Janice Gentle Gets Sexy (19 page)

Gretchen O'Dowd was looking forward to being financially independent. Money, she felt, would overcome many of the things that had been a burden to her, including, very probably, her personal proclivities and even her moustache. Sometimes she felt positively ashamed of the things she had done to remove or disguise it in the past. With her own Gold Barclaycard she was unlikely to be rejected for a little extra hair here and there. She fingered the area above her lip. If anything, she thought, it might be nice to darken it a little, make a feature of it, like some women changed the shape of their eyebrows or curled their lashes. Why not? What was one piece of facial hair to another? Why darken it? Why not bleach it pink? Or turn it multicoloured? Why, who knew what she couldn't do from now on? Anything she liked. Anything at all. It was a wonderful thought, like a dream come true .
..
Dear Sylvia. She would miss her. But th
ere certainly would be compensati
ons.

She watched the neat countryside gradually change into urban sprawl and saw herself, after the black-plumed funeral, happily ensconced with some nice young woman. They would knit together, have long, hearty walks through muddy byways enjoying the plovers, discuss television programmes, watch old films, and eat delicacies that someone other than herself had prepared. The nice young woman could even continue with her bar work now and then - if she really wanted to . . .

It was a lovely vision, and the man sitting opposite her in the train could be forgiven for finding his proximity to the blank-eyed, vacant grin of a moustachioed woman (who periodically licked the tip of her finger and made a kind of Hercule Poirot gesture to her upper lip) discordant. Every so often Gretchen, unknowing, would mouth a word or make a gesture as the vision of the rosy future grew more real in her head.

At the point where she extended an inviting but empty hand towards her carriage companion and said beguilingly, 'Another smoked salmon sandwich, dear,' he got up and left. What
was
this grudge the Lord of Travellers had against him? Only rece
ntly
he'd suffered the disgusting sight of one of the urban deranged on a tube train sucking at a piece of ham as if it were their own wayward tongue. He felt still very fragile about Melanie, and wasn't sleeping at all well nowadays — he seemed to travel around the bed and wake up empty-armed or, worse, hugging the pillow.

*

Erica von Hyatt, a
little
bleary-eyed from sleep but with her wits otherwise intact, sat up in bed. That was the noise she had been waiting for. The milk float. She needed a new plan for survival since the person below didn't seem to be having any further deliveries. The note in the milk bottle said, 'No deliveries until further notice.' Too open-ended for Erica; it could mean weeks. She rolled out of bed, grabbed the ten-pound note and shot out of the flat, leaving the door ajar. She caught the milkman as he was about to depart from the floor below.

'Could you,' she said, 'begin an account for the flat above?'

'Cash down?' said the milkman.

'Of course,' she replied primly, fluttering the money and feeling virtuous. Curious to be one of the legitimate paying multitude. She savoured the legitimacy. 'What can I buy?'

He told her. It sounded so good she felt herself start to dribble.

'Have to start tomorrow, though. Got to get the order in first.' 'Oh dear,' she said.

'Sorry, love,' he said, 'but that's the way it has to be . . .'

It crossed Erica von Hyatt's mind to overcome this difficulty in the best way she knew how, but somehow, what with the money making her feel real, the nice clean feeling from the bath and the robe, and upstairs being so specially hers, she didn't really want to disturb it all by doing that. Instead she held up a haughty hand to silence his apologies. 'I quite understand. But can't you at least let me have some milk?'

'One pint I got,' he said cheerfully. And, thinking for a moment, he added, 'I got a cut white loaf I can spare.'

'Butter?' she said hopefully.

'No butter. Chocolate milk drink? Could do you two of them.'

Her stomach gave a series of joyful rumbles. 'Fine,' she said. 'Thank you very much.'

Sated on bread dipped in chocolate milk tinged with Jack Daniel's, and following a long scented bath and a change into the pink robe with silver tassels, Erica von Hyatt spread herself on the damask ottoman and slept the sleep of the contented. Like a princess she lay, her golden hair laid out upon the coral softness of the pillows, her mouth half smiling, humming to herself as she dozed off and slipped into her twilight pleasure of food and warmth and time-being happiness.

*

Gretchen O'Dowd was a
little
surprised at the pale sparseness of Sylvia Perth's office. The whole was decorated in black and grey, offset by white or cream. Gretchen found it all rather intimidating, but then she had always found Sylvia intimidating, so she was not
altogether
surprised. Apart from a large blood-red couch at the far end, there was no colour at all. The outer room was not much better, containing little more than a light satinwood desk, pine shelves containing reference and telephone books, a tweed-covered typing chair and a near-dead unrecognizable plant. If she had hoped to find out a little more about her deceased employer and friend, she was disappointed. The only thing you
could
say about the place was that it was
completely
different from the English antique style of their Queen Anne house with its tapestry-covered dining chairs and carved oak settles. Odd, thought Gretchen, I always thought she liked
that
kind of furnishing.

She crossed to the couch, which stood out like a wound. She touched it. It was velvet and very soft. The curtains, sateen-grey, were half pulled against the sunlight. The room was monochrome, soothing, particularly if Gretchen avoided the throbbing colour of the velvet by lying back on it. She did so. The journey had been quite a long one and the day was warm. She closed her eyes, she breathed deeply, she slept.

*

Mrs Lovitt wrote to the vicar of Cockermouth with a substantial donation taken from Guildford's general fund. The committee had agreed that, if the mighty were taking such a positive interest in the problems of Northern poverty, so should they. She stressed in her letter that Mrs Vicar had not broken one word of her confidence about her visit to Lambeth Palace, and she hoped that the notes taken on Mrs Vicar's behalf while she was away from the afternoon part of the conference were useful. If
not,
perhaps he would like to write to her directly for clarification.

*

The Little Blonde Secretary Bird collected her magazine and hurried down the tube-station steps. On the cover was a picture of an actress and her new baby. They both looked encouragingly wholesome and nice. The magazine feature that week was on fertility. At least it was less disturbing than that one on orgasm which had suggested feeling about
down there
to get to know yourself. She settied herself in her seat and began with the serial, which this time was set in Mexico. They gave you some very interesting locations nowadays, though she was quite happy just to read about them. Especially after that spicy foreign chicken.

*

Square Jaw was asked by the chap in the office next to his if anything was up. Square Jaw said no.

The chap in the office next to his looked relieved at the obvious untruth. He closed his door. Duty done. And ceased to notice that Square Jaw looked pale as a corpse.

*

Gretchen O'Dowd was not given to dreaming, but there was no doubt that a great, red mouth, with numerous pearly-white teeth, hung above her like that cat in Wonderland. It might well be a cat, for it had a fine mane of pale hair and a neat little nose. The only discordant thing (and one expected them in dreams) was that the nose was wearing dark mirrors above it, and these reflected her back to herself. The self it reflected showed mistily through slitted eyes. She opened them wider; the dream incorporated a pair of shoulders and looked, suddenly, very real.

'Hi,' it said, with an American accent. 'I'm Rohanne Bulbecker. Who are you?'

Gretchen screamed. Appropriate in the circumstances. The cause of the scream waited until it was finished, and then smiled again, reaching out a most sinister gauntleted hand.

'I'm not going to hurt you,' said Rohanne Bulbecker, in the soft tone of one who very well might. She sat down beside Gretchen, and the mirrors on her eyes reflected a round pinky-brown face a-twitch with fright. 'Do you, by any chance, know the whereabouts of Janice
Gentle
?' she asked so
ftly
.

The round pinky-brown face shook itself. 'N-n-no,' said Gretchen, hoping this was the right answer.

'Shit,' said Rohanne, and the slap of her leathered hand on her leathered knee made Gretchen wince and jump.

'S-s-sorry,' she said, and meant it.

'Oh, never mind,' said Rohanne Bulbecker.

She removed her sunglasses and peered at Gretchen. Her peering ended at the moustache. 'Sorry to butt in on your siesta,' she said, 'but the door was open.' She said this with a smile that neither touched her nose nor reached her eyes. She looked, Gretchen thought, murderous. Gretchen gulped. And people had the cheek to comment that
she
looked weird.

'You don't have any idea where Sylvia's secretary went to?'

Gretchen shook her head.

'And you really don't have any idea where Janice Gentle is?' Gretchen twitched negatively. 'Do you know where she lives?' 'N-n-no,' said Gretchen.

'Who are you, then? What are you doing here?'

'This is my ex-employer's office.' Gretchen attempted to sit up a
little
. She felt at a great disadvantage lying down beneath the gaze of this strange aggressor.

'Sylvia Perth?' The woman drew closer.

Gretchen swallowed but could not speak. She nodded.

'What are you?' asked Rohanne, desperate to discover if this person could help her search in any way. 'Chauffeur? Janitor?'

Gretchen decided to continue on the path of invisibility.

'Friend?' went on Rohanne desperately. 'Relative?'

No point her pretending. An answer was definitely required.

'Personal assistant?'

Gretchen settled for that, and nodded.

'Oh,' said Rohanne, much relieved, 'then you
must
know where she is.'

Gretchen, whose mind was as far removed from Janice
Gentle
as Rohanne Bulbecker's was absorbed by her, wrongly connected the pronoun to her deceased employer and thought of Sylvia.

Rohanne stared at the recumbent creature before her, willing her to know, her eyes aglow with the light of compulsion.

Gretchen went rigid, while her brain went spongy. She could not speak.

'Come on,' said Rohanne, applying wheedling tactics, 'you do know where she is, don't you?' She leaned forward and gave her a devastating smile.

Gretchen winced as all those shining teeth came out again.

'In a manner of speaking, yes,' she said, warily, thinking of Sylvia Perth, edging herself, finally, into a sitting position.

'For Chrissake!' snapped Rohanne, fixed on Janice
Gentle
, 'where?'

Gretchen jumped. All attempts to put it in the same poetic mode as Mr Mole went out of her head. 'Well,' she said, 'she's dead.'

'Oh my
God!'
said Rohanne Bulbecker, and she put her face in her sinisterly clad hands. 'Oh my God.'

Gretchen began easing herself off the day bed with a view to leaping across the room and out of the door.

'That's it, then,' said Rohanne, despairing, resigned.

Gretchen almost had both feet on the floor.

Rohanne looked up. 'When did she die?'

'Very recently,' said Gretchen O'Dowd, trying to sound casual and as if her body were not in a very peculiar position: both feet were safely on the floor, one buttock had slid to freedom, and her arms were poised in a prepare-to-eject position. With one bound she would be free.

Rohanne was thinking how odd it was that both agent and writer should have died at the same time. Perhaps Janice
Gentle
felt she could not go on without her protectress.

'Suicide, was it?' she asked wanly.

Gretchen arrested the last fractional movement which would release her.