Janice Gentle Gets Sexy (6 page)

The magazine immediately put it on the reject pile because it was handwritten; the rules specifically stated it should be typed. And, lest detractors bemoan this as a cavalier approach to literature, they should first be made to sit in a silent room attempting to interpret spider scrawl and backward slopes day after day after day. Despite Janice's manuscript being reasonably legible, on the reject pile it remained. And would have done so for ever were it not for the bounty of England's temperate clime.

The judge of the competition, her task completed, rang for a taxi after her final meeting with the magazine's editor. The winner had been chosen and a lady from Bournemouth was about to be honoured for her nineteenth-century tale of a shepherdess made good.

It was raining.

The judge, in years to come, had reason to bless this English phenomenon. While she waited for the taxi, she grew fidgety and began sifting through all the failed manuscripts - rejects, non-qualifiers, plagiarists. She picked out one at random, then another, then a third. She expected to laug
h or at least to smile deprecat
ingly. It was something to do and a literary agent, for such was the calling of the judge, is never more at home than with a manuscript in her hand and half an hour to kill.

In Bangkok the trishaw drivers positively thrive, burgeoning like desert blooms, during the heaviest showers. In Madrid, given a cloudburst, you can scarcely move for taxis. In Venice, for some quaint reason, even the water taxis are not averse to helping a stranded pedestrian when a flood descends on San Marco. Interesting, then, that in London this particular mode of transport seems to shrink and wither when the finest drizzle appears. 'Not for ages, love,' said the taxi company to the judge when one of their
number was requested - and ages meant ages. Sylvia Perth, for she it was, settled back to wait, with nothing but a whole pile of rejected first novels for entertainment.

The rain continued and, true to their word, the taxis of London did not come. But Sylvia Perth no longer cared. She was reading, suddenly, with that rapt avidity that Muhammad the Wolf might have experienced when first he lighted upon the Dead Sea Scrolls (had he not been illiterate).

And when, eventually, the snub, black-nosed creature did condescend to appear, its driver was much discomfited to be met not by a hair-tearing wreck, but by a freshly lipsticked, uncritical female, who, contrary to his expectations, was not at all put out that he had taken so long to arrive. She even tipped him to excess when he finally set her down on the pavement outside thirty-two Arterberry Road, so that he was forced to say with civility, 'Would you like me to wait, lady?' And to receive the gracious, smiling reply, 'No thanks. For I may be some time . . .'

Chapter Four

J

anice
Gentle makes her way back to Battersea, feeling relieved and positive. Relieved because her characters are delineated, positive because she always does feel positive about going home. There is another reason for these twin emotions. She can now telephone Sylvia Perth, who has been waiting in heavy silence, and say that the deed is done, the book is afoot, decisions have been made. Today she will invite her over for tea, she decides, and tell her. Another little ritual. Sylvia Perth awaits the summons to Janice's tea-table as a relative to the reading of a will, outwardly tranquil, inwardly afire with impatience. All Janice knows is that the announcement is long overdue and that Sylvia Perth has shown a touch more agitation than usual during the six months or more that she has been waiting for teatime to be announced. Well, teatime is here at last.

On taking the timely decision, some of Janice's positivism dies. She has nothing in. Which means she will have to buy something in. Which means the tribulation of the corner shop. She sighs. She really is
not
good with people. In fact, she is very bad with people. She recalls its proprietor and shudders. Sometimes she thinks she will brain him with his own bubble-gum machine, and quite a lot of the positivism dies in her as she approaches the door. She takes a deep breath, enters, and at the same time decides that she will not, she is determined, be enticed into conversation. Whatever he says to her, she will remain mute apart from giving her order. 'Two packets of chocolate digestives, one cut loaf, a pot of raspberry jam, four scones and a half a pint of thick cream.' That is all she will say. She will repeat it if called upon to do so but she will say no more than that.

Alas, on entering, she stumbles. 'Enjoy the trip,' he calls.

She clamps her mouth shut. The bubble-gum machine stands innocently beside her. It would only take a minute . . . 'Nasty out again,' he says. She gives him her order. 'Ah,' he says, 'sweets for the sweet.' She stares at him. 'Raspberry, did you say?' 'Raspberry,' she repeats.

'Hot one minute and wet the next.' He shrugs. 'July? Never like this years ago. Greenhouse.'

Janice places jam, biscuits, loaf and cream in her bag and waits for the scones, silently.

'Six?'

'Six,' she repeats. She is not going to make the mistake of saying he is wrong. And what, really, is a couple more scones here or there?

'I thought you said four.'

'Six, please.'

She runs a plump hand over the bowl of the machine, looking at the fading wrappers of its contents. 'Brown or white?' 'White scones,' she says.

'I prefer 'em myself. All this brown stuff tastes like rope, eh?' 'Yes,' says Janice. 'It does.'

And then she shuts her mouth with a snap, but it is too late. She has begun to converse and he takes it up keenly.

'Course, I remember when they used to put little wooden pips in the jam to make it
seem
like raspberries.'

'Really?' she says, and sighs.

'That's how the Co-op came into being, you know.' He rests his hands on the counter in waxsome mood. 'To improve the standards of food. Of course, nowadays . . .' He is off.

Janice awaits patiently, putting her mind to more engaging things. She remembers, more cheerfully, that she has chosen her triumvirate of characters. She is here to buy tea for the ritual of beginning, and she wonders, as the history of modern social retailing unfolds before her, where her triumvirate will take her, and where she, in turn, will take them.

*

In the office of her Boss Masculine the secretary with blonde hair, pink lips and a daintily turned ankle stands. The man has dandruff on his dark lapel and two warts on his left hand. His face is tired. She hands him a cup of coffee and wishes he were like the boss in her magazine story, the one called Hugo. Hugo would look up abstractedly with his darkset eyes, and momentarily his guard would slip and she would see the real man behind the tough facade. Something would have begun between them, but she would not, yet, know what. But the Boss Masculine does not look up and behind him there is no mirror to reveal - perhaps - a broadset body with powerful shoulders, only a sales chart awash with blue pin flags. She takes a sheaf of papers from the side of his desk and departs. Only her scent remains in the room, vying with the stale tobacco smells. He lights his third tipped cigarette that morning and puts through a call to Birmingham. His wife is to have an hysterectomy next week and the unspoken hope between them both is that their long-dead sex life will be revived. Perhaps it will be a medical miracle, though he has little hope of this. The hospital has given him a book on how to cope with a woman whose womb has just been removed, and it has depressed him. Convalescence can, it seems, take months and requires patience and gentleness. He seems to have run out of both commodities over the years. He sighs as Birmingham comes through, picks up the telephone and lifts off into his dynamic businessman role. It is the one he is best at, the last saving grace of his life. He has failed pretty badly in the marital one.

The Little Blonde Secretary beyond his door also sighs. In her magazine it discusses the all-engulfing multiple orgasm as a Woman's Right, which makes her feel anxious about herself. An unusual experience. There is also another article, as yet unread, on how to avoid the trap of boredom in your marriage: 'Yes, it can happen even after six months.' This makes her doubly anxious and doubly convinced that it is best left unread. She fingers the cover of her Janice Gentle, which also sits in her drawer. Here there is no such thing as a physical description of the all-engulfing multiple orgasm. Only at the end of the book, when the right couple are united, when good has won over bad (which will reliably happen, though with many a twist and turn on the way), only then will it b
egin to express itself. The Littl
e Blonde Secretary has her own concept of what it is like, this desirable state of paradise: it is like the sea breaking wave upon wave as a suntanned male face with even, white teeth and an expression of tenderness places his warm, moist lips upon her own. Then there will be three dots on the page which represent the fulfilment of the dream. The unfamiliarity of this experience is somewhat explained to the sighing secretary because Derek goes pink in the sun and has slightly buck teeth. When he kisses her, there are no dots at the end of the line to express what comes next. His hand reaches straight up her nightshirt and between her legs, and it is no use calling, 'Dot, dot, dot. . .' for he never reads, anyway. He is too busy mending the window sashes or cleaning out the gutters to pick up a book. Mind you, she thinks tidily, at least they get it over with quite quickly nowadays.

She removes the anxiety from her own little shoulders and places it firmly upon Derek's. Which feels much better. It is his fault. She then turns her attention to the magazine menus. Steak au poivre and pavlova, fish kebabs and mango ice-cream. Too exotic to contemplate. She closes the magazine, remembering that she is defrosting the cod steaks, and wonders if there is any cheese left to make a sauce. Derek won't mind. He's not fussy about his food. The man in the magazine photograph above the recipe is looking up with a loving smile of appreciation at the woman who is lighting the candles. She wonders if they have a smoke alarm. In their house Derek has fitted two. He points them out to people. It is proof that he cares.

She sighs and closes the magazine. Now the house is finished, they can start entertaining properly. At least, they thought it was finished, but this morning, looking around the bathroom while he was scrubbing those prominent teeth of his (she made sure that he gave them a thorough going-over, morning and night, so that at least when they came popping through his damp lips they were shiny bright), she had to admit to herself that the lilac walls had been a bit of a mistake. Perhaps a fresh coat of paint would be sensible. But nothing more than that. She is getting to the end of her tether with all their improvements. So noisy, so messy -she is
forever
wiping down the surfaces.

She decides to keep the recipe page for the time when the house is completely ready for entertaining (how she looks forward to showing it off when it is all absolutely perfect) and to read the article on orgasms quietly at home before Derek arrives. Maybe it will solve the problem, once and for all, of whether she has had one or not. She knows she ought to have had one because she is young, pretty and married . . . Correct in every detail . . . Very probably she has.

The Boss Masculine calls her in for dictation. She shuts the magazine away in her drawer and goes in, wondering as she seats herself opposite him why on earth his wife doesn't buy him Head & Shoulders like she buys Derek. She cannot, really, feel entirely sympathetic for his wife. The
Little
Blonde Secretary Bird feels that, in some way, the hysterectomy must be her fault. If a woman cannot look after her husband's dandruff, then she probably cannot look after her womb properly, either. She could just about tolerate the warts, but the
dandruff.. .

Derek is on the telephone ordering a new bathroom suite. He will surprise his wife of six months by redoing the entire thing single-handed. It will keep him occupied and save them hundreds of pounds. He will put the money towards a loft extension too. There is mounting excitement as he states the catalogue numbers to the plumbers' merchants. The taps will be the crowning achievement. Won't she love
those?
French with ceramic handles.

Really nice. She likes nice things. He puts down the phone and rubs his hands. He just can't
wait
to get started.

*

Square Jaw is only marginally recovered from the repugnant sight of a staring fat woman untidily eating a ham sandwich on the tube. He was already feeling grim and angry, having yet again left his girlfriend in tears, propped up in bed and snuffling into the duvet cover. 'Sorry, sorry, sorry,' he said without actually meaning it. 'For Chrissake,' he had wanted to shout (but didn't), 'what's a bunch of flowers, anyway?' They'd been more or less living together for two years. Surely there came a time when such trifles were unimportant? And there she sat, making him feel guilty again with her indisputable argument, primly delivered as usual, about it being important to her and therefore important in its own right. Well, what about all the things he
did
do? ('Like what?' she said, the bitch, and he couldn't think of
one
at that moment.) Did she want him to be like Pavlov's dogs? See Melanie, think giftwrap? When he bought her things, he liked to do it spontaneously. It wasn't his fault that the spontaneity was rare — she'd wiped a lot of it out by being too demanding — but it was real when it came.