Janice Gentle Gets Sexy (10 page)

She sits back on her haunches and stares. A little bit of cream plops down from the scone on to Sylvia Perth's cheek. Janice scoops it up with her finger. Absently she licks it clean. It tastes of face-powder. Janice stares. The unthinkable, indeed. Sylvia and Janice, agent and author, intertwined, interdependent: Sylvia, total guardian of Janice and all th
at she is; Janice, total protegé
e of Sylvia and nothing without her. So close that not a leaf, let alone another agent or publisher, can come between them. Sundered now, for ever, by the Great Leveller.

Impossible, unbearable, unthinkable.

But true all the same.

The cream cloys in her mouth.

Who will protect her now?

Janice Gentl
e's agency, so prized by Sylvia Perth, so defended from attempted coups, so utterly, utterly the property of one woman alone, is, quite suddenly, up for grabs.

Chapter Five

S

ylvia
Perth died a martyr to retail therapy. Through her relationship with Janice Gentle she had learned to worship and accrue the beautiful things that money could buy. She dreamt not of love but of objects, she yearned not for friendship but for possessions, tangible items that never let you down (and if they did, you could return them and get your money back — unlike a wasted life). Love was a singularly hollow affair, a specious deceit, and Sylvia had no time for it. Vowing eternity one minute, vowing murder the next.

Even had she broken her rule and gone for dinner with flower-face, it would not have been love that she sought, for love required feeding, time, attention, care,
sacrifice,
and Sylvia Perth delighted in having a life that required her to give up nothing. The gap that non-existent love had left in her was easily filled with nice things. Nice things were Sylvia's DNA. The prospect of a life without them was too cruel, too barren, for Sylvia to contemplate. When Janice
Gentle
had her innocent
little
flicker of rebellion, it was experienced by Sylvia as the very heat and jaws of hell itself. No Janice Gentle books, no more beautiful things. And, worse, if it went any further, if the
truth
got out, if those things only known and hidden in the darker recesses should shine forth, why, they might actually take all the beautiful things away . . .

Christ, thought Sylvia Perth, as she scrabbled out of the taxi-cab and stabbed at the door button, La Doughbag might just mean it. Stab, stab, she went again, mad at herself for having got sidetracked by mere passing fancy. That it was entirely her own fault made her passion ten times worse. Janice
Gentle
was not known for her flippancy. She had her big, spreading feet planted firmly on some damnably honourable medieval floor, and what she said she usually meant.

Panicking at the l
ift, waiti
ng for it to descend, Sylvia could feel the sweat of fear breaking out. She pressed the button again. It wasn't as if, she muttered hysterically, the silly cow ever
wanted
to spend much of her money, anyway. Stab, stab. It wasn't as if she had taken anything away,
not really,
from that lump of obese immobility. There was nothing, nothing at all, that Janice Gentle had wanted for,
nothing.
Whereas she, Sylvia, was all splendid exuberance for the finer things.
She
understood Imelda Marcos even if nobody else did. Why not have a million pairs of shoes if it pleased you?
At
least shoes didn't stab you in the back, at least hats didn't slip down and strangle you, and money had no barriers of age, sex or religion - at least, at least it was
something
to make you feel really good.

The lift took an age. Sylvia Perth contemplated using the stairs, but she felt very tired. Why the devil didn't Janice move somewhere better? Across the water? Chelsea or Knightsbr
idge or somewhere refined. Batte
rsea, I mean - punch, punch at the button -
Battersea.
And in a flat that looked as if it were owned by the council. Style and money - Janice would never have much of either. And anyway, she didn't
want
them - not at all. The only thing Janice had that she treasured was an old chest with a lurid old coat in it - that and her appetite. Whereas she, Sylvia . . .

She relaxed. She could hear the lift at last. She smiled and breathed out and waited for the tension in her chest to flow away from her. Once she was with Janice it would all be fine. She had a way with Janice. She made her happy, gave her what she wanted, listened to her rambling away so pottily about that Dermot Poll and soothed her whenever she showed signs of agitation over finding him. She hoped it wasn't all to do with that again. If Janice
Gentle
found Dermot Poll, it would break her illusion, and with the illusion gone . . .

Sylvia thought of the antique Beshir she had set her heart on, and her palpitations increased. To lose it all now was unthinkable, not fair. After all, what had she done? Nothing. She had taken nothing that Janice could possibly want. Indeed, she had given her all the things she wanted in the world: her inviolable home, her impenetrable privacy, her comforting food and an occupation that kept the dream alive. Dreams were never worth realizing, anyway. They were things that kept you going while they were unattained and always disappointed when they were reached. Find Dermot Poll and Janice Gentle would probably cease to want to live. In a way, Sylvia argued to herself, she had been doing Janice a kindness by
not
helping find Dermot Poll for her. Let the dream live on for ever. Her books gave her a route through life, didn't they? Though Janice wouldn't see it like that. But they gave her an interest. Find Dermot Poll and she would certainly cease to write. And if
that
happened it would lead dire
ctly
to the thing Sylvia - twinge, twinge — feared more than anything . . .

*

Sylvia had not meant to start borrowing from Janice Gentle's income. It had begun quite innoce
ntly
. Sylvia Perth deducted her own percentage, just as any literary agent must, and the rest had gone into an account for Janice. Since Janice was not at all worldly in such matters, it had seemed sensible, indeed imperative, for Sylvia Perth to have control of this account for the dispensation of the various moneys required to make Janice's life run smoothly. The problem was that Janice required so
little.
And the other problem was that she made so much. It was only a shift of emphasis that made Sylvia offer to be responsible for everything, and Janice had been heartfelt in her gratitude. Who would
not,
Sylvia said to herself time and time again whenever conscience poked out its ugly head, given half the chance, like to abrogate those responsibilities? And who would not, if finances were to hand, pay handsomely for the service? The only discrepancy, so far as Sylvia was concerned, was that Janice did not exactly
know
that she was paying, though initially she had only to ask and Sylvia would have told.

It was after the second book that things, or rather Sylvia's

fingers, got a bit stickier. Sylvia had worked very hard on her author's behalf and she felt the imbalance of reward rather keenly. After all, if it had not been for her, Janice Gentle would never have got published in the first place, would have remained, for ever, in Arterberry Road. Put like that. . .

And thus into the treacle well Sylvia Perth's fingers went.

By protecting Janice Gentle from the outside world, Sylvia Perth also protected herself from discovery; but it did not help her heart, that insular organ, which rebelled against the deceits and joined with conscience to form an unhealthy alliance. Sylvia had her ways of countering the stress and, as many do, thought herself immortal. The spending went on, the delights of possessions increased. It was beyond endurance to imagine it all being taken away.

She was very cautious with regard to Janice and the world outside her cloister. Over the years she had managed to deflect any attempt by members of the publishing world to make contact, and nowadays it was accepted that Janice Gentle was recluse and would always be so. Business was conducted through Sylvia Perth as her agent, and the situation was one of perfect accord. Occasionally this harmony was broken by some brash newcomer who thought he or she might move the pieces around on the board a little, but always it ended in defeat. Janice colluded with Sylvia in her anchorite existence, so it was based on free will. There were no chains, no hedge of thorns, no locked tower to be breached, and Sylvia could rest, almost, assured.

Almost, because there were always new contenders to the lists. For Sylvia these joustings were little more than pleasant interludes, although occasionally she felt she was required to be on her mettle. As with the Bulbecker woman today. Very intelligent, very positive and no bull-shitting. She had admired that at once. And they had enjoyed the lunch, both eyeing each other and talking of other things.

With coffee, Ms Bulbecker said, 'We both know what we are doing here.' And Sylvia, in her usual cat's-game way, replied, 'Well, I know why
I'm
here. I'm here because the langoustines are the best in town and you are paying.'

Sylvia Perth looked at Rohanne Bulbecker and Rohanne Bulbecker looked at Sylvia Perth.

Sylvia Perth shook her head. 'No, dear,' she said, 'no.'

'One book,' said Rohanne, holding up her freshly manicured finger. 'One book with that extra dimension and not attempting to dictate whatsoever .
..'

Sylvia smiled, cat-like. ' "Extra dimension" is rather a mouthful, don't you think? Surely we can say the word sex?'

'Sure!' said Rohanne Bulbecker hopefully.

'But the answer is still no.'

'May I ask why?'

'Janice Gentle is not interested in writi
ng about sex. She wishes to conti
nue to write as she chooses.' 'Money?'

Sylvia shook her head. She tapped the end of her cigarette so that ash fell into
the spent bodies of the langousti
nes. It was designed to be provocative.

Rohanne pictured Morgan P. Pfeiffer sitting at his desk, impassive, waiting. 'I should like to meet Janice
Gentle
and talk to her about the project. And to say, face to face, how much we admire her over there; how very keen Mr Pfeiffer and I are to work with her. Would that be possible?'

'Impossible,' Sylvia said. 'Janice never gives interviews. Everything is conducted through me. Put it in a letter and I will make sure she sees it.' She stood up. 'I have to go. Another appointment, I am afraid.'

Rohanne stood up.

'A very nice frock,' said Sylvia Perth.

'Thank you,' said Rohanne.

'Armani, I think?'

'Perhaps I could call her?'

'Afraid not. She distrusts the telephone.'

'Then I will write.'

They shook hands.

'I can be very persistent,' said Rohanne smiling. She watched her combatant moving away with irritating confidence. She put one of her fingers into her mouth and bit off the end of a much prized Bulbecker nail.

'And we’
said Sylvia Perth, also smiling, 'can be very impervious.' She walked away, still smiling, and said from the door, 'Over my dead body, I always say.'

And Rohanne, staring at her ragged fingertip in misery, thought that really wasn't such a bad idea.

*

Sylvia Perth tried not to remember those fateful words as she waited in the lobby of Janice's building. 'Damn the lift,' she said, having no energy to say worse,
'Damn,
and
damn,
and
damn
it.' At each outburst she kicked the closed doors until, like some avant-garde version of Ali Baba, they slid open, the lift appeared and Sylvia Perth caught her breath, clutched at the pain beneath her breast, and entered her tomb. She leaned, half fainting, against the steel wall and for some reason, though she feared she knew why, images of the past floated into her mind.

Her mother, Mrs Perth, in her pinny and turban, reading the trade papers for seaside novelties with which to stock their shop. Never turning away a travelling salesman in case he should have any fresh trumpery tucked among his wares. Mrs Perth bought the new plastic buckets cheaply when the fashion for tin was just turning, Mrs Perth bought Taiwanese rubber shoes when the custom was for raffia, and her decisions were sound. She was the powerhouse. Sylvia saw her sitting at the round chenille-covered table in the back room smoking Weights and making notes on the back of an envelope while Mr Perth made jovial banter with the customers and did the display. Whenever Sylvia thought of those days, which was not often, she knew it was not her mother's talent with novelties that she despised, it was her mother's small-mindedness, her parochiality, her lack of breadth in exploiting such a talent. Tin buckets and rubber shoes, indeed. Tawdry, tacky, parvenu . . .