorry. I forgot that Ellie is an abbreviation. How about cracking a bottle of rhubarb wine in celebration?”

  The evening was a good one, once I came out of shock. In doing an instant replay of the telephone conversation, I deluded myself that anyone as rudely abrupt as Bentley Haskell had to be a dish. Lesser men always try harder. Every gothic hero encountered between the pages of a paperback romance started out hostile, until the heroine got her silky little paws on him. I toyed with a mental image of Mr. Haskell sporting an interesting limp, and a scar trammelling one swarthy cheek—injuries suffered in the traditional hunting accident.

  By my third glass of w
ine I was feeling pretty chipper. But the next morning, sober once more, I remembered those heroines all looked like Vanessa. If I were ever cast in a gothic plot, it would be as buxom Dame Goody trundling through life in the devoted service of others. This is the real world.

  The next week passed in an orgy of indecision. I used up my entire supply of writing paper, presents from three years back, drafting letters to Mrs. Swabucher instructing her to cancel the order, all of which got savagely ripped apart and cremated in my kitchen stove. Tobias, that fearless specimen of feline life, was afraid to say “Meow” to me. I was snappy with Jill. All in all, I was a wreck and getting fatter by the minute. Time was growing short. I wrote to Aunt Sybil saying I would be escorted and I sent the agenda to the agency asking that it be passed on to Mr. Haskell.

  When the fateful day arrived, my eyes were bloodshot and my skin—my one prized feature—was a beehive of angry red blotches. Minutes ticked fiercely by, bringing the phantom Mr. Haskell ever closer. I couldn’t find the keys to my suitcase, and the oatmeal-eggwhite face mask Jill had slapped on me from the neck up had set hard as concrete. For a while we were afraid we would need to summon someone from the local petrol station to come and chisel me out.

  “It’s a shame this isn’t a masquerade do,” sighed Jill. “You could go as a lump of petrified rock.”

  Fortunately I laughed and the rock crumbled. Now came another risky procedure—squeezing me into a new pair of panty hose without popping them like overblown balloons.

  Over the head with the purple caftan.

  “Are you sure this outfit is suitable?” I was fumbling with a recalcitrant pearl earring.

  “Sure!” Jill was trying to pry my left foot into a black grosgrain shoe I hadn’t worn in years.