Wishful Thinking (17 page)

‘What's the flap?' Georgie asked.

We offered him a chair but he preferred to pace up and down, fuming. Metaphorically, steam was coming from his ears. We could almost see it. None of us had ever seen Laurence angry – he was the type who became irritable and occasionally peevish but didn't seem to have a temper to lose. We were all rather shocked.

‘Beauman,' he said. ‘Fucking Beauman.' He didn't use four-letter words either. ‘Fucking arsehole Beauman. Fuck fuck fuck.'

And so on.

‘What's he done?' Georgie asked. Lin and I were too alarmed to pose home questions.

‘He's
heard
I'm gay,' Laurence said, tight-lipped – a difficult attitude for someone whose mouth was of the soft-and-sensitive brand, ‘and he thinks my editorial touch would detract from the machismo of his prose.'

We stared at him, staggered. ‘I bet he didn't put it as well as that,' I muttered, voicing the second thought that came to mind.

Laurence wasn't listening. ‘I did his last book, for God's sake! Number one on every bestseller list! Well, except where it was number two. I've been wasting half my evenings on this one – and it isn't like I get overtime. No complaints before. I don't know who told him—'

‘Probably no one
told
him,' Georgie said. ‘I expect someone just said something because they thought he knew.'

‘Who cares? It doesn't matter now. Look, I've never made an issue of being gay. It isn't a political thing for me, just a sexual preference. I don't do the clichés. I still like football and beer – I don't collect Princess Di memorabilia – I don't wear a lilac suit and march for Gay Pride. I don't even do guilt any more.'

‘Your gayness and your guilt are
not
besmirched With rainy marching in the painful field,' I was unable to resist paraphrasing.

Laurence, cooling down, managed a short laugh. ‘Nice one, Cookie. The point is, gay isn't who I am, it's just who I fuck. What difference does it make to my work? None. We just have to pander to the whims of that bigoted cretinous little ex-con—'

‘At least it's a nasty job you don't have to do any more,' I said.

‘Don't be naïve,' said Laurence. ‘It was my job security. My road to promotion. Without it, I'm just another editor, back on the bottom rung.'

‘Like me,' I said.

‘Not quite. I forgot to tell you, Alistair wants you in his office. I suspect you're taking over.'

‘
What
?'

Georgie, unforgivably, gave a shout of laughter. Even Lin giggled. I could see nothing funny in the situation.

‘Don't knock it,' Laurence said, with a generosity which I should've appreciated more. ‘It's a real chance to show what you can do. Beauman needs so much work – it's a hell of a job, and beyond the portals of Ransome Harber no one will know, but in the company your stock could skyrocket. Besides, tactful handling of impossible bastards seems to be your forte. You did well with Todd Jarman.'

Unaccountably, I was annoyed. ‘You can't possibly compare Todd with Jerry Beauman! Anyway, I – I wasn't tactful. We . . .' We struck sparks off each other?

In Alistair's office, my worst fears were realised. (It's funny how often worst fears are realised – and not just in this book. You never read of worst fears
not
being realised, do you? You'd think we'd learn from experience, and tone down our fears – but then perhaps the unpleasant future would just creep up on us unawares, which could be far nastier.)

‘Sit down,' Alistair said with an expansive smile. It reminded me of Lewis Carroll's crocodile – it was smug, it was laid back, and it said: You're dinner.

I sat.

Alistair launched into his spiel about the publisher's mission, winding down when he inferred, possibly from my expression, that I'd heard it before. Then came the doom-laden words.

‘I've got a wonderful opportunity for you.'

Later that same evening . . .

The three musketeers were sitting in a nearby wine bar with a bottle of celebratory champagne, though I for one was not at all sure what we were celebrating. Cal had gone straight home due to family commitments and Laurence had declined to join us. ‘We're celebrating your freedom, not Cookie's enslavement,' Lin had claimed.

‘Pah!' said Laurence, or something that sounded like that. Which was interesting, because I couldn't recall ever hearing anyone say ‘Pah!' before; it's the kind of thing people said in novels of the mid-twentieth century, when writers weren't allowed to go for anything stronger. Possibly Laurence was more camp than he pretended. ‘Sorry – thanks for the invite – but “Pah!” just the same. What's the point of being one of the lads when you're categorised solely by what you do in bed?'

‘Ladettes,' said Georgie. And, as he walked away: ‘Where are you going?'

‘To start a collection of Princess Di teacups!'

So it was just the three of us, and the champagne. Lin had called in her latest emergency babysitter, the teenage daughter of a neighbour who was anxious to earn some extra cash. ‘How tough is she?' Georgie had inquired doubtfully.

‘Well, she's got multiple lip-piercings, a nasal stud, and her hair dyed black with purple streaks, so she
looks
tough enough,' Lin said, not pretending to misunderstand.

‘Does she wear vomit-proof clothing?' I asked, adding, delicately: ‘You told us about Meredith's little problem . . .'

‘Oh – yes. She wears leather. At least, fake leather. Anyway, I'm sure they'll think she's cool. Though they were really taken with you two . . .'

‘Kids always appreciate natural authority,' Georgie declared airily.

We drank to my new role as Jerry Beauman's editor, dissuaded Lin from phoning home in a panic (more worst fears could've been realised there), and fished for other things to drink to.

‘There's always the wishes,' Lin said. ‘I've had a date, even if it wasn't a big success, and Cookie's become a sex goddess.'

‘Not yet,' said Georgie, forestalling my protest. ‘We've still got to find a suitable event where she can shine in all her goddessly glory. The Christmas party's way too far off. It may have to be a book launch.'

‘Launches aren't really sex-goddess territory,' I said hastily. I could see a certain gleam in Georgie's eye which was making me nervous. Something told me another transformation scene could be in the offing, and I wasn't sure my credit card could stand it. ‘How about you? Met any good millionaires lately?'

‘Yes. Sort of.' Georgie looked tragic. ‘I'm supposed to be going out with a glamorous doctor at the weekend. The Harley Street kind. He sounds glamorous by e-mail, anyway. He's taking me to the opera.'

‘Why're you looking so gloomy about it?' Lin asked. ‘I should think that would be wonderful. Andy took me to Glyndebourne once:
The Marriage of Figaro
. It was out of this world. Is this Glyndebourne?'

‘Covent Garden.'

‘You do fall on your feet,' I said, a little enviously. ‘What's the opera?'

Georgie was still looking tragic. ‘Wagner.'

‘Oh.' I thought I understood her gloom. ‘Can be heavy going.' Years ago, I had attempted to sit through a video of the Ring Cycle, in order to impress an operatically minded young man with my musical knowledge. I had tried to absorb it piecemeal, over several days, frequently leaving the room to make coffee and fortifying myself with a book on the side, but it had still been hard work and very unrewarding. The young man had preferred a fan of Bananarama. Now, all I could remember of the production, bar its length, was the opulent black diva who had been singing Frigga – a particularly unlikely Nordic goddess. ‘Which Wagner?'

‘
Lohengrin
,' said Georgie. ‘Slow and grim.'

‘That's not too long, is it?' I said, hearteningly.

‘About four hours,' Georgie responded. Her gloom was unalleviated.

‘Could be worse. The Ring goes on practically forever.'

‘It'll be fun,' Lin insisted. ‘Opera's amazing, isn't it? You must have been to lots when you were in Italy. Italy's the home of opera. The Italians are all mad about it.'

‘No,' Georgie said baldly. ‘They ain't. Italy may be the home of Rossini and Puccini and other composers ending in –ini, but most Italians don't give a damn. There's a small clique at La Scala who reminisce about Callas and throw tomatoes at singers they don't like; everyone else just goes for the party. Opening night there is the biggest social event of the season. It's all about dressing up like a Christmas tree and being photographed in a whirl of celebs; no one listens to the music.'

‘I should've thought that would be your scene,' I said. ‘I mean the dressing up and the celebs.'

‘Only when I'm part of it. During my marriage, I wasn't. We went once, after – after things started to go wrong with me and Franco.' A quick smile chased the shadow from her face. ‘It was something called
La Vestale
– unbelievably dreary. Vestal Virgins, Ancient Rome, large men in togas. I don't think the toga does anything for anyone; it just makes you look as if you're wearing your bath towel. And there weren't any hit songs. I took a small torch and a book.'

‘How did you get away with that?' Lin asked.

‘We were in a box. I sat at the back.'

‘Maybe your doctor will get you a box,' I said.

‘Bit iffy,' said Georgie. ‘Too secluded. He might try to make a pass at me in the sex scenes.'

‘
Sex scenes
?' Lin and I stared. ‘In
Wagner
?'

And: ‘What's this doctor's name, anyway?' I inquired.

His name, apparently, was Neville Fancot. It didn't sound promising, but when they met in the foyer, locating each other by mobile phone and a series of passwords, Georgie found herself thinking with surprise that he looked presentable, even attractive. Her previous experiences had not engendered optimism, and she checked hastily to see if his eyes were too close together or there were signs of a latent mother-complex. In fact, he had a thin, rather brown face with folded lines in his cheeks that unfolded when he smiled and a respectable distance between his eyes. His hair was brown-going-grey (or possibly, Georgie speculated, grey-going-brown), his voice plummy, with an upper-class accent that belonged more to British films of the forties and fifties than the present day. His suit bore the hallmarks of Savile Row tailoring, with a carnation in the buttonhole for recognition purposes. (Georgie's suggestion: ‘Let's say it with clichés.') After considerable research, Georgie had abandoned any idea of full evening dress and wore her slinky black skirt and a top with the inevitable plunge neckline, draped in a pashmina for subtlety. If Dr Fancot was impressed, he managed not to show it.

‘I've arranged dinner in the restaurant in the intervals,' he explained. ‘I think we should go and order now.'

‘So what's someone like you doing using the classifieds?' Georgie inquired while they awaited the maître d', hiding blunt interrogation behind a dazzling smile. At least, she hoped he was dazzled. ‘You don't look the type.' If there was a type – after her previous dates she wasn't sure.

‘Nor do you.'

‘The ad says it all.' Georgie grimaced. ‘I need a millionaire in my life.
Do
you have a cardiac condition?'

‘'Fraid not. I'm forty-eight, pretty comfortably off, and my back plays up from time to time, especially after too much tennis. Will that do?'

‘I'm not sure,' Georgie said cautiously.

The maître d' materialised to take their orders: both went for the smoked salmon, followed by rare steak. ‘Couldn't you order something with more cholesterol?' Georgie demanded.

Neville started, then grinned. ‘Sorry. If we have coffee afterwards, I'll eat all the chocolate mints.'

‘You still haven't answered my question,' she resumed, over champagne at the bar. ‘Why the classifieds? Are you married?'

‘Divorced. The usual story: I have a busy life, limited time for socialising, I wanted to meet someone outside my everyday circle. Not for any sinister reasons, just for the fun of it. Your ad made me laugh.'

‘It wasn't a joke,' Georgie said darkly.

‘Well, I may not be rich enough, but at least let me give you a good time this evening.' Her eyes widened. ‘Unfortunate choice of words. I mean—'

‘You call Wagner a
good time
?'

‘Actually, I've never done Wagner before. I've always played safe with Verdi and Mozart. I was hoping all this would impress you. Are you keen on opera?'

‘I lived in Italy for years,' Georgie said.

‘So you're an expert.'

‘So I know nothing about it.' She began to explain the popular misconception about Italians and opera.

‘Then this is a first for both of us,' he said bracingly.

He's nice, she thought, determined to be positive. Probably a good doctor. Quietly competent, reassuring, not too charming. She had a hazy idea doctors shouldn't be charming: there was something deeply suspect about anyone in a position of trust exuding even the subtlest form of sex appeal. Besides, Georgie liked to be the one with the charm. It gave her an edge – yet at the same time it was a quality she despised, since it came to her so easily, and she used it so lightly, and it meant so little. I read in an old Margery Allingham that charm is ‘the ability to make people think you like them', which sums it up nicely. Georgie – who is only superficially superficial – had enough discernment to place little value on hers, even though she would exercise it without scruple.