Janice Gentle Gets Sexy (18 page)

So Gretchen, being down to earth and of a literal nature, duly punched the barmaid on the nose, forgetting that she was the sturdy daughter of a boxer now deceased. The barmaid, unwilling to accept complicity in the act of violence and with her face very much rearranged, terminated the love affair, and Gretchen, sadly, for she had loved her buxom partner dearly, moved on. There would always, she knew, be a place in her heart for barmaids.

She gave up the notion of love and decided to earn a living for herself. She ceased her unfeminine ways - dealt with leg and arm and upper-lip hair - and, though it by no means felt like an
honest
living, waitressed. Now she learned what life on the other side was like. Her bottom was pinched, hands wandered up to her thighs when her own hands were too full of glasses to do anything about it, obscene suggestions were whispered in her ear by wine-breathed men in dinner jackets, and she was freque
ntly
grabbed from behind while doing the washing-up. In the end the long-suffering Gretchen had had enough. When a wandering hand goosed her for the umpteenth time at a publishing party, she dropped a large tray loaded with dirty glasses, looked the perpetrator firmly in the eye and, in the astonished silence of the room, gave him a right hook that had the air of Zen it was so pure and so fine.

Tm sorry,' said Gretchen to the floorbound perpetrator, 'but I don't like men pinching my bottom.'

'Looking like you do,' said the floorbound perpetrator, 'you should be grateful for what you get.'

A hand reached under Gretchen's elbow, she was steered out into the Berkeley Square evening, and Sylvia Perth said, 'Well done, dear. What is your name? Let us go for a little walk.'

Sylvia had just acquired the house in Oxfordshire. It was at the beginning of her financial perfidy with Janice Gentle, and she wanted somewhere to keep completely separate from her London life - partly for the fun of it (when one game got dull she could switch to another), and partly for the serious aspect (if the perfidy was revealed one day, she would still have a home here). It was understood that, should anything befall Sylvia, Gretchen would inherit everything, and this worked to a perfect accord. If you know you are going to inherit something, you look after it especially well. Sylvia could trust Gretchen utterly. And Gretchen was content to sit and wait very happily with her knitting and her television, knowing that she was secure for ever. She knew nothing of London beyond how to contact Sylvia there if necessary, and she knew absolutely nothing of Mrs Perth's existence in Birmingham.

In Oxfordshire Gretchen was able to be herself, inclusive of moustache. And, in a reaction to the bows and pinnies of her waitressing days, she never wore anything designatedly feminine again. If anyone thought about it at all, they thought of her as masculine, but given the changing of the seasons, the farming and the pruning, the repainting and stabling that was going on all
around, no one had much
time
to worry about sexing their neighbours. Pigs, yes. Horses, yes. Human beings, no.

Whenever it came to it, and it almost inevitably would, since there was a difference of more than twenty years between them, Gretchen O'Dowd planned to give Sylvia Perth a wonderful funeral. Memories of her father's last great day had made a deep impression on her, and she knew that she would be able to do the flowers a treat. Since in life Sylvia asked so little of her, it was a pleasing notion that in death Gretchen would be able to do her this final public honour.

Of course she had not reckoned with the responsibility falling upon her shoulders quite so soon. Yet, in those dark days following Sylvia Perth's decease, it was the planning of this that kept her spirits up. The garden was beautiful, a mass of summer flowers, and the wide stretch of lawn was perfect for a marquee. At last, and in her own right, Gretchen would be able to enact the one experience that the privacy of their sporadic life together had denied her. Having the neighbours in.

*

Nobody knew the whereabouts of Janice
Gentle
.

Rohanne had received a rather sharp telephone call from Morgan Pfeiffer early that morning which gave her cause to panic.

'Miss Bulbecker.'

'Mr Pfeiffer?'

'We had expected confirmation of signing by now, Miss Bulbecker.'

'Soon, Mr Pfeiffer.'

'You have not yet located Janice
Gentle
?' 'I am
close, Mr Pfeiffer.'

'Good, Miss Bulbecker. And you will fax me a copy of -' 'The signed contract? I certainly will. Very soon. Mr Pfeiffer, I am almost there . . .'

'Would that I were,' she said, when she put down the phone. If ever there were a time for the calling up of friends, lovers, allies, it was now. Rohanne had never felt quite so near to defeat or tears, nor felt quite so alone. But her rule was absolute: to the world you showed only the face of success; whatever went on between you and your mirror in the dark, silent hours, you kept stri
ctly
to yourself.

Be resolute, she told herself, and slipping into her leathers and her Ray-Bans, she set off for Sylvia Perth deceased's office. She would try that dimbo of a secretary one more time before making her way to Dog Street. There must be some lead somewhere. It was all beginning to feel distinctly like one of those ancient fairy stories in which the damsel in the
castle
awaits rescuing by the courageous and bold. Well, Rohanne had never been short of either attribute. She wondered what Janice Gentle actually looked like. She had been able to trace no pictures at all. From the tone of her writing, she thought, as she hailed a taxi in Brook Street, she might well look like the princess in the thorn-covered tower.

*

Gretchen O'Dowd decided to be brave about it. She had told the Powers That Be she was not the next of kin (far too honestly, with hindsight), and the Powers That Be therefore refused to discuss the release of the body to her. Worse, they refused to give her any further information over the telephone. To their question 'Who are you?' Gretchen found herself answering in some confusion, since who she was was rather undelineated. She could hardly say companion, friend, housekeeper, sometime lover to this brusque voice. If she could have just simply said wife, it would have been better, but she was, after all, talking to authority, and it was a lie. She compromised by saying that she had known Sylvia Perth for many years and that she was her close companion. The voice at the other end of the telephone grunted. 'Well, what can I do?' she asked.

'Get in touch with the deceased's solicitor, if I was you.' And he gave her the address.

Gretchen knew that once she got Sylvia Perth (she couldn't yet think of her as a body) back with her in Oxfordshire everything would be all right. Perfe
ctly
all right. Honour would be done and then life could go on once more
...

There was no doubt about it, Gretchen would have to go up to London and see the legal people herself to sort everything out. Sylvia Perth must come back to her, it was only right and proper. Gretchen felt uncharacteristically positive about that. She made an appointment, the first available, for late that afternoon, and then, feeling restless, she decided to set off immediately. She had keys to the office and keys to the Dog Street apartment, and she was curious about these, having never visited either. She would go to the office first, then she would go to Dog Street. After that, she would visit the solicitor. A positive plan for the day helped considerably. There was nothing worse than feeling inadequate at this one moment in her life when she had planned to be so utterly and supremely the opposite. She ran a damp finger over her moustache and felt comforted. It was always there when she wanted it.

*

Janice Gentle packed various compartments in her clothing with a variety of little sustenances, picked up her carrier bag and, taking a deep breath, summoned the lift. She had to use it again one day, and today, when she was bound for Dog Street, seemed the most appropriate occasion. There had been no news or hint of a funeral, and Janice had privately made up her mind that, in the manner of those who would once put pennies on dead men's eyes, her grieving duty was to go to Sylvia Perth's apartment and switch off her answerphone, since there was something altogether indecent about the way Sylvia's voice continued while her life did not. But most certainly, she was not going by tube - Janice Gentle was going to walk there. It was a sunny day, she had plenty of time, and the tube would conjure up far too many memories to be worthwhile.

The lift did not arrive. She thought about reporting it but decided not to. It would mean engaging Mr Jones in conversation, and he might, as was the way of people, wish to bring up their previous and last encounter. She
ti
ptoed past his basement door and noticed in his rubbish bag a quantity of jars containing what looked remarkably like innards pickled in their own blood. A strange man, she mused, and best left.

*

Gretchen O'Dowd was just locking the door behind her when the postman handed her a letter.

'Morning, Mr O'Dee,' he said, 'another lovely one. How's the missis?'

Gretchen was going to say, 'Dead,' but thought better of it. 'In London,' she said.

'No wonder you two get on so well,' he said, 'with her never here.' And he went whistling on his way.

She tucked the letter into her pocket and followed the postman's example. There was nothing so pleasant as these Oxfordshire lanes in high summer - the fussing pheasants darting around in the hedges, the cooing of pigeons, the crowing of rooks, and above her, wheeling and diving and squealing for attention, the plovers. She stopped to admire their antics. Brave birds. They would do anything to protect their young. She liked these best. Behind the beech trees and blackthorn, a farmer was harvesting. He waved, she waved back.

'Morning,' she said.

'Morning. How's the missis?'

'Dead, I'm afraid,' she replied. It never mattered how you answered him when he was perched up there. The noise of the tractor drowned everything. Sylvia used to stand at the edge of the field and wave and smile while saying disgusting things, to which he would merely nod and smile back. Gretchen felt it was rather cruel, really.

'Good, good,' he said, and waved again.

In town, before boarding the train, she visited Mr Mole the undertaker. A few preliminary words on the subject of Sylvia Perth's remains were necessary. There was something prestigious about being in charge of a corpse and its ceremonials, and Gretchen was quite enjoying her growing sense of status and the prospect of a proper burial.

Mr Mole was heartening. 'We can make quite a lovely ceremony out of it, don't you worry, sir. And this coffin is our best. Our very best. It doesn't do to skimp on the handles, either. Oh, not at all. You must have the right accessories. You know what the ladies are, they do like to have the right accessories. I don't expect your good lady was any different?'

Gretchen, remembering how Sylvia valued her appearance, thought Mr Mole was wonderfully understanding. 'I want the best, of course,' she said. 'That coffin and those handles . . .'

'And the pure-white silk lining?'

'And the pure-white silk lining.'

Gretchen jotted down the prices and went on her way. The people in the big house had a garden party last year with a marquee. How she had envied the festivities . . .

*

Morgan Pfeiffer leaned back in his chair and pressed the ends of his fingers together. He looked pleased. Rohanne Bulbecker was hungry. If anyone could bring home the bacon, it was her.

On the other side of his office a weasel-faced man in a shiny suit put down the extension telephone, fingered his Rolex and returned the smile. This was Stoat, President of Marketing, and he was known to boast that he had never read a book in his life. He was, however, supremely good at packaging, and he was breathing deep for Janice
Gentle
, breathing deep and waiting to spring.

'Encouraging, Mr Pfeiffer.'

'I hope so, Stoat, I hope so.'

'Blue skies now,' said Stoat, 'blue skies all the way . . .'

On the train up to town and much buoyed by her enthusiastic encounter with Mr Mole, Gretchen O'Dowd dreamt on. A pity she had lost contact with her mother. She would have quite liked to have sent her photographs of the event. After all, she didn't hold a grudge against her for the ten-pound note and the spiritualistic auntie. Indeed, the reverse, she was rather grateful. At least when Mrs O'Dowd got senile dementia or merely became enfeebled with age, she wouldn't have to do anything about it. Her conscience was quite clear. That ten-pound note had been severance pay. Wherever Mrs O'Dowd fetched up on the rocky shores of life, Gretchen would not be obliged to put out a raft to save her. And that was a comforting thought.