Wicked Women (7 page)

“Well, he would,” said Daphne.

“Not with someone like her,” said Elaine.

“He said yours and his sex life was over anyway,” said Weena to Elaine. “You don’t want to do it any more.”

“The liar!” cried Elaine, but Weena did not want to hear that.

“I suppose that’s natural as you get older,” said Weena, “though I don’t see it happening to me. It’s been hard on Def. So I don’t see I’m poaching on anyone’s territory: if anything, I’m a help. Don’t you put mint in your potatoes?”

“It’s vulgar,” said Elaine. “Too obvious.”

“Def says you never notice anything,” said Weena, “or you might have noticed he’s on the vulgar side himself, not to mention the obvious. You do to Def what my mother did to my dad: you shame him and expose him and laugh at his achievements. You suck his life out of him to keep yourself going.”

“You’ve got it wrong,” said Daphne. “It’s the other way round.”

“I’m the one who loves Def properly,” said Weena. “I’m the one who can make him happy.”

“I want you to leave my house,” said Elaine. “I want you to leave it now.” And she looked round desperately and automatically for help from Def, who wasn’t there.

“The thing is,” said Weena, “it isn’t your house, is it? It’s Def s. He told me so. So it’s not up to you whether I go or stay, it’s up to Def. And he needs me to stay because he won’t get his money otherwise, and the money is enough for him to pay off his debts and stay here in the house he loves. With me to love him and look after him.”

“She’s insane,” said Daphne, “or seriously disturbed. But ever so fanciable. Perhaps I should borrow your car, Mum, and drive her back to London for treatment.”

“No thanks,” said Weena. “Not if you’re as dykey as Def says. I’m not sitting in a car with you!”

Defoe returned with his glasses.

“I want to make it clear,” he said, “that Weena was merely using a tactic common to biographers today. Her train was late—check with the station if you like—we came straight here. Our relationship is, of course, perfectly proper. The rest is shock tactics, designed to sweep away our conventional habits of restraint and repression when it comes to our own lives. After this, we will all be as frank and open as she requires.”

“And you’re old enough to be her father,” said Daphne.

“It’s the last station at the end of the line,” said Elaine. “It’s unmanned, as you well know. I couldn’t check if I wanted to. Either way, Daphne will drive me back to London now. I will stay with her and Alison.”

“Peter has a bigger apartment,” said Daphne. “Rick is smaller than Alison. There is no dog. You’ll be happier with Peter.”

“I will stay with one of my children,” amended Elaine, “until you’ve come to your senses, Defoe.”

“One dyke and one queer,” said Weena. “Even my mother didn’t do as badly as that!”

“Shut up, Weena,” Defoe had the grace to say, but Weena made a dive for his crotch and he giggled. “That is so profoundly politically incorrect. God, I love you!”

“What have you been taking, Dad?” demanded Daphne. “What has she been giving you? Shall we go upstairs, Mum, and put a few things in a suitcase?”

But Defoe was smiling too hard to hear. Elaine seemed to be in shock: ashen. Daphne helped her from the table. For the first time, Daphne envisaged her mother as old: and what was more, quite possibly old without a husband. Defoe would quickly find a woman to nurse him, even one of the likes of Weena. But who would Elaine have? Daphne? Peter? The needs of an older generation would not spark sympathy in Rick’s mind, let alone Alison’s. Jumper would not mind. Daphne must get home to nurture Alison. She had been away too long.

“No need to make such a scene, Elaine,” Defoe reproached his wife. “Weena’s just an Eloi. She’s easily upset. You’re turning this into a real embarrassment. It’s unforgivable.”

“Is she really going?” asked Weena, watching Elaine and Daphne leave the room, leaning into one another for strength and comfort. “Just like that? She’s not exactly Boadicea. Do you know about Boadicea? I was reading up on her the other day.”

“My wife has her dignity,” said Defoe. “Let her live by it. And constancy, endurance, honesty and all the rest. Me, I have you.”

“And the house to ourselves,” rejoiced Weena. “What an innocent Elaine is. It never pays to leave the matrimonial home: doesn’t she know that? Possession is nine-tenths of the law. Once she’s out, it’ll take her a year and ten thousand pounds at a minimum to get back in. If she ever does. Not so much an innocent, more of a fool.”

Defoe’s hand travelled up Weena’s thigh and under the edge of one of the frayed denim hems, but she pushed his hand away. “Not while Daphne’s in the house,” said Weena. “A daughter’s a daughter and they suffer. My mother and father never closed the door. They never cared what noise they made. That counts as abuse, doesn’t it?”

“Poor little Weena,” said Defoe. “I’ll make it up to you.” And he took his hand away and gazed in admiration at the angel who had now taken Weena’s form, though she floated a little before his eyes. Down in the reeds by the river she’d given him a tablet or two to take, and he’d swallowed them because she’d said so, and took a step backwards away from him for every second he dithered, her naked body translucent, greeny-white and firm like some plump serpent, miraculous in its existence, threatening to disappear. Once he’d swallowed, she came nearer: her turn to swallow him up.

Hattie tried to lull her niece Amy to sleep. She sang every lullaby she knew: that is to say “Rock-a-bye Baby” and “Hush, My Darling.”

“Boring, boring,” said the child, and used the remote control to get to Sky and the Pop Channel. Then she put the volume up really loud and fell asleep contentedly. The telephone rang. It was Bob.

“You’ll have to forgive me, Hattie,” he said. “Let me get this over. It’s Bob. I’m not worthy of you. Last week I asked Weena round. She stayed the night. It won’t happen again. It’s taken me three days to get up the courage to tell you. I don’t want it to spoil things between you and me. Please God it won’t.”

“Are you at home?” asked Hattie.

“I got fired,” said Bob. “There was a letter on my desk Friday morning. Now I’m so far down I guess there’s no way left but up, and I’m almost glad.”

“But why?”

“I guess it was Wednesday’s management meeting. First of all I was late—that was Weena’s fault, the little bitch. I know she did it on purpose—”

“Don’t tell me; just don’t tell me,” begged Hattie.

“Then I said how about Defoe Desmond’s biography, and there was a kind of silence. Well, it was a crazy idea, I know, but Weena wanted me to put it to them, so I did. In the letter it said my editorial suggestions weren’t in tune with managerial and financial goals, so I guess that was it. Suggest a has-been to the powers that be, get to be a has-been too.”

“I see,” said Hattie. “So now you’re fired you’ll go on the dole and there’ll be no maintenance for your wife.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Bob.

“I bet Weena had,” said Hattie.

“You used to be her friend,” said Bob.

“Not any more,” said Hattie. “And I’m glad she suffered from our crumbs. If you promise to change the sheets, I’ll come round.”

“When?” asked Bob.

“I’m looking after my sister’s little girl Amy,” said Hattie. “I’ll wait till she wakes and then take her home and come on to you.”

“Wake her up now,” said Bob.

“Certainly not,” said Hattie. “That would be immoral. She has to wake naturally.”

Elaine moved stiffly round the bedroom, frowning and inefficient. Daphne stuffed the more obvious items of clothing and personal necessities into a suitcase.

“Dad’s been taking something, Mum,” she said. “He’s not himself. Let’s just get away, shall we?”

“Perhaps it would be better if I stayed,” said Elaine. “It doesn’t feel right just to go.”

“I can’t leave you here on your own,” said Daphne. “And I can’t stay, so you’ll have to come.”

“Why can’t you stay?”

“Because Alison is taking Jumper to the vet at 7:45, and the vet’s a woman and just her type. I’ve been away for three days and I want to get to the appointment too.”

“Do you mean the vet is Jumper’s type, or Alison’s type?”

“Alison’s type,” said Daphne patiently.

“Oh,” said Elaine. “And then you could have an operation to get to be an animal and then you could be Jumper’s type. Just a thought.”

“Not a very good joke, Mum,” said Daphne. “Probably not,” said Elaine gloomily, and waved at the furniture. “What are you doing, Mum?”

“Waving goodbye to the matrimonial fourposter,” said Elaine. “I was born in that bed. I had you in hospital. Peter too. Perhaps that’s what went wrong. Lack of faith.”

“You’re talking strangely even for you, Mum,” said Daphne. “Let’s just get out of here.”

“No, wait a moment,” said Elaine, clinging to one of the four posts of the bed. “I could compose a curse. I could curse your father and all his line.”

“He doesn’t have a line. Just Peter and me.”

“My mother cursed my father and all his line before she went,” said Elaine. “Before she jumped in the river. They found her down near the reeds. Why shouldn’t I do it too? It obviously works.”

Daphne tried to prise her mother’s arms from the post, but failed. “Jesus, what a nightmare!” she said. “Compared to home, International Relations is a piece of cake.”

The phone rang. Elaine let loose the bedpost and answered it.

“Hello,” she said. “Yes, as it happens, someone called Weena is in the house. An Eloi. We’re just Morlocks.”

“Is that Mrs. Desmond?” asked Hattie.

“Lady Drewlove to you,” said Elaine. “Who ever wanted to be married to a mere commoner?”

“Lady Drewlove! Wow!” said Hattie. “I thought you were just a Mrs. It was you I wanted anyway, not Weena. I need to warn you. Weena’s no well-wisher. I know: I’m her friend. She’s after your husband. She’ll drive you out, suck him dry, spit him out as a husk. I can’t go on, because you’re out of town and this is my friend Bob’s phone. One of the husks I’m talking about. There are hulks and there are husks.”

“She’s writing my husband’s biography,” said Elaine. “She seems to be plumping him up well enough, making him rich and famous again: I see no sign of any husk—”

Downstairs, Weena said to Defoe, as she helped herself to raspberry mousse with a meringue topping, done to a turn overnight in the Aga’s plate-warming oven, “As soon as she’s gone, call the locksmith, change the locks. Then she can’t get in without breaking in, and you can call the police if she tries. Communicate only through lawyers. Accuse her of violent behaviour. She’ll’ soon give up and go away and leave you in peace, to be yourself at last. I’ll be here to help you; it’s all going to be just fine!”

Defoe’s head was clearing. The fronds of Weena’s shorts were beginning to separate out, lie still; had ceased writhing and weaving round her leg.

“Wasn’t that the phone?” he asked. “Not any more,” said Weena. Defoe picked up the silent instrument to hear Hattie’s voice.

“Weena’s got no commission to do Defoe Desmond’s biography. She tried but she failed. There’s no Sunday newspaper serialisation. All that’s for your husband’s benefit. A commission just acts as a pregnancy used to, when a girl wants a man and a home. When she’s got what she wants, the baby, the commission just somehow fades away. She has a miscarriage: the editor changes his mind. She’s installed, though. She’s okay. Too late for the guy to go back. It happens to the good guys, not the bad. Don’t give up on your husband just because Weena’s around.”

Defoe put the receiver down. The words might have been real, or they might have come from heaven. He did not recognise the voice, but the statements made were the more convincing for that. His hand tightened round Weena’s thigh.

“You’re hurting me,” she protested. “I bruise so easily. I’m Weena the Eloi. My mother named me after the girl in
The Time Machine,
did I ever tell you that? She wanted to diminish me from the moment I was born.”

“I’m the King of the Morlocks,” he said, picking up the bread knife, “and I’m going to eat half of you for lunch, and the Queen shall have the other half for tea.”

The knife was at her throat and she was on her feet in an instant.

“Get out of here now,” Defoe said. “Just out.”

“I’ll tell everyone,” Weena said. “I’ll tell the press. I’ll tell them you raped me. I’ll tell them everything.”

“Tell away,” he said, “because who’s interested? No one. It’s the end of the line, Weena, for you and for me, and you’re lost and I’m saved.”

“Take me now,” Weena pleaded, thrusting out her chest at him, but the T-shirt seemed unerotic, the breasts pointless. “This is so exciting! I’ve never wanted a man so much—”

“It won’t work,” Defoe said, brandishing his knife, pursuing her.

“It worked once, it worked twice; three times and you’d have me. Serpent! Slimy, cold creature. I’ll cut your head off!”

And Weena turned and ran out of the house. He followed her to the door and flung her green leather bag after her, and the bread knife after that, so it glinted in the air and almost got her: she stared up at it, mouth open and paralysed, as it arced towards her, over and over, and down, Elaine’s best bread knife with the serrated edge. But the knife missed her, and buried itself haft-deep in the lawn. Weena grabbed her bag and ran. Defoe slammed the door after her and turned the locks just as his wife and daughter came down the stairs.

“I reckon I was just in time,” said Hattie to Bob. “If I’d come straight round, if I hadn’t waited for Amy to wake, I wouldn’t have bothered to get through to Defoe Desmond’s wife.”

Bob had found no clean sheets, but had straightened those already on the bed and brushed away the crumbs, ready for next morning’s breakfast. She could forgive him.

Weena went to her office and found her name off the door and her desk gone. She had no job: she was one of many similarly made redundant. Nor was Dervish there to cajole and persuade, blackmail and charm. He had left a message to say if she attempted to stay, she’d be thrown out. She could collect her wages the following week.

Weena went to her apartment and found the lock changed and her suitcases out, and the white satin blouse, now the same grey as Elaine’s wood ash, hanging on the doorknob by way of explanation.