Janice Gentle Gets Sexy (21 page)

There are some who, upon entering a room of unknown possibilities, might feel quite philosophical about doing it on all fours and beneath the body of another. Rohanne Bulbecker was not one of these. The opprobrious messages meant for Gretchen O'Dowd, who lay across her like an iron girder on a Japanese house, were more or less lost in the thick white pile of the carpet into which the Bulbecker nose was firmly pressed. What opprobrium did escape was delivered with great authority. All the more galling, then, that the pinion should remain firmly where she was.

It was not so much the Arabian opulence of the furnishings that kept Gretchen there. Nor the yellow light that beat against the half-draped windows, bringing mysterious shadows amid the sunbeams. It was not even the heady scent that hung about the still room, nor the exotic objects scattered about. No. What held Gretchen O'Dowd in a flattened position was the sight of the room's occupant. The figure lay across the couch, asleep, dreaming perhaps, illuminated and enriched by the light that fell upon it from between the half-closed curtains. Gretchen thought that she had never seen anything quite so beautiful in all her life.

Erica Von Hyatt was still taking a nap. The Jack Daniel's mixed with chocolate milk drink was of soporific effect in its own right but, sipped slowly after a long, steamy, perfumed bath while reclining on cushions in the late morning's heat, it would have taxed the profound resolve of even Cerberus to stay awake. Erica guarded no one save herself. Erica felt safe. Erica slept. She slept the sleep of contentment. Not a hungry sleep, not an escapist's sleep, but the sleep of one who has merely chosen to enjoy the experience. And the enjoyment showed. She was rosy like a child, and her golden hair - washed, combed and sparkling in the light - streamed around her on the velvet couch. About her smiling mouth were the milky traces of her favoured cocktail. One cheek held the trace of a dimple, her pale eyelids were smooth and unmoving as pebbles. Beneath all this, sumptuously spread, was the pink gown, its heavy silver tassels scattered on the floor. This was the legend come to life, this was the dream of childhood, here was the princess of fantasy as pure and beautiful as in any fairy tale. Gretchen, immobilized, stared in wonder.

Rohanne Bulbecker, on the other hand, saw nothing but the roots of the carpet tufts and a tassel or two. What she was saying, louder and louder into the carpet tufts was not an unknown language to Erica, who — though asleep - began to register the rude and brutal message. In the Moving On of the streets, she had long learned to shift herself without wakening completely. Whoever was speaking clearly wanted her, Erica von Hyatt, off out of it, and in Pavlovian response there was nothing to do but oblige. There never was.

She rose from the couch, still half asleep, and stumbled across the room. 'OK, OK,' she muttered wearily, 'I'm going, I'm going . ..' And as she opened her eyes, she found herself impeded, and then falling over a couple of strangers who appeared to be At It on the floor.

Muffled expletives, indistinct but full of ire, rose from the one at the bottom of the pile. Rohanne got some air, gasped, and managed, 'What the hell
is
this?'

'Sorry,' said Erica von Hyatt humbly, righting herself. She took the flailing hand and pulled at it, freeing the speaker, while Gretchen O'Dowd rolled gracelessly on to her back.

Gretchen stared up at the vision. 'Who are you?' asked the supine adorer.

But before Erica could respond, she found her ar
m held in a tight, leather-gauntl
eted squeeze and the air was charged with excitement. 'Are you — by any chance - Janice
Gentle
?' said the mouth beneath the sunglasses.

'Why?' asked Erica von Hyatt, recognizing the desperate urgency of the question, playing for time. She eyed the talking woman's outfit up and down. Black leather, and in this heat. It was clear to Erica what sort of thing this person had in mind.

'Because that's who I'm looking for,' said Rohanne as nicely as she could. 'I have a proposition for her.'

I bet you have, thought Erica von Hyatt.

'Well,' said Rohanne Bulbecker encouragingly, 'are you?'

The glove tightened, the heat radiated out from the gleaming black body, Erica pondered. S&M was something she had encountered before, after all, though this time, from the way the woman was dressed, it didn't look as if Erica, or this Janice Gentle person (good name, good name), was going to be asked to play the dominatrix. Which was a pity. If it had only been one of those 'Tie me up and don't give in to my pleas' situations, she would have done it cheerfully. Or, rather, with firm and hard-mouthed positivism, as she had been instructed once by a fish merchant from Hull. These S&M people never seemed to see the funny side . . .

'Oh do say you are,' said Rohanne, suddenly weary. 'Please.'

So Erica did.

With extraordinarily gratifying results. The woman in black held her shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks and went on and on and on about how glad she was to have found her, etc, etc, so that Erica got a bit lost.

'You took
quite
a bit of tracking down,' continued Rohanne Bulbecker. 'Sylvia Perth was
very protective
of you.'

Erica decided to condnue along an oblique path for a time, the Jack Daniel's and the sudden arousal making her a little foggy. 'Where is Sylvia?' she said.

Gretchen, glad to have something to contribute, said, 'I think she's still with the police at the moment, but she'll be coming to Mr Mole's parlour very soon.'

Erica thought it was rather a good name for a knocking shop. She did not ask for further clarity. 'Oh good,' she said.

'Oh yes,' said Gretchen. 'It'll be a lovely ceremony.'

Ritual too, thought Erica von Hyatt with a heavy heart. 'What do I have to do?' she asked wanly.

'You don't have to do anything,' said Rohanne Bulbecker. 'Everything will be just the same - only without Sylvia Perth. We'll be
just
as protective of you. You don't have to worry about a thing.'

I've heard that before, thought Erica von Hyatt. 'You must want something,' she said.

Rohanne held up a hand and smiled cheerfully. 'Nope. Just one more' - she gave a little moue of encouragement - 'baby, that's all, and we'll do all the rest.'

Erica, still rather fuzzy and shaky, sat down again. 'You're not S&M, then?'

'Were you expecting them?' said Rohanne Bulbecker, suddenly alert for a rival.

Erica eyed her up and down. 'Well, sort of. . .'

'No, I am Rohanne Bulbecker.' She began feeling about her person, annoyed to have forgotten her card case.

Erica watched the suggestive antics and sighed. The peaceful independence had been so lovely. 'When you say
baby,
what exactly do you mean . . .?'

Rohanne laughed. 'I mean that Sylvia told me all about you. She was extremely enthusiastic about your next one. Well, we all are.'

She beamed at Erica. Never in Rohanne Bulbecker's wildest imaginings had she dared to hope her prey would be this beautiful. Just wait until she got back and introduced her to Morgan Pfeiffer and Enrico Stoat. They'd go wild. The whole project was going to be sensational.

'Morgan Pfeiffer is just going to love you,' she said.

'Who's Morgan Pfeiffer?' asked Erica, eyes widening. How many more were going to be involved for God's sake?

Rohanne laughed. 'Just about the biggest publisher in America,' she said. 'And' - she laughed again and tapped Erica's forearm teasingly — 'I guess you could call him the
prospective father
of your baby
..
.'

Neither Sisyphus without his stone nor Prometheus without the eagle could have felt more relieved than Rohanne Bulbecker at that moment. She was therefore unusually disposed to banter with metaphor. 'He'll make a
great
dad,' she smirked. 'Just great!'

Suddenly Erica von Hyatt understood. It wasn't S&M at all. It was that thing called surrogate motherhood. She knew people who had done it. You got looked after while you were pregnant and quite a lot of money afterwards. Erica could see no wrong in it. If you could knit, you would make a jumper for someone who was cold, and they would pay you for it; if you could cook and someone was hungry, they would pay you to make a meal. Why not make a baby for someone?

'How do you feel about that?' asked Rohanne.

'Fine,' said Erica von Hyatt. 'What's the . . . er . . . dWlike?'

Rohanne Bulbecker was delighted with the game. 'He's
very
distinguished, Morgan P. Pfeiffer. Very clever.
Loves
the books . . . Well, don't we all?'

'How much?'

Rohanne liked the directness and told her the dollar sum. Erica von Hyatt was mute. Rohanne sucked her fingers.

Gretchen, who had found the whole conversation confusing, fluffed her moustache and waited for enlightenment. The silence in the room was exquisite. She took a breath, about to speak.

'Be quiet,' said Rohanne Bulbecker. 'Janice is thinking.' Gretchen gazed at the thinker in silent worship and Erica fluttered her eyelashes with intuitive response. Beyond that, she could neither move nor speak. Gretchen O'Dowd sighed like swains of old. Erica fluttered again. Gretchen O'Dowd sighed deeper. She was, she knew, radically and for ever in love.

'Janice,' said Rohanne beguilingly, 'where were we?'

Erica was a
little
unsure. Very probably, she thought, where they were was in a dream.

'Well?' asked Rohanne. 'Does that figure sound about right? Of course it's only the advance and there will be all kinds of synergy, but that's the sum Morgan Pfeiffer will pay you up front. Half now, half on delivery. What do you think?'

'Sounds all right to me,' said Erica. She shrugged carefully. It would not do to look astonished or the price might drop. She couldn't, really, believe it, anyway — but she'd go along the road in case it was true. In her head she was pretending that she had just been offered a free meal. It was much easier to think of it in those simple terms. And anyway, she had already been a
sort
of surrogate mum - with Dawn. What was the difference between one made out of a mistake and one made out of a paid-for plan?

Rohanne touched the back of the couch lightly. 'And . . . er . . . how long do you think
this
one is going to take to. . . er. . . produce?'

Erica felt on safer ground but a little surprised at the question. 'The usual nine months, I suppose. Do I have to go over there and fuck him, or what?'

Much taken aback by the crudity of this, but not inclined to upset the delicacy of the moment, Rohanne smiled. She had heard that the British had a strange sense of humour. 'I don't think -hah hah — that will be necessary.'

'Really,' said Erica, eyes wide again. 'Well, he can hardly send it over by post. Can he?'

'Of course he can,' said Rohanne. 'In fact, it's already here at the bank, waiting for you.'

Erica von Hyatt had heard of sperm banks. 'Oh, I see. He's going to do it
that
way. We don't even have to meet.'

'Well,' said Rohanne, 'I think he would like to meet you eventually.'

'Doesn't this Mr Pfeiffer like sex?' Given that amount of money, he was owed a bit of pleasure and rules were made to be broken. 'He'd enjoy it. I'm quite good at all that
–
if
I
say so myself.'

Rohanne Bulbecker felt as if she had just arrived in heaven. 'Well, that is just
bril
liant’
said Rohanne. 'That is exa
ctly
what we want. Morgan Pfeiffer has asked for two
little
changes from you . . .'

'Yes?' said Erica obligingly. 'What?'

'Sex. And to make it a bit longer.'

'I've gone on a night and a day once,' said Erica with pride. 'Length is no problem. I'm
very
amenable.'

Rohanne coughed. Despite her hopes, she had not expected Janice
Gentle
to be quite so raunchy. There was no hint of it in her work. 'Oh no,' she said hurriedly, 'you wouldn't need to go that far. Just a little lust, the thigh beneath the silk, know what I mean?'

Erica smiled. 'I know what you mean. Something a bit classy.'

'Exa
ctly
.'

Erica leaned back on the couch and closed her eyes. She didn't know who or where this Janice person was, but she, Erica, had got in first. And just let them say she hadn't.