by Robyn Sisman
“But of course you resigned! That is an absurd position for someone like you.” His robust indignation reminded her of Fabrice. “One asks oneself why you would ever accept such a job. It is, to me, unbelievable.” His lips pursed as if he had just tasted a supermarket cheese. “Tell me, what is your talent?”
While she sipped her cognac, Armand drew her out, asking her about university, her enthusiasms and ambitions, the books she enjoyed. Molly tried to explain to him the frustrations of living at home, and her desire to do something exciting and independent.
Armand apologized for not having heard of Minster Episcopi. He had visited Great Britain many times, naturally, over many years, though principally its cities—London, Edinburgh (Ay-dan-boor), Birmingham. He found it bizarre that a country with so many inventive, even brilliant architects should contain so many ugly buildings. It was an interesting paradox on which he must reflect further. Personally he would find it insupportable to live in the provinces in any country. What, he wondered, did her parents do?”
“My father’s dead. He died when I was a baby. My mother’s a gardener, I suppose. At least, she grows plants and sells them, and she runs the vegetable garden on a big estate near us, and a few years ago she trained as a landscape designer. She’s finally getting commissions for that—in fact, she won some prize thing last year—but it’s taken her ages. The trouble is, where we are, everyone wants box hedging and lollipops and pleached limes and herbaceous borders.” Molly’s French collapsed here into sign language, and elaborate phrasings rather like Dr. Johnson’s dictionary definitions (the trees of which the branches are twisted together so that they resemble an elevated wall of leaves, the trunks serving as legs), though Armand seemed to understand. “Unfortunately, my mum’s into concrete, and strange grasses, and huge fields of the same plant.”
“But that is very fashionable now.”
“Is it? My mum’s not very fashionable, that’s for sure.” Molly yawned. She must go back to the hotel before she fell asleep. But she was so comfortably wedged into the corner of the sofa that she couldn’t summon up the energy to stir.
“She sounds a formidable woman, your mother. I suppose she must still be quite young, to have so much energy.”
“Oh, no. She’s forty-two.”
Molly’s eyelids drooped lower and lower as she listened to Armand explaining that the interrelation of buildings and landscape was more important now than ever before, because of the invention of new materials. There was a revolutionary type of glass in development, strong enough to build office blocks with, that could generate and recycle its own heat. Naturally, she could imagine the savings in energy consumption and pollution levels. Unfortunately the glass had a tendency to shatter. “But I must stop talking,” Armand broke off. “You are tired, Molly.”
“A bit.” She yawned again. “Sorry. I must go.” But all she did was sit there, blinking sleepily.
Armand sprang gracefully to his feet. “I will give you a little coffee to wake you up.”
“No, really.”
“I insist. Wait there. Do not be afraid that the beans are not freshly roasted. I purchased them myself from a place of good reputation in the sixième. The patronne is very sympathetic.” He was out of sight now, but his voice drifted back to her in snatches: “. . . really excellent taste . . . the aroma at once distinctive and marvellously smooth . . . East Africa, I believe . . .”
Molly let her head flop against the cushioned back of the sofa and giggled dopily at the ceiling. She loved Paris. She loved the French. She loved Fabrice. Her eyes closed as she pictured herself telling him that there would be no trouble about the candle-snuffer. He would be so happy. Everything was so much clearer, now that she understood him better. Tomorrow would be another golden day. Maybe it was tomorrow already . . .
Her head slipped sideways onto the arm of the sofa. Her breathing slowed; her fingers uncurled. She did not feel Armand slipping the shoes from her feet and easing her into a more comfortable position, or the touch of a blanket floated gently across her sleeping body.
20
“Ooh, I feel a bit smashed,” giggled Alicia, as she swayed on Malcolm’s arm in the hotel corridor.
“ ‘For mash get Smash,’ ” Malcolm warbled fruitily, while he tried to extract the key card from his jacket pocket and press it into the electronic lock. The red light lingered for an irritating second, then turned green. He turned the handle and shoved open the door. “Aunt-tray, Madame!” He swept a welcoming hand, and stumbled slightly. He might be a bit smashed, too. Alicia tripped past him, giving him a saucy look. Oh, yes. She was as good as his. His plaything. His slave. He paused to hang the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door.
“Gotta take a whizzer,” she said, confusing him for a moment until he saw the way she was wriggling about.
“Over there.” He threw her an indulgent smile. They had plenty of time. Alicia tottered into the bathroom and closed the door. Malcolm unbuttoned his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair, then poured himself a Scotch from the mini-bar, and sank into the two-seater sofa by the window. He kicked off his slip-on shoes. It was going to be a long night. And there was a strong possibility of more to come. His mind drifted back to their conversation in the taxi. Apparently Alicia was planning to come to England—if she could get a job. But she needed an employer to sponsor her so that she could extend her visa. Otherwise, she was off back to Australia. Hmm . . . A brilliant idea was forming in Malcolm’s mind. His head whirled with possibilities.
There was a flushing sound, and a moment later Alicia appeared round the bathroom door. She smiled beguilingly at him. “What a great show that was,” she said. “We’ve got nothing like that back in Oz. I’m so grateful to you for taking me.”
“How grateful?” He smiled wolfishly, and patted the space beside him on the sofa. “Come and sit down.”
“I can’t. Not yet. I feel so revved up. So . . . inspired by those beautiful girls. Don’t you?” She rummaged in the boxes of Phipps Lauzer Bergman merchandise, pulled out an umbrella and opened it up, then danced around in a passable imitation of the now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t number at the Crazy Horse. “ ‘I’m singing in the rain, just singing in the rain . . .’ Hey, where’s your hat, Malcolm?”
Excited, he jumped up, found the Crazy Horse baseball cap he’d purchased after the show and put it on.
“No, other way round,” said Alicia, wrenching it round so that the peak was at the back. “Yay, you look like Leyton Hewitt. He’s Australian, you know.”
Malcolm bounced on his toes and swished an imaginary serve.
“Ace!” yelled Alicia. “Fifteen—love.”
Malcolm attempted another full-blooded serve, but this time he overbalanced, cannoning into Alicia. She staggered and dropped the umbrella, but stayed on her feet. Good. He liked them strong. He grabbed her bare shoulders and swayed, trying to get his eyes to focus. “What would happen if I undid this safety pin, I wonder?”
“Why not try it and see?”
Feeling breathless, Malcolm fumbled with the pin. As he withdrew it, her dress slipped from her shoulders to the floor. She was wearing matching black bra and thong. “God, Alicia, you’re—” The words died in his throat. She was undoing his shirt buttons. “Eeny . . . meeny . . . miney . . . mo!” In one fluid movement she had peeled off his shirt and was waving it like a matador’s cape. Malcolm put his fists to his head, stuck out his index fingers like miniature horns and charged. Just as he reached her she swayed to one side and he blundered past, falling head first onto the bed. “Olé! ” Alicia tossed the shirt aside, rolled him onto his back, then unbuttoned his fly and began to draw his trousers down his legs. Christ! She didn’t hang about.
“What groovy underpants, Malcolm.” She gazed admiringly at his jockeys. “Is that the Red Cross? Help! Help! I need emergency treatment.” She scampered round the room, flapping her hands. Malcolm, beside himself with excitement, leapt off the bed and strutted after her in his pants and soc
ks, waving an imaginary sword. “My name is Maximus Dickus. Son of Thickus Dickus. Loyal servant of the Emperor Caesar Saladus,” he growled in his Gladiator voice. “And. I. Will. Have. My. Bonk!” He tripped over the umbrella.
“Hey, wow. Good imitation. Russell Crowe’s Australian, you know.”
Glowing at her compliment, Malcolm decided to repeat his trick. “My name is Maximu—”
“No, Malcolm. I think it’s time for another game, don’t you?”
“Woof !”
“All right, then.” She gave him a stern look and pointed to the bed. “Lie down.”
“Yes, Mistress.” He hurled himself onto the bed, bouncing happily. “Come and get me.”
“Not yet. I’m afraid you’re a little too lively. I may just have to restrain you.”
Malcolm goggled at the ceiling. This was unreal!
“Now, what have we here?” Alicia was rooting through her bag. Malcolm watched in frozen horror and delight as she drew out a pair of handcuffs and whirled them experimentally round one finger. Passively he allowed her to swing back his arms and lock them to the slatted wooden bedhead. He lay there spreadeagled, watching her with mingled nervousness and anticipation. No one had ever done this to him before. Now she was climbing onto the bed, crawling across to him, throwing one leg over until she was sitting on his abdomen. She began tracing little patterns on his front, starting just below his neck and moving lower . . . lower . . .
The telephone rang. Malcolm convulsed, as if he’d been electrocuted. “Oh, shit! Quick! Untie me!”
But, to his horror, she reached calmly across his body and picked up the phone. “Hello? . . . Yes, he’s here. May I ask who’s calling? . . . Oh, Mrs. Figg! How’re you doing?”
Malcolm kicked furiously, but Alicia kept her balance easily. They were probably used to bucking broncos in Australia. Her voice didn’t even wobble as she said, “Of course. I’ll hand you over.”
She leaned forward, pressing her chest to his, and held the phone to his ear.
“Hello, Mum,” he said, in a wavering voice.
“Whatever are you doing, Malcolm?” she asked suspiciously. “Who’s that girl?”
He could picture her exactly, smoking a fag at the kitchen table, with her feet tucked underneath in fluffy slippers and her Jumbo Book of Crosswords open.
“I hope you’re not doing anything you’d be ashamed to tell your mother,” she said, taking an audible puff of her cigarette.
“No, no. Ha, ha. That’s—that’s—that’s my new secretary.” At these words Alicia bucked up and down on top of him and shot her arms triumphantly into the air, whisking the phone away. Malcolm jerked his head pleadingly. With a penitent smile she cradled it back against his ear. “We’ve, er . . . got a lot of work on,” he said, trying to sound businesslike. “I told you, Mum, I’m giving a very important speech tomorrow.”
“Oh, Malky, it’s a wonder you’re alive, the way that company works you. Now, how are you coping with that Paris? No trouble with your plumbing?”
“I’m fine, Mum,” he mumbled.
“You can never tell what they’re going to put on your plate in a foreign country. Did you find the Marmite sandwiches I packed for you?”
“Yes, Mum.”
“Well, mind you look after yourself. Get that secretary of yours to order you some nice hot cocoa. Good night, then. Kissy-kiss.”
Malcolm grunted.
“I said, kissy-kiss.”
“Yeah . . . er . . . kissy-kiss,” he muttered, barely moving his lips.
“Aw, isn’t she sweet?” said Alicia, replacing the phone. “Now, where were we?”
Malcolm turned away his head. Talk about a passion killer. He felt as limp as a windsock with no wind. Alicia lay down on top of him again and stroked his hair. “Don’t worry. I’ll make you a lovely secretary.” She gave him a smoochy kiss under his ear, on his jaw, at the corner of his mouth. “Who’s a sulky boy?” she crooned. Slowly he turned his head back. He felt her lips on his. Maybe this would be all right, after all.
The phone rang again. Malcolm jumped. “Don’t you bloody answer that!” he shouted.
“Goodness, you’re busy. It’s lucky you have me,” Alicia told him, raising herself up and reaching for the phone again. “Hello? . . . yes . . . I’m afraid he’s a little tied up now.” She gave Malcolm a naughty wink. “Can I help?”
Her expression grew concentrated as she listened. “Who? . . . Oh, I see . . . Yes, as a matter of fact I do.”
Malcolm thrashed wildly. What if it was Jerry?
“I’ll be right down,” she said, and hung up.
“Who was that? Down where? You can’t go now.”
But she had already climbed off him and was starting to put on her dress. “Sorry, Malcolm, but I can’t stay. We’ll have to continue our game another time.”
Malcolm stared at her in disbelief, then yanked at his bonds in fury. “You bitch! Let me go!”
“Now, now, Malcolm, you know I don’t like bad language. Trust me, you’ll soon be unlocked.” She smiled at him winningly. “You and I are going to make a great team. I just know that we’re going to work sooo well together.” Now she’d found a pen and was scrawling something on a pad. “There we go: my phone number. I’ll put it by the bed. Call me when you have a hand free.”
Malcolm roared with rage and rattled his handcuffs.
“Oh, yes.” She reached inside her bag and took out a small silver key. “Hmm, where shall I leave this?” Her eyes fell on his jockey shorts. “There,” she said, slipping it inside as Malcolm writhed furiously. “That should be easy enough to find.”
She fastened the safety pin over her shoulder, then turned to go. “Oh, I nearly forgot. Your cocoa!”
“I don’t want any cocoa!” he shouted. “Let me go! You can’t leave me like this.”
“You’re absolutely right.” Alicia picked up the phone. “Hello, Room Service? Could you please send up some hot chocolate? Yes, right away. Tout de suite. Oh, and bring a pass key, would you? Monsieur Figg is indisposed and can’t get out of bed.”
She blew him a kiss and swept out of the room.
21
Hurry! He was waiting for her. She mustn’t be late. Molly was on the streets of an unfamiliar city, struggling through a dense, swirling crowd. Her progress was agonizingly slow and effortful. The gray road in front of her turned into a rocky gorge, then a river, which she had to swim. Stumbling up the far bank she tried to squeeze the water from her hair. There were gallons of it, pouring as if from a fountain. Panic gripped her. How could she turn up with wet hair?
Now the building was in front of her, with an imposing façade and stone steps leading up to the entrance. But they were so steep! How inconsiderate of the architect to design them like this. She had to haul herself up with nails and knees. Inside, it was a cavernous, uncompleted shell, littered with planks and rubble. High gantries crisscrossed above her head. The rickety staircase she was climbing had no banisters. Never mind. Quick! She must get there on time. At the end of a long, featureless corridor, she could see the door she wanted. An official waited to check her documents. But where had they gone? She searched in her bag, which had turned into a huge suitcase full of extraneous objects: her school science overall (what was that doing here?), Alleluia’s squeaky toy in the shape of a rubber Christmas cracker (so that’s where it had gone). “I’m Molly,” she insisted, through tears of desperation. “Molly Clearwater. He’s expecting me.”
Suddenly she was out on the streets again, chasing the back view of a figure walking briskly away from her, already half lost in the crowd. “Wait!” she called. “I’m coming.” But her limbs were impossibly heavy, as if weighted with wet sand. She couldn’t see properly. Her eyes were gummed half shut. She pulled at the lids, trying to stretch them open. A warning siren sounded urgently. That was the departure signal for his train. He was leaving! She was too late. Too late . . .
Molly woke with a gasp. Her face jerked free of some soft
material pressed to her nose. What was that noise? Where was she? She sat up, heartbeat scudding. The shapes around her resolved themselves into Armand’s furniture, standing calm and solid in the seeping morning light. This was Armand’s sofa; she must have fallen asleep here last night. The noise was her phone, but even as she looked round for her bag, the beeping stopped. Molly rubbed her hands over her face and pushed back her hair, damp with sweat. Sinking against the cushions, she blew out a great sigh of relief, and waited for her pulse to slow. It was only a dream. The Dream. It came from time to time, maybe every few months, maybe once a year. Though the details varied, there was always the same dreadful mix of anxiety, frustration and despair, and always the same strange gray half-light that seemed to foretell the hopelessness of her quest.
She threw off her blanket and stood up, wanting to escape the mood of her dream. She crossed the room in bare feet, opened the windows, then the shutters, and leaned out. Her heart lifted at the ravishing scene laid out before her: trees and domes, curving bridges, boats on the river. It was another sparkling day, tinted gold and blue. The air was fresh, and joyful with the sound of church bells. Of course: it was Sunday.
There was a knock at the door. “Molly? Are you awake?” It was Armand.
“Yes. Come in,” she called, and turned back into the room. She could already smell the coffee that he now carried in on a tray. There were two large, steaming cups, a bowl of sugar lumps, and a small basket of croissants and brioches. Armand looked dapper in a pale gray suit with a navy shirt. Molly tried to pull her dress straight. Sleeping in her clothes had given her an unpleasant, sticky feeling, as if her skin had gone moldy. Her mouth felt furry.
“You slept well?” he asked, setting down the tray.
“Very. I can’t believe I fell asleep. Thank you for the blanket.”
