The Thin Woman (2 page)

“Thanks a lot, Jill, but I couldn’t take that tomato, vinegar, and stale cake routine again. Besides, it’s all too little, too late. The gala event is only three weeks away. And don’t suggest my refusing the invitation. They would all guess why I didn’t dare show.”

“Even though they haven’t seen you for over two years? You weren’t as heavy then as you are now.”

“No, but I was always chunky. When I was a teenager, Aunt Astrid predicted I would end up as big around as the dome of St. Paul’s. My failure to answer all letters and Christmas cards will have confirmed their worst suspicions.”

“Didn’t you tell me your uncle Merlin is a recluse, that he hasn’t seen you since you were a child? Why this sudden yearning to entertain his kith and kin?”

“Goodness knows. Perhaps the old boy is about to kick the bucket, although the last I heard he was threatening to live to be a hundred. You know the type—hasn’t seen a doctor in fifty years and never gets a cold. Anyway, Uncle
Merlin isn’t my problem; he’s not interested in women. He can sit on his mothballs until he croaks. It’s the others I’m worried about, not just gorgeous Vanessa and Mummy, but Uncle Maurice, Aunt Lulu, and my cousin Frederick. I don’t want them asking what a nice girl like me is doing in a body like this!”

“Being flip isn’t helping, Ellie. You’ve got to come to terms with whatever is driving you to destroy yourself. Probably some trauma at an early age …”

“All right! But miracles sometimes take time, which I do not have. What I do have is this!” Pushing the newspaper across the table, I pointed to the ad for Eligibility Escorts and awaited her reaction. If Jill scoffed … but she didn’t.

“Ellie, this is super! Will you try it? You’re always so hide-bound.”

“Only if I can feel safe that the agency is legitimate. A lot of these places are cover-ups.”

“For immoral purposes? You’re afraid they’ll interview you for a post as lady of the night? Ellie, you’d never get the job.”

“Thanks a lot!”

“Not just because you’re, hmmm, large. It’s your depressing aura of blatant respectability.” Jill poured another drink and waggled it in front of my face. One of the reasons I liked her was that she didn’t skim over the subject of my weight. “Here’s to Ellie! I wonder how this outfit works? Do you rent the man by the hour, the day? In your case I would ask about their special weekend package deal!”

“You are ridiculous.” I was hungry again but decided to try the last of the wine instead. “I’ll ring them tomorrow. Nothing definite; just a few discreet enquiries. If the person on the other end sounds sane, I will ask for an appointment. I can always decide not to go at the last minute.”

“You’ll go. Come to think of it, my cousin Matilda went there or to a similar place. She was between husbands at the time. She literally cannot stand up if she doesn’t have a man’s arm to clutch. She decided if the groom could rent a suit and a top hat it was perfectly proper for her to rent
a man. I believe he was mistaken for the father of the bride or the maître d’, one or the other.”

“Let us drink to presentable men, however they come,” I cried, raising my glass. “Whatever the price.”

The next day I did not feel quite as swingingly sophisticated. I put off telephoning Eligibility Escorts until late in the afternoon. Going into the back area of the showroom where I worked, I poured a cup of coffee from the electric pot perched dangerously on a packing case, sharpened three pencils until they were lethal, sat down behind the desk, stood up, organized a box of paper clips, picked up the phone, put it down, and finally dialled the number. It was engaged. Five minutes later I got through and was informed by the anonymous voice at the other end of the wire that appointments were not necessary. Office hours were 8:30 to 5:30, and I would be expected to provide three references, type-written, in triplicate.
Click
.

Not very friendly, but definitely businesslike. I began to feel better. Cancelling my late afternoon appointment with a woman who wanted her suburban three-bedroom, prewar house turned into a French château, I took the tube to the Strand, checked the address in my purse for the fourth time, and began the ten-minute walk to Goldfinch Street.

My feet slowed it to twenty. They also walked me into Woolworth’s, where I bought a lipstick I didn’t need in a colour I would never wear, and a bag of potato crisps which I tucked into my bag for a little security.

Unfortunately, I had no trouble finding the building that housed Eligibility. No one could miss it. The architect had not bypassed an innovative trick. Riding the lift—a glass funnel revolving on its own axis with no visible means of support—through a jungle of hothouse plants was an experience in itself. My only hope was that some exuberant tenor would not forget himself, burst into song, and with one glorious ping splinter the lot of us. I kept my eye on a stout, swarthy gentleman with a black operatic beard and
silently dared him to breathe. In the nick of time the great globular machine drifted to a halt, hung in the air for a second, then, in a silent yawn, opened its doors. Briefly I considered making an immediate return voyage. But I despise cowards, even if I am one most of the time.

Turning a corner, I found myself immediately in front of a glass door proclaiming in blazing letters Eligibility Escorts. Underneath was a nauseating little etching of two hearts entwined.

Scrambling in my bag, I fished out a pair of dark glasses, and turned up the collar of my camel coat. Who was I hiding from? Me? My insides plummetted; I did a bit of Lamaze breathing I had picked up on the telly and opened the door.

As is often the case when one expects the worst, nothing sinister lurked inside. It was the usual kind of reception room where exorbitant fees are collected: bleached bone walls, bamboo window blinds, and a sparing, eclectic use of accessories. The room’s focal point was a silicone-upholstered blonde, cleverly disguised as the receptionist. Seated behind a crescent-shaped orange Formica desk, she was filing her already razor-sharp nails and genteelly chewing gum, blowing cute little bubbles which exactly matched her candy-pink lipstick. She didn’t look up as I came in on waves of Johnny Mathis crooning enticingly.

I cleared my throat and noisily swallowed my voice. “Excuse me?”

“Yes?” Blondie Locks sucked in the neat little dollop of gum and managed, if possible, to look more bored than ever. “If you’ve come about the job”—the emery board continued to hum—“it’s taken. Sorry, but first come, first served.”

“Job?”

She looked blank. “Janitor, male or female, no experience necessary, no fringe benefits, age forty-five and”—she paused—“you mean you didn’t want it?”

Surely I could not have aged that rapidly since morning? This bottle-blond, sugar-coated idiot was going to be a real treat. From her X-ray stare I might have been a
maggot crawling out from a silver tray of neatly trimmed cucumber sandwiches. Nerves be damned, I was not going to be treated like the cat’s lunch.

I took off the dark glasses and put them in my pocket. “I’m here as a client, not as a full-time employee. You may remember”—I cast a glance round the empty waiting room—“I rang up this afternoon, and you told me I could come in without an appointment. I hope I haven’t wasted my time? I have clients of my own that I have neglected for this.” Take that, I thought, feeling her mean little eyes work slowly up and down taking in my parachute-shaped coat and serviceable shoes. Why had I done this to myself?

“Management requirements are, I am afraid, very exacting—”

“Exactly what are these requirements? If I’d known you wanted 36–24–35, I wouldn’t have eaten lunch.”

“Look, miss, I don’t make the rules. Life isn’t always fair.”

Profound thought for the day.

“Listen, if I looked the way you think I should, I wouldn’t be here. Now can you help, or may I speak to someone who will?”

Her sigh rattled the paper clips. “I don’t make the decisions for E.E.… Oh well, Mrs. Swabueher will want these completed before you go in.” A sheaf of application forms, miniature hearts stamped in each top right-hand corner, and stickily clipped together with a bent paper clip, was thrust into my hands. “Go into that little cubbyhole near the window.”

Blondie Locks did not bother to get up; she just waved a packet of gum. “You’ll find what you need, pens, pencils, and an adding machine.”

I heard a door open and close at the far end of the room but not before I caught the words, “Wooh, we’ve got Miss World out there.” Always before, I had rather enjoyed filling out application forms. They assert in nice dear print that I am a person with past accomplishments, ideas, and goals—all neatly tabulated. Check Box A, B, or C, sign on the dotted line. Never much room for soul-searching.
I have not been arrested, practised bigamy, or belonged to a far-out tropical religious cult. But this interrogatory was obviously the brainchild of some Freudian disciple who wanted me to dig my own grave and lie in it.

When using the bathroom, did I always close the door?

Did I smoke other people’s cigarettes?

What kind of nightwear did I prefer?

Somewhere between these skilfully dotted lines lay booby traps to be detonated by the unwary. Having chewed off the ends of two pencils and decided that if this drivel did not finish me off, lead poisoning would, I skipped a few lines and came to a question in large type, several times underscored. This was obviously the biggie. “What did I want most out of life?”

A. A fulfilling sexual relationship.

B. Money.

C. Approval of one’s peers.

I was tempted to respond, “Fish and chips with plenty of vinegar and peas, a large Coke, and a chocolate ice-cream sundae with extra cream, two cherries, no nuts.”

An alarm went off, puncturing my right eardrum. Blondie Locks was back, holding a natty-looking timepiece expertly between her cherry-ripe claws.

“You’d better see Mrs. Swabucher now. She leaves for a conference the day after tomorrow.” From her smirk, Blondie Locks had apparently decided I was Joke of the Day. Everyone hold your sides and roll in your seats; here comes Miss Woollen Underwear looking for Mr. Right.

The inner sanctum was like a great big powder puff, all fluffy and pink and softly scented. Everything was pink—the carpet, the wallpaper, the curtains, the lampshade that looked like a parasol; even the large desk in the centre of the room was a pearly pink, heart-shaped of course. Behind this sat a fluffy elderly lady, who looked a bit like
a powder puff herself. In that rosy light her hair had a pinkish glow.

“Miss, er, Ellie Simons.” Blondie Locks plopped down my test papers on the desk and skittered out on her nine-inch pencil heels.

“Come in, come in, my dear. My! You look scared to death, poor pet.” Mrs. Swabucher came trotting out from behind the desk, and I was amazed to see she was wearing cosy bedroom slippers with large silk pink pompoms, which quite cancelled the effect of her rose wool suit.

She caught my eye and gave an improbable wink. “I know, I know they make me look like an old tabby cat, but I do suffer so with my feet, and my daughter Phyllis gave them to me last Christmas. She’s the tall girl in this photo, the one standing next to the boy with the hamster—my grandson Albert. Let me take your coat, dear, pull that chair up so we can have a really jolly natter. How about some coffee?”

This was the master-mind of E.E.? I noticed with mild surprise that my hands had stopped shaking. I was able to hold the delicate coffee cup with its gentle tracing of tiny rosebuds quite steady. The room was deliciously warm despite the rain prattling down outside. I might have been spending a quiet evening with an elderly friend or relative, except that my relatives were all as warm as snakes.

“Has that girl been giving you a hard time?” Mrs. Swabucher sat down again behind the photograph frames and sipped her coffee. “I knew she was wrong the minute I set eyes on her. But what can one do? It’s absolutely impossible to find good help these days: sloppy, rude, and dreadfully underbred. Now you, Miss Simons, I can see, are a lady.”

“About the test?”

“Oh, don’t worry your head about that nonsense for a minute. That was my son Reginald’s idea. He’s an accountant, and you know how they are—‘Mother, you must be efficient, up to the minute, go by the book.’ What I do go on is instinct, and I’m never wrong. That’s how I got into
this business in the first place. I understand people. My dear late husband always said I was a born match-maker, and when he passed on … what else did I have to do?”

She ran down momentarily like an old watch, and I murmured something about not requiring anything quite as permanent as a husband.

Mrs. Swabucher beamed at me. “One never can tell! Have a chocolate, all soft centres. I order them specially.”

I eyed them hungrily, but refused.

“Worry about your weight, don’t you, dear? Shouldn’t. At your age it’s probably just puppy fat.”

“I’m twenty-seven.”

“Dear, oh dear! About to die of old age, are you!” Mrs. Swabucher chuckled throatily. “Come on, be a devil. Enjoy yourself! Ah! You’re afraid—you think this is another test, like that rubbish outside. Let’s get one thing straight, Miss Simons. I’m not devious, not clever enough for it. Now eat up, and well get down to business. Tell me all about yourself.”

It was easy. I had one chocolate, two chocolates. Mrs. Swabucher handed me the box and told me to keep it on my lap. She kept pouring me coffee. I told her about the invitation to Merlin’s Court, described Vanessa and how dreadfully inadequate I felt in her presence, how I hated my weight but felt powerless to control it, and how I thought even a make-believe relationship would give me the confidence to get through the big weekend.

By the end of my recital Mrs. Swabucher had tears in her eyes and was blowing noisily into a pink silk handkerchief. “What a pity my youngest boy, poor William, never had a chance to meet you.”