Janice Gentle Gets Sexy (33 page)

It was, as she later reflected, a good job she had other fish to fry in her life. At least the conference was coming up soon and that would take her mind off things. Derek would have quite a lot of time to reflect on his naughty ways, and she spent several nights staying with her mother just to be sure.

The Boss Masculine let her cry on his shoulder for most of the rail journey. There was something really very pleasant about having such a pretty
little
thing so vulnerably in need. His wife was vulnerably in need, but she was neither young nor little. And, so far as he could make out between the sobs and the story, there was another vital difference: his wife cried at the very existence of sex, the
Little
Secretary was crying at the lack of it. Of the two he knew where his own sympathies lay. He resisted going into the buffet to fight a cigarette, and put his arm around her small shoulders instead. Even when she cried, she looked pretty.

'Come, come,' he said, 'let's put it all behind us and have a good time while we are away, shall we?' And he kissed her lightly on the head, delighted to smell the freshness of her shampoo. His wife, who found bending difficult (seemed to find everything physical difficult), seldom washed her hair. He wondered if now was an appropriate time to bring out the lace
hanky, but decided not. He settl
ed himself closer. How could that ferrety husband of hers refuse her in bed? She was a sweet, dainty, delightful little creature who was crying out for love. As indeed he was himself
..
.

The train sped on. Their rooms were next to each other. Birmingham suddenly held a magic for him and he felt born anew. 'Come along now,' he said cajolingly to the grief-stricken
little
face, 'I think what you need is a drink.'

And although she said she almost never did, he insisted.

As they swayed their way towards the bar, he took her hand to steady her.

She thought it was such a gentl
emanly thing to do, compared with Derek who would probably have fallen ove
r twice by now. As she held on ti
ght, she consoled herself that, for the next few days at least, she was away with a man who knew how to behave properly.

*

Rohanne Bulbecker was having dinner with Janice on the following evening, and the day after that - wonderful, wonderful - she was flying home. The other two oddballs had gone to Oxfordshire. Janice was now safely back in her own apartment ready to work. And life was going to be sweet, after all. She had no idea what she would say when she got back to Morgan P. Pfeiffer, but she would think of something. It didn't really matter. The main thing was the book, and that was signed, promised and would - Dermot Poll willing - be delivered. Oddball major and Oddball minor were planning to dragnet Ireland early in the New Year, and even if they didn't find him, there was time after that for some professional detective work; Skibbereen looked very small on the map and someone there was sure to know what had happened to such an apparently talented son.

Rohanne pitied Janice this abiding dream. It was quite clear she had been duped and dumped, and to reunite her with the Poll man could only end in disappointment. Nevertheless, as she kept telling herself, it was no concern of hers. Deliver Dermot Poll, collect the book, and run. Those were the goals. The only goals. All the same, there was something altogether fascinating, remarkable - moving even - at the idea of enduring love like that. All those virginal years, all that life, just waiting
...
All those books that told the story in so many compelling ways. Rohanne's business sense had momentarily become detached (she was sure it would come back) and somehow she felt bound into the tale too.

*

Melanie ducked the extended arm on her porch, swivelled to avoid the lips which were puckered into expectancy, and got inside her front door. 'Feel sick,' she said, giving a convincingly bilious groan. 'Must go.' And she closed the door on his questioning, stranger's face. She bent down, gave another solid performance of one who is
in
visceral
extremis
through the letter-box, agreed to call him when she was better, and shuffled towards the kitchen. If she didn't really feel unwell, she certainly felt a little squiffy, which was not surprising. That, she decided, as she boiled the kettle for some camomile tea (she had not been sleeping at all well recently) was the
very last time
she would go out with a dickhead. Two gin-and-tonics, a vegetarian lasagne, half a litre of house Barolo, zabaglione and free mint imperials and he thought he'd bought an all-night ticket? Huh! The kettle boiled. She poured the water into the mug that said Melanie in nursery colours, stirred the bag, removed it, picked up the mug, looked at its inscription, and burst into tears. He had put that in her stocking last Christmas. Bum, bum,
bums. . .

In bed she drank the tea and settled her head on the pillow. Eleven-thirty-three. She closed her eyes. She wondered what
he
was doing right now.

Square Jaw drank three glasses of what Jeremy called 'quaffing wine' and left the kitchen. He had every intention of seeking out the most attractive female at the party (the shorter the skirt the better; if she had white boots, double points) and going for it.

He spotted her at once. Tall, long blonde hair, pretty profile and legs encased in skin-tight leather trousers. Having spotted her, he decided to return to the kitchen and have another glass of wine.

Jeremy was drinking hard, too. 'Bloody women,' he said gloomily. 'Work my balls off in HK. Get back ready to celebrate, and all she's done is to ring you all up, leave a sodding mess and bugger off. Nearly cancelled the thing. Saved by the secretary. What a brick.' He refilled their glasses. They were both deeply hurt men. 'And when I asked for an explanation, do you know what she said?'

Square Jaw shook his head, 'Bloody women,' he said. 'What?' 'She said if
I
was prepared to go over there and do her hoovering, she'd clean my lavatory. Do you understand it?' Square Jaw shook his head again.

'Bloody, bloody women,' they both chorused. And had another drink to it.

He decided to be subtle and stood in the conversational gro
up next to the blonde's. Earnestl
y he inquired if he might join what was clearly a deep and meaningful debate between a serious young man and woman. He had quaffed enough kitchen wine to feel he would be welcome.

'Ah,' he said breezily, 'a real conversation.' Fleetingly he thought this might be taken for the remark of a prat, but they were smiling warmly at him, welcomingly. 'That's what it's all about, parties. Meeting people and talking to them, eh?'

The couple nodded. He felt he was doing rather well. Sod Melanie. Here was life, after all.

He positioned himself so that he could see the blonde and she could see him, and smiled at his new-found companions. He kept the smile while they told him they were social workers (where did Jeremy, disciple of Adam Smith, get
them
from?) and listened politely - or appeared to listen politely.

The blonde wasn't saying much, but she looked great.

'. . . Don't you agree?' said the female social worker.

'I'm not sure,' he said cautiously, tearing his eyes away from the stretchy leather. 'Go on.'

They did.

He said loudly when they had finished, 'Since I have no wife and no children, why should I pay for all the things a nuclear family requires? Libraries? I never use them. Drugs rehabilitation? I don't need it. School meals? I don't require them . . .'

'Ever been burgled?' asked the man.

'Ever had your car stolen?' asked the woman.

'Yes,' said Square Jaw, sliding his eyes back to the blonde. Their eyes met. She gave a hesitant half-smile. Square Jaw suddenly ached to get inside those leathers.

'. . . And did you know that a high proportion of burglaries -indeed, all crime - is drug related? What price your dissociation from rehab now?'

'Ah,' said Square Jaw, 'I see . . .'

'Everything is woven into everything else. You can't cut loose. If you do, the whole fabric begins to unravel.
That's
what's happening in our society today. The poorly educated commit more crimes. Do you
still
say schools aren't relevant to you? Ghettos and inner-city decay create festering pustules that infect the whole . . . You can't say one bit is healthy and the rest is diseased - we're all suffering from the same malady because basically we're all
one . . .'

Square Jaw felt queasy with the talk of pustules. And he felt uncomfortable, because if they had a point - and they might well - it wasn't a point he wanted to grasp. The only thing he wanted to grasp was standing about three feet away.

'Hmm,' he said, giving suitable pause, and then, 'I see. Yes.' And then, deciding to chance it, he changed the subject. 'And how do you two know Jeremy?' he asked.

'You might well ask,' said the serious female. 'I'm his sister. This is my boyfriend. And that blonde you're eyeing up is my flat-mate. Shall we leave the ills of society and go on to the more important issue of your getting introduced?'

Square Jaw winced apologetically.

'It's all right,' said the sister of Jeremy. 'Eat, drink, copulate and be merry, for tomorrow
...
Tomorrow, who knows . . .?'

Melanie was waiting for tomorrow, for when the dawn came she could legitimately get up and start the day. She lay there reading, which only made her mind wander. The radio played tracks to bring back memories. She turned out the light, turned it on again, twisted and rumpled around the bed for an hour or two and finally gave up. She might as well go downstairs and pace the floor as lie here pretending sleep would come. It was a relief to have given in, and down the stairs she padded, taking some comfort at the still, dark quiet of the house. She made a tray of tea an
d went into the living-room, noti
cing for the first time that the answerphone was winking. She crouched in the moonlight and played the message back. It was from him. And it was heartwarming after the pain. He wanted her to go to him.

She looked at the time. Nearly three, but he had said he would be in tonight, that he would be
honoured
— a nice joke. So why shouldn't she? After all, she still had the key
, she could let herself in quietl
y, slide into bed beside him and - well, there really was no reason in the world why not. . .

Square Jaw was also awake. He could not move. His leg was twisted under another's and the another slept. Moonlight sent a bright whiteness across her ruffled hair, and her face looked colourless and still. A woman, he thought, a pretty woman -prettiest at the party. He reached out and touched the curve of her breast with his fingertips. But an alien woman, an alien breast. Not Melanie.

He'd been quite proud of how swi
ftly
he had managed to chat her up. It was like diving - you just did it without thinking or you wouldn't do it at all. The success had made him feel good about himself and he had forgotten about white boots and short skirts in the recklessness of the hunt, wondering all the while he was talking to her, getting drinks for her, exchanging silly conversation, dancing with her, if she would finally go to bed with him. And she had. But now he had a sinking feeling in his stomach. He felt the sleeping thigh across his own and he resented it being there, holding him down. He wanted to wake her up and say, 'Let's be modern about this,' or something similar, but if he did, he knew it would not end there. Women were no good at accepting things at face value. If he woke her up and said, 'That was nice. See you sometime,' it would only be the start. She would go on and on. Women did.
He'd
seen
Fatal Attraction,
after all, and while he didn't have a child or a rabbit to stew, he had an ear that could be chewed off half the night. And if during the drawn-out monologue he should fall asleep? Christ,
then
didn't the shit hit the fan? And yet she knew just as well as he did, surely, that it had all been about bed? Not a tryst for life? If he had pursued her, then she had led him on. She had worn those leather trousers, which certainly did not say leave me alone. Women were hypocritical. They needed everything dressed up in love to justify it. And now here he was. Stuck.

Just about the only good thing to come out of this whole mess with Melanie was that he had got his freedom back. He thought about motor-racing. Now that he was free he could get into something like that and there wouldn't be anyone to pout disapprovingly. He could do anything, really - anything at all. No Melanie, no restriction on his life. The thigh moved fractionally. He began stroking it absent-mindedly, at the same time imagining himself roaring round the track, winning, spraying champagne, women, women climbing all over him
...
And not a Melanie in sight to say
no.