I let him in, but only as far as the kitchen, not wanting my inner sanctum besmirched.
Predictably, he’d come to order me to leave Miranda alone. Striking a pose by the cooker he said I was a bad influence, and had even almost convinced her that he – Chris! – had done all the odd things that had been happening, not her.
Also, she really wasn’t up to running any kind of business, so that it was unfair of me to dump one into her lap and expect her to take it on . . . and more to that effect.
I just folded my arms and looked down at him while he ran his course, but when he added that he’d told Miranda not to associate with me any more, and I was not welcome in his house, I said I’d no intention of ever visiting his house, but Miranda’s was another thing entirely.
Then I added kindly that he could have saved himself the trouble of visiting me, because all his little machinations were totally transparent, and he slammed out.
It’s a pity I don’t have one of those hidden cameras, because I could probably get good money for film of smiley old TV chef Chris Cotter throwing a wobbler.
Of course, after this I was quite tempted to turn up at the party just for the hell of it, but any unpleasantness would upset Miranda, so I decided just to carry on with the insidious influences when he’d gone back to London.
I didn’t see Miranda again until Monday morning, when I deduced from the dark circles under her eyes and her hunted, anxious expression that as far as she was concerned the weekend hadn’t been one long round of delirious pleasure.
‘How was the party?’ I asked. ‘I had lunch yesterday with Lili at her cottage – a very bijou des res – and she said she persuaded her potter to go to the party with her, but when they got there and she finally made her move, he recoiled with horror. She was very put out.’
‘Oh, I wish you’d come, Sappho – it was d-dire! What with Chris saying horrible things to me in a kind voice as though I were a half-witted child, and Nye trying to avoid Lili, and Lili getting plastered . . .’ Miranda shuddered. ‘And then Gil was d-depressed b-because the police had him in again for questioning about D-Dorinda.’
‘Sorry I missed it,’ I said sincerely, for it sounded more interesting than I’d expected. ‘But I thought I’d better not, because Chris isn’t too pleased to have me back. I mean, just think what amazing depths you’ve sunk to already due to my influence – running your own business, writing your own recipe books, going to car boot sales . . . It’s all a positive orgy of depravity.’
‘It’s an orgy of d-delight,’ Miranda corrected me. ‘And d-do you know, I think I’ve b-been losing weight, too! My clothes feel sort of loose.’
‘That’s hardly surprising – you’ve been so busy rushing here and there lately that even Spike looks slimmer. So – are you going to carry on, or do what Chris wants and give up Fantasy Flowers, stop seeing me, stop writing your own cookbooks and only write his?’
She sat up straight and a slightly martial gleam came into her soft blue eyes. ‘No, I’m not! He’s quite wrong about me – I feel b-better than I have for years! And although he said that my even suspecting him of d-doing those odd things, like the koi in the freezer, showed that I was b-batty, I’m not sure . . .’
‘Of course he did them,’ I assured her. ‘You’re saner than I am.’
She seemed to accept my judgement, and we settled back into our routine perfectly happily until the following Saturday (mercifully a Chris-free zone), when she burst in upon me mid-Deathless Delights in a state of almost mindless panic.
‘Sappho,’ she cried. ‘Something else happened yesterday, something really strange – and Chris couldn’t have d-done it this time, and—’
‘Calm down,’ I said soothingly, ‘and tell me all about it, but slowly. And for goodness’ sake, sit!’
She subsided, panting, though at least not with her tongue hanging out like Spike.
‘Yesterday morning, after I’d got home from here, a woman came to the d-door and said she was delivering the clothes I’d ordered the day b-before – a lot of clothes – from an expensive shop in Swansea.’
‘Well, that doesn’t seem too scary. Did you order any clothes?’
‘No, I d-didn’t. B-but the thing is, Sappho, they were all size ten, and I haven’t b-b-been a size ten for years . . . and they were lovely clothes, the sort of things I might have ordered if I was still slim.’
‘A straightforward mistake, delivered to the wrong address?’ I suggested. ‘But I suppose that’s the first thing you checked?’
‘Yes, and it was clearly my name and address on the d-delivery note. The woman d-didn’t know anything – she was an assistant, and she was d-delivering them as a favour, b-because they normally d-didn’t d-do that.’
‘What about the shop? Did you phone them?’
‘Yes, I got the manageress, and she was very polite, b-but clearly thought I was mad as a hatter! She said the woman who’d b-bought them gave my name, and was small and very plump, with b-blonde hair, and she thought she must b-be b-buying the things for her d-daughter as a surprise. She paid a lot extra to have them d-delivered to my address.’
‘When did she say the woman ordered the clothes?’
‘Just the d-day before – the Thursday. And I always go into Swansea on Thursdays, to the supermarket.’
I tried to remember . . . ‘Did you go in as usual last Thursday?’
‘No, that’s just it! I popped in here first thing – there was just that b-big b-bouquet to d-do, the unrequited love and jealousy one.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, I remember that – it was then I realized you were much better at it than Mu and me.’
‘That’s kind of you, Sappho, b-but I d-don’t think I am. B-but anyway, I d-did the order and then d-dropped it in at the post office on the way home to collect my shopping list and leave Spike. Only as soon as I opened the d-door I thought I could smell gas, so I called Spike and went and phoned the gas people up from next d-door, and they came out and there was a leak. Then it was too late to go anywhere.’
‘You didn’t tell me about that – but at least it proves it definitely couldn’t have been you, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes . . . but I b-began to d-doubt . . . I mean, last night I got to thinking about it: there were the other strange things that happened, and it was my usual d-day for shopping, so I b-began to wonder if I had gone in after all and imagined the rest. And, Sappho, this one can’t have b-been Chris, b-because he couldn’t d-disguise himself as a b-blonde woman, could he?’
‘No, but he’d have no problem sending someone down for the day. Miranda, I’m positive he’s behind all this. It’s a control thing now, to stop you showing any independence. Face him with it and see what he says.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t! And h-he wouldn’t have played a trick like that, surely, b-because i-it’s cruel. I-it’s b-beyond a joke.’
‘That’s because it was never meant to be a joke. And yes, it is cruel, and it’s been thought up by someone close to you, like the other things. Who else could have got the fish and put them in the freezer, for instance? Look, you’re going to London on Monday to see your editor, aren’t you? Why not go round to the house and have it out with Chris afterwards?’
‘B-but it’s d-different when he’s there, Sappho. I always end up b-believing everything he says . . . until afterwards. And he won’t b-be there on Monday, b-because—’
She broke off when the doorbell rang in a determined sort of way, and I had to go and answer it.
It was Lili, almost sober.
‘Hi!’ she said brightly, walking straight past me and into the living room, where she greeted Miranda, then pulled a bottle of gin out of her capacious shoulder bag and looked around vaguely. ‘Got any glasses?’
I brought some in, and tonic water, since she was quite capable of drinking it straight from the bottle otherwise, and at least Miranda and I could dilute ours.
Lili coiled herself on one end of the slippery settee and downed a glassful with a co
ntented sigh.
‘Saw you with your admirer yesterday,’ she said to Miranda, who was sitting primly on the other end of the sofa.
‘Admirer? What d-do you mean?’
‘Gil, the possible wife murderer. Of course, Nye might have done it, but it all adds a certain edge to their fascination, don’t you find?’
‘D-don’t be silly,’ Miranda said, going a bit pink. ‘Gil is certainly no murderer, and he isn’t my admirer, just a childhood friend who’s been going through a really b-bad time lately. First he thought he was going to inherit this cottage, and his wife made so much fuss about it when he d-didn’t that he nearly had a nervous b-breakdown – he’s terribly sensitive. Then D-Dorinda d-disappeared and he’s really only just starting to get b-back on his feet again – she used to run his life for him. And I’m sure Nye Thomas wouldn’t kill D-Dorinda just b-because she wanted to knock the chalets d-down and expand the golf course.’
‘He might have done if she was wearing one of those horrible golfing outfits – the Head Girl at the Chalet School look?’ I suggested flippantly. ‘Or the Rupert Bear men’s version. Wearing either of those should be severely punished.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Lili enthusiastically, ‘some of those trousers are verging on the Bay City Rollers, and that’s a check too far.’
‘It’s not funny,’ Miranda said reproachfully. ‘Think of poor D-Dorinda.’
‘Probably got tired of Gil and ran off,’ I said.
‘Yes, he’s not very exciting,’ agreed Lili. ‘But as long as she doesn’t turn up in Nye’s garden I don’t really care.’ She gulped half her drink and added, ‘Did Sappho tell you all about Greece, Miranda? I don’t know why I go out there every year. There are never any decent men, and Bob’s gone so stuffy: said I was giving middle-aged British women a bad name. Cheek! Me – middle-aged!’
She took another long pull of gin. ‘One of the Creative Breakers was this funny little fat man and he kept making passes at Sappho. Then he tried to book an extra week so he could do my course, only his wife had a dicky fit and hauled him off, thank God. And Sappho went away for a week with Mu Greythorpe to climb hills and eat candles.’
‘Candles?’ said Miranda blankly, and I sat bolt upright and glared.
‘How did you know that?’
‘Why, was it a secret? I haven’t told anyone about it, don’t worry,’ she said.
‘It wasn’t candles either, but lamp wick.’
She shrugged. ‘Candles, lamp wick – weird.’ She turned back to Miranda: ‘It’s some sort of fertility rite, apparently.’
‘It’s supposed to be,’ I agreed reluctantly, for I didn’t want Mu’s problems spread far and wide – especially when she and Simon might soon be coming together à la baster under this very roof.
Miranda stared at me. ‘B-but you d-don’t want to get pregnant, d-do you? Really? I assumed you were joking!’
‘I hadn’t thought of it at the time. I went because Mu wanted to,’ I said.
‘Well, if Mu can’t get pregnant it must be her fault, because there’s nothing wrong with that big blond hunk she married,’ Lili said thoughtfully.
‘Lili – you haven’t—’ I began furiously.
‘Keep your knickers on,’ she said equably. ‘No, I haven’t – though I would if he would!’
I thought ‘keep your knickers on’ was pretty good coming from Lili, who probably mostly didn’t bother wearing them.
‘No, I meant he just looks sexy. But I assumed he and Mu didn’t want children – like you and Chris, Miranda.’
‘M-me? Oh, no – we wanted children, b-but they d-didn’t come along . . . and it must b-be my fault b-because women are so much more complicated than men, aren’t they? Chris went to a clinic and had a sperm count and everything, and he was fine.’
‘Did he?’ Lili sounded surprised. ‘He had his vasectomy reversed, then?’
‘Vasectomy? He never had a vasectomy, Lili!’
Her eyes gleamed with the bright malicious pleasure of the born stirrer. ‘Oh, yes, he did – didn’t you know? He was in at the same time as my first husband, Kevin, years ago. A private clinic in London. Well, well!’
Miranda went so pale I thought she was going to pass out, and Lili must have thought so too, for she leaped up and rammed the gin bottle between Miranda’s teeth and tilted it until she began to cough and choke.
There’s nothing like having your throat cauterized with neat spirits to bring you back from the brink of gibbering hysteria.
‘What a bastard, not telling you,’ Lili said, regarding the spluttering, choking Miranda with the satisfaction of a job well done. ‘You should have his balls.’
‘Looks like someone already has,’ I pointed out, diluting Miranda’s glass with lots of tonic and handing it to her.
She gulped it down, then looked piteously at me and quavered, ‘How could he let me think . . .? All these years? And those tests I had too – some of them quite horrible – where they pump stuff through your tubes.’
And there was the lost baby that was probably Dave’s, too, which must have made her even guiltier when no more came along.
‘Get your revenge, darling,’ Lili urged her bracingly. ‘Go out and screw everything in sight. It’s not too late for a baby, is it?’
Miranda sniffled, her eyes still watering from gin and emotion. ‘N-no. I’m thirty-nine b-but I suppose I could still. B-but who would want someone this huge?’
‘That’s a point,’ Lili conceded, and I glared at her.
‘Anyway, I think I’ve lost the urge for b-babies now. I’d rather have d-dogs.’
‘Right,’ agreed Lili, and added enviously: ‘And you’re only thirty-nine! Wish I was: so many men, so little time! And I’m getting nowhere fast with Nye. He’s OK with the loving-balm-on-his-wounds stuff, but any hint of passion and he’s off. It’s terribly frustrating.’
She dipped into her capacious bag again and fished out a sheet of newspaper, which she unfolded and shoved under my nose. ‘Look.’ She indicated some highlighted parts with one blood-red talon.
‘Heart Lines?’ I said dubiously. ‘You haven’t taken to answering ads like that, have you, Lili?’
‘It’s just a bit of fun to pass the time while I work my wiles on Nye. See this one?’
‘“Randy tup seeks little ewe lamb for frisks”?’ I said dubiously.
‘No, not that one – though it’s a possibility. Look there.’
The next one down read: ‘Dark Lady seeks vigorous input.’
I blinked. ‘Strange way of phrasing it.’
‘It’s me – I put that one in, and I’ve had nine replies already!’ She pulled a handful of letters from her bag, and a photo fluttered out, coming to rest, face up, on the carpet.
She picked it up and brandished it. ‘I asked for photos and this one sent me a picture of his equipment!’
Something like a flaccid pink sausage had been laid along-side a ruler, and assuming that it wasn’t a trick ruler, you’d get quite a lot of money if you charged by the inch. Width-wise, if it was a hot dog I’d ask for my money back.
It was the sort of thing that made you wonder where on earth the description ‘horny’ came from: I mean, what’s horn-like about willies? In my – admittedly limited – experience they tend to look more like malformed sticks of rhubarb.
‘Lili, you aren’t really going to meet any of these, are you? Especially this one – you’d only recognize him in a nudist camp. It could be dangerous. Who knows what sort of oddball answers this sort of ad? And what about your potter?’
‘I’m just dying for a bit of excitement; this is only a little diversion to while away the time. I’m not serious.’
‘Random sex with a stranger is a diversion?’
‘Only if I really fancy them. Don’t look so revolted, Sappho, we’re not all made like nuns, you know.’
‘Evidently.’
‘Meet in a public place first,’ suggested Miranda sensibly. ‘Somewhere where you can see h
im b-before he sees you, and then if he’s awful you can go away again.’
She’d picked up the photo and was studying it closely.
I tend to forget she had her own random sex phase at university, and has therefore had more rhubarb than I’ve had hot dinners.
‘I d-don’t think much of that,’ she commented critically.
Chapter 10
Loosely Basted
The morning after her London trip Miranda phoned me up early to ask, in a tear-sodden voice, if I could do any flower orders again that morning, because she wasn’t feeling too good.
‘What’s the matter?’ I demanded. ‘Did you ask Chris about the vasectomy when you were in town yesterday?’
‘N-no, b-because I wasn’t sure Lili had got it right, when I’d had time to think about it. Anyway, Chris wasn’t supposed to b-be there, and – and I can’t talk just now, Sappho.’ There was a gulp and muffled sob. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
She saw me sooner than that, for ten minutes later I was at The Hacienda, demanding to know what had happened.
‘Oh, Sappho!’ she wailed, wringing her hands. ‘I promised Chris I wouldn’t talk about it to anyone, b-b-but I’m so miserable – I feel I’m going to explode or something! I just don’t know what to d-d-do . . .’
‘I always know what to do,’ I assured her as she crammed a large piece of chocolate fudge cake into her mouth and became incoherent. Spike whiffled round her feet, inhaling crumbs.
‘I should have smelled a rat when he suggested I move d-down here,’ she said bitterly when her mouth was temporarily disengaged. ‘He wouldn’t have let me out of his sight b-before I put all this weight on and now he’s ashamed of me.’
‘Yes, he was always unreasonably jealous. What’s he been doing? Or should it be whom?’
‘Oh, it was awful, Sappho! After I’d seen my editor I took a taxi to our London house, meaning to collect a few things: the original notebooks for The Stuffed Student, and my b-blini pan. I-I knew Chris would b-be away until that evening, so I took his favourite d-dinner d-down with me in a chill b-bag as a surprise when he got home, and I was just about to put it in the fridge when I heard a noise . . .’
A Leap of Faith Page 9
