Slightly Foxed (36 page)

distance, is it? The nearest sandwich shop is in the middle of

town, a good twenty minute round walk given the crowds."

"Thank you. Chicken salad, if you would." Simon shoved a

fiver into my hand and rushed behind the till, leaving me

standing in the shop doorway fondling his money and feeling

bewildered. What the
hell
was going on?

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As luck would have it, at least on my part, a travelling

sandwich vendor had set up shop at the end of the road, and

I was able to buy a surprisingly fresh-looking chicken

sandwich and be back at the shop within ten minutes. No one

appeared to be behind the counter.

I heard Simon's shout of "just a minute" come from behind

the curtain and, presuming he was deep in accounts,

wandered to the back of the shop, sandwich held out like a

peace offering.

"I've got your..." I flung back the curtain and caught

Jacinta and Simon frozen into almost-cartoon attitudes of

shock. "I...oh gosh...I..." Hastily I wheeled the curtain closed

again, leaning against the counter and clutching the

sandwiches to my chest rather tighter than they could

accommodate. There were sounds of flusterment in the

cubbyhole, then Jacinta appeared from the neck up.

"We are sorry, Alys. We did not wish you to find out this

way."

Well, it explained a lot. It explained almost
everything
.

"But why the secrecy?" I stammered. "It's not something to

be ashamed of, is it?"

More of Jacinta appeared. She'd removed the wig but still

had on the jacket and trousers, and the makeup made her

eyes slant and difficult to read. "Well."

Now Simon's head joined hers. He too had removed his

wig. "Not everyone understands you see, Alys. That's why we

have to be so circumspect. And we hadn't had chance to talk

to you about it."

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The curtain was now pulled back totally. I swallowed. It

was tough enough to accept that my coworkers were dressed

up as members of the
Star Trek
crew. The fact that
she
was

dressed as Mr. Spock and
he
as Lieutenant Uhura made it

harder still. "Everyone needs a hobby," I said weakly,

mayonnaise dripping down my bosom. "Do you go out

dressed like this?"

"Weekends there are conventions. There is one next

weekend, in Whitby," Jacinta explained. "We are trying new

costumes. This is why we must be here."

"And when you'd vanished?" Now I knew what had been in

the squashy parcel. I tried not to think of the ears.

"I was at a conference in Hull. We—Simon and I—wish to

start our own convention. We are thinking here, at the shop."

Although I tried to avert my eyes, I couldn't help but

glance at Simon, his real hair held back in a net, his miniskirt

and tights. "Lovely," I said. "You look very nice."

Simon smoothed his skirt down. "Do you think so? I do

feel a bit strange. I must admit, I'm not usually Uhura but

these were the only costumes left this time." I breathed out a

tiny puff of relief. "No, I'm usually Counsellor Troi."

"Why don't you go over to Jace's, perfect your outfits, and

I'll mind the shop? You've got a ladder in your tights, by the

way."

I was sure one of them said, "Beam me up, Scotty," but

thankfully I couldn't tell which one.

The rest of the day passed in speculation and the

occasional sale, then I travelled home, cooked myself

something from my enormous freezer collection of loose

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unidentifiable objects frozen into frostbitten fists and checked

my phone messages.

"Hey." My stomach clenched then relaxed to the point

where I feared for my bowels. "I don't really know what to

say here. Guess it's better this way, leaving a message than

talking to you direct—shit." The message was abruptly

severed then restarted as a new one. "Alys. Look. This is the

thing here, right? I know you think you don't want this, me,

that you think it's a better thing to be alone than repeat past

mistakes, that you reckon I—shit, I don't know
what
you

think of me! Stupid, huh? And, yeah, okay, I'm just this crazy

young guy with more money than sense and no fashion, but—

look—I love you. I want you. I know I can make it right."

The message reached the end of its available length, but

immediately started again. "Yeah, I
know
I can.
We
can make

it work. So. Look. I'm going to the Argentine, day after

tomorrow, flying out at three. Decided to see if I can live out

there again. I've got to tie up a bit of business, work for some

of Alasdair's people, but. Yeah. I'll come by before I fly out.

Morning, 'bout ten. I'd really like you to come with. Meet my

pa, he'll think you're cute, have a couple weeks lying in the

sun, chilling. Us, together. Take it from there. Maybe you

could finally get to write that book you were talking about.

But, hey, no commitment. See, I
know
it's more than just the

sex with us." There was a broken quality to his voice, as

though he either was, or had been, crying. "I've got your

ticket. Grab your passport, take care of the cats. We can sort

everything else when we get there. If you come. I'll..."

"You have no more messages."

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I listened twice more, with my heart almost drowning out

the sound of his voice. Piers had always had a nice voice, the

way his vowels dropped occasionally from mid-Atlantic to

pure, rounded full-on American; his phraseology which always

sounded as though it had been lifted wholesale from a

Douglas Coupland novel. And his body—lean and tight, as

though his bones were shrink-wrapped in his flesh. And the

way he held me, just
so
, as though I was precious and

wonderful...

I sliced a few tears away from my cheeks and sniffed

heartily. Yes, it was great, yes it was wonderful, but it didn't

get toilets scrubbed, did it? I turned the radio up loud to

drown out my thoughts and, accompanied by both the cats

who clearly thought I'd gone mad, I began to clean the

bathroom.

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Next morning I was up before Florence had even begun

her morning closed-eye moan routine. She'd come in last

night laden with shopping and informed me that the York

Models Inc. wanted to see her "the day after tomorrow, nine

o' clock sharp. Bet they're testing to make sure I can be out

of bed at that time, don't you reckon? We can be there by

nine easy, can't we? Mum?"

Oh yes, I'd assured her. We could be there by nine.

And Piers was coming by at ten.

Leaving at three.

So of course I couldn't see him. Could I. Florence came

first.

Didn't she.

I looked around the shop as I unlocked the door. Simon

and Jace, obviously glad that their secret was now out, had

left me a message—they'd gone to see someone about

possibly using the shop as a Sci-Fi convention point, and were

sure I wouldn't mind. Mind? Me? I looked around Webbe's,

which had the approximate internal floor space of a cheap

fridge and wondered where everyone would fit if they had

meetings here. The last time we'd had a visiting author, we'd

had people sitting in the yard. Oh well, they'd obviously

thought about it. As long as no one came dressed as Godzilla,

we'd probably get by.

Then I sat by the phone. So. How did I do this? How did I

play it? Cool—all yeah it was great but it's over, get a life?

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Emotional—I really care about you, but, well, the age gap? Or

truthful—I just want to see you one last time to say goodbye?

There was only one person in, an elderly man in a damp

raincoat, flipping through some old maps, and when he left, I

rushed over to the door, locked it and put the closed sign up.

Some things shouldn't be interrupted. Dialled his mobile. No

pickup, but thank God for voicemail.

"Piers, hi. It's me. Alys. Well, you knew that but. Anyway.

It's me. Um." So far, so good. Now, what was it I wanted to

say? Oh yes, that no way would I be going to Argentina with

him. Have a nice life without me. Catch you on the flip side.

And other such jocular, disposable remarks. I cleared my

throat. "Look, I can't..." Then my voice kind of took on a life

of its own, one I swear my brain had nothing to do with. "It's

not fair. How can you ask me to go away with you like that?

You
know
how it is for me, and you make me feel—

something, I don't know—and I wanted—and I still want...

But you—you—anyway, I'd miss the funeral."

Bugger. That hadn't gone as well as I'd hoped. Perhaps I

could erase the message? I dialled Piers's mobile again and

was horrified when this time it was answered on the third

ring.

"Hi there." Didn't sound at all like Piers. Sounded, in fact,

female
.

"Tamar?" Oh God, my voice sounded horribly weak. "Is

that you?"

"Alys?" There were so many unspoken questions hanging

in her voice that I was surprised her voice box didn't break

down. "Why?"

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"Oh, Florence asked me to ring to ask Piers if he'd seen

her white shoes." Pathetic, Alys, just pathetic. "How are you?"

"Puking like a goddamn dog," she answered, most

unTamarlike. "Feel like shit. And Piers goes to Aberdeen and

leaves his phone behind. Don't know what he was thinking, I

reminded him. D'you know what he said? He said that

anything anyone wanted to say, could wait until he saw them.

Well, that's just great, there he is in Bonny Scotland, and his

phone keeps ringing while I'm chucking."

"You could always turn it off. Oh, ginger biscuits always

worked for me when I was throwing up."

"Ginger..." Her voice trailed away and the phone went

dead. I smiled down the receiver, ashamed of myself for the

tingle of glee I felt at perfect, impeccable Tamar being

continually overcome with the urge to vomit. But bloody,

bloody
Piers leaving his phone when I needed, wanted,
ought

to get in touch.

I piled back home to the cold shoulder from Grainger and a

trail of clothes which led from Florrie's room to the door and

meant she'd probably gone out for the evening to spread the

good news about her modelling among her friends. Knowing

the friendship levels of teenage girls, I hoped she wasn't

expecting them to be delighted for her.

I slouched around, picked myself an outfit to wear to the

model agency tomorrow, something which made me look

reasonable and would not provoke people into asking where I

thought Florrie got her looks from. It was ten o'clock now.

Twelve hours until Piers came floating by expecting...what?

Me to go with him? Seriously, would he expect that? Or would

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he be realistic, hoping for a peck on the cheek and no hard

feelings? How would he feel when I wasn't even here?

Was it too late for Florence to cancel her meeting? Tell

them someone—some
thing
had come up for her mother? But

that wouldn't exactly give them the impression that she was a

committed career girl, would it? Oh God. Seventeen hours

until he left the country. And I couldn't even reach him to

explain. And Florence needed me.

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Twenty to ten. Florence and I were still sitting outside an

office. She was reading
Vogue
and I was visibly twitching. Not

that I was going back of course. Piers could leave without

seeing me.
Twenty minutes and he'd be gone.

"Mum." Florrie laid
Vogue
down, reverentially. "You know

Tamar and Dad? And the baby?"

"Yes," I said cautiously. Florrie had taken the news

suspiciously quietly. "What about it?"

"I've been thinking. I mean, I love Piers and everything,

but he's not my real brother, thank God. Jeez, the way he's

been lately, I'd hate to be related—"

I restrained myself from snapping "what do you mean"

only by biting my lip. I'd not even considered how Florrie

would have reacted to Piers and I. Not that I needed to worry

about that. Now it was over.

"I think it'll be really great to have a proper brother or a

sister." She looked at me shrewdly. "One that doesn't fancy

my mother."

I developed a sudden, and incredibly intense, interest in

the magazines.

Ten minutes.

The door opened at last and a pretty dark-haired girl and