Janice Gentle Gets Sexy (40 page)

'Will it always be like this?' Gretchen asked Erica one evening as they sat in the winking firelight.

'For as long as you want it to be,' said Erica von Hyatt positively.

Gretchen O'Dowd was puzzled. Somehow the answer was not as pleasing as it should have been. 'What do
you
want it to be?' she asked.

'Whatever you do,' said Erica, 'of course.' 'Do you love me?'

'Have I given you any reason to doubt it?'

Gretchen felt uneasy. She, too, began counting the days to their journey to Skibbereen. All this acquiescence was becoming rather tedious. Sometimes they were so undemanding of each other that they ended up doing nothing.

'Which way do you want to walk?' 'I don't mind. Whichever way
you
do.' 'No. You choose.' 'I don't mind a bit.' 'Perhaps we should just go home?' 'Fine.'

'Would you prefer soup or a sandwich?'

'Whichever you're having.'

'Either is available.'

'I'll have the same as you.'

'I don't think I'll have anything.'

'Fine.'

'Is there anything you would prefer?' 'No.'

'Can I improve in any way?' 'Oh no, it's all lovely.' 'Which bit do you like best?' 'All of it.'

'Do you like me to do this?' 'Ooh yes.'

'Or do you prefer that?' 'Ooh yes.' 'Or this?'

'That's just as good.' 'Don't you have a preference?' 'Oh no. It's all just wonderful.' 'Do you want to go on?' 'Do you?' 'I'm asking you?' 'Whatever you want.' 'Maybe I'm sleepy.'

'Me too.' 'Good-night.'

*

Sometimes Gretchen O'Dowd would catch Erica von Hyatt unawares. She would be staring into space, or out of a window, and there would be about her posture an aura of unease, and in her eyes a faraway look as if she, and only she, could see what was on the horizon. If asked what was the matter, she said, 'Nothing.' If asked what she was thinking, she said, 'Nothing.' And always with that broad, amenable smile. Gretchen O'Dowd had once seen a programme about Egyptian and Grecian mythology - not part of her course, but she had watched it all the same, finding the androgynous nature of so many of the deities encouraging. She had been particularly interested in the Sphinx and felt rather sorry for it when its secret, its ultimate truth, was discovered and it was duty-bound to destroy itself. That seemed rather unfair. Yet the Sphinx did look a little self-satisfied - that smile was the sort of unbreachable smile that made you want to punch it on the nose. Gretchen occasionally, and with surprise, found herself looking at Erica von Hyatt's similarly Sphinxian smile in the same way, with her fist twitching involuntarily.

They were not seriously dashed by the disappointing response from Skibbereen. Erica's w
orldly wisdom was convincing. 'I
wouldn't admit to being me over the telephone. So why should anybody else? It'll be different when we get there. You'll see.'

Whether it would or whether it wouldn't, Erica von Hyatt was not going to lose the opportunity of getting back on the road. Despite this slavish love, she was bored out of her beautiful head. It was very hard being somebody's dream. You lost sight of your own. For a while the combination of Jack Daniel's and milk had soothed the path of the tedium, b
ut Gretchen O'Dowd, easy in all
other matters, had frowned upon the indulgence. And Erica, apparently, obliged.

'Don't you miss your Jack Daniel's?' Gretchen asked once in a while.

'Oh no,' said Erica happily. 'I'm fine with orange juice or tea, the same as you.' 'Sure?' 'Sure.' 'Fine.'

Only later, when the couple were far away and over the Irish Sea, did the removal men pull out a
ti
nkling box from the depths of the conservatory and find it filled to the brim with miniature Jack Daniel's bottles. It was odd, they remarked to themselves, what some people treasured.

*

Janice wrote as if a fever were upon her. The words tumbled over themselves, sentences flowed, and she knew, insdnctively, it was good. There was magic in her finger-ends, sorcery in her brain, and she could hear, from
time
to time, goading her to write more quickly, more richly, the voice of Sylvia Perth - synthetic, detached - saying, 'Not a very
nice
story, is it, dear?' It was such a profound experience that Janice could smell the cigarette smoke ribboning around the room.

Janice agreed that it was not a very nice story at all. 'Not all stories are,' she said to the pervasive Sylvia. And wrinkling her nose at the unwelcome spirit and its pollution, she looked up the definition of 'nice' in the
Shorter
Oxford
and found its root to be the Latin
nescius,
meaning 'ignorant', 'without truth'. It was the understanding of the word that Christine de Pisan would have known and fitted rather well. In which case, she thought, as she dipped into the box of fondant creams at her side, it was fair to say that this, her latest, her last, and by far her best book was absolutely, one hundred per cent, not
nice
at all.

Chapter Twenty-four

M

organ
Pfeiffer, looking down, saw how casually the passers-by avoided the street sitters, as once, in more innocent days, they might have avoided ladders. Hands that shook and rattled plastic cups were invisible and soundless. Aggressive begging was now an indictable offence. Bad use of resources, thought Morgan Pfeiffer, bad use of resources. He moved away from the window, tapping the unlit end of his cigar against his teeth. It did no harm at all to observe the sufferings of those less fortunate than yourself when bad fortune hit you. He turned and smiled across the room.

'It is a compromise we have to accept,' he said. 'Nothing can be done.'

Enrico Stoat slipped his medallion into his mouth, an unconscious sign of inner turmoil. 'Everything hinges on her coming over here. If not now, when the book comes out. How can I promote it without the lady in person?'

Morgan Pfeiffer shrugged. 'You may not have to. Wait until the manuscript is delivered. She will feel differently about it all then. Writers get funny sometimes. Once a book is finished they usually blossom again. Bide your time.'

'No photograph for the jacket even? That's not compromise, it's breach of contract.'

Rohanne stood up. 'I have checked,' she said, 'and it isn't. The only breach of contract will be if she doesn't deliver the manuscript, or if the manuscript doesn't conform to our . . .' -she paused -
'To
y
our
specific requirements. And it will. I can assure you of that.' She picked up her briefcase.

'But we don't even have an address? We can't call her?'

'Until it is finished, I suggest we leave Miss
Gentle
in peace.

Anything you need to discuss can be done through me. Now, I have a great deal to catch up on . . .' She held out her hand and shook Morgan Pfeiffer's. 'Mission accomplished,' she said, giving him a bright smile. 'And I can assure you that Janice
Gentle
is absolutely enthusiastic about the whole idea. I know she will give you exactly what you want.' She smiled at Enrico Stoat. 'She is a very beautiful lady.' Stoat sighed with depressed fury. 'And now, if you will excuse me . . .' And she was gone.

Morgan Pfeiffer thought. He tapped his teeth with the cigar again. He longed to light it, but Mrs Pfeiffer, deceased, had a
lways said not before noon. Gentl
emen did not smoke cigars before noon, just as real ladies did not eat candy until lunch was cleared. You'd have thought, he conjectured, that given Mrs Pfeiffer
was
deceased, he could at least indulge himself over things like the morning cigar. But he could not. Somehow it still held good. He returned his thoughts to the business in hand.

'We could have suspected it, Stoat,' he said. 'After all, she is known to be a recluse, and she has never used a picture on her jackets before . . .'

'But neither has she written a sexy book before!' Stoat was so exasperated he nearly choked on his medallion. 'Not even a
Polaroid:

'Turn her into a mystery woman,' advised Morgan Pfeiffer. 'For the time being, anyway.'

'That just about sums it all up,' said Stoat, and the Rolex on his wrist went ping.

'Ah,' said Morgan Pfeiffer, much satisfied, 'noon at last.' And he sucked on the flame and sighed. 'You go, Stoat, and start all over again. Hell, man, it's what I pay you for.'

After he had gone, Morgan Pfeiffer went to his desk. He sat and stared at the photograph. Mrs Morgan Pfeiffer smiled cheerfully back at him and he could almost smell he
r fragrance in the room — a com
mingling of chocolate and roses and the sweet smell of cachou violets on her breath. Her very skin, warm, rich layer upon layer of it, had given off an odour of sweet delight. Something to sink your teeth into. That was what he needed, all right. He was beginning to feel as if the stuffing had gone out of him. He was lonely. He should have been forcible, cogent, as vigorous with the Bulbecker woman as Stoat had tried to be, but somehow his spirit had dried. He touched the outline of Mrs Morgan Pfeiffer deceased's solid shoulder but all he felt was the glass that divided finger from photo. Nothing. He could look for nothing more there. In which case - he stood up, went back to the window - it was merely business as usual.

*

Gretchen O'Dowd had finished knitting and she was very pleased with the result. Both the sweaters came from a one-size pattern and were large enough to fit either of them and she had chosen the colours very carefully; both would suit either. She pressed them carefully with a warm iron and a clean damp tea towel and took them into the sitting-room, where Erica von Hyatt was eadng crisps. The cucumber sandwiches had long since been abandoned for snack pizzas and packets of nibbles, and freshly squeezed orange juice or tea from the Georgian silver pot made way for Diet Pepsi in cans. Nor had the dreamed-of dog materialized. Gretchen favoured a labrador, and Erica said that she didn't mind what dog they had so long as she didn't have to
eat
this one, hah hah (there was sometimes, especially towards evening, a coarseness about Erica's conversation), but somehow Gretchen had still not got round to buying it. She was impatient to begin their travelling, for she thought that once they were free of the house and free of the past, then, as she put it, 'Life would begin beautifully anew.'

Despite the crisps, the cans and the television game show, Gretchen was caught yet again by the sight of this beauty before her. Erica lay across the couch and looked much as she had when first they met, with her streaming golden hair, her pink, half-smiling mouth and robe with silver tassels. But this time there was not trace of milk around the sleepy lips, only salt crumbs and the gleam of Pepsi froth. Gretchen advanced, stood before her, worshipped anew. Gifts to the shrine of beauty. It worked every single blessed
time
. No matter how disillusioned Gretchen got, Erica would suddenly come over all beautiful again and that was that. Like now. How could she be cross with a vision such as this?

She knelt and laid the sweaters one, two, across Erica von Hyatt's knees. Dutifully Erica tore her gaze away from the screen ('C'mon, Billy, give us a clue.') and looked at the offerings.

'Lovely,' she said, 'really nice.' She darted a quick look at the screen. 'Smashing.'

'Which one would you like?' asked Gretchen. Erica looked back at them both. 'Either,' she said. 'You choose.'

Gretchen felt her fist twitch. In order to overcome the twitch she breathed deeply and took the can from Erica's hand. She swallowed a deep draught. Erica looked at her with something akin to fear. Gretchen returned the can to her and said, 'I don't know how you can drink that stuff. It tastes really
odd.'

Erica gave a
little
giggle and then burped. 'Whoops,' she said. 'Sorry.'

'Which sweater, Erica?' said Gretchen through gritted teeth. 'It doesn't really matter, does it?' said the girl. 'They are both really nice.'

'Choose,' said Gretchen. 'Can't,' said Erica with a smile.
'Choose'
repeated Gretchen.

'I can't,' said Erica, eyes back on the screen once more. 'You choose for me.'

Gretchen knew it was time to pack up and go. There seemed
little
to keep them here any more.

*

Deirdre had spent the seasonal period making lace doilies and her Christmas Day had passed without so much as one
little
drop of port passing her lips. Declan's card was postmarked 'Kilburn', which brought back strong memories both good and bad, and it said he was doing fine, planned to travel, and would write to them again one day. Deirdre went on working with her silks, occasionally looking from the card to Dermot and back again and sighing. He sighed too, but the source of his sigh came from a profound need for acdon. Where had the Spoon of Life gone? Declan far away, Deirdre as calm and unsdrrable as a nun. Nothing was happening any more. He seemed incapable of
making
anything happen. Not like in the old days when he had merely to bang his fist on the bar, shout almost anything, and have instant turmoil.