Seductive Viennese Whirl (22 page)

Sten and Eva look over. "What's so funny?" says Eva. "Don't you think there's a remarkable resemblance between this doll," I hold her up. "And the Haddock?"

"Is she really that ugly?" says Sten.

"I guess so," giggles Eva, sucking a maraschino cherry off her cocktail stick.

And suddenly an idea hits me. A way to terminate the Haddock. A way that might just work. I pick up a green plastic cocktail stick from the table. Slowly, I push it through the doll's arm. It feels surprisingly good, cathartic.

"What are you doing?" cries Eva.

"Just a little bit of voodoo."

"Oh Kate, I don't know." Eva bites her lip. "Suppose it works, wouldn't you feel bad?"

"Not if we all joined in the fun," I say, holding the doll out toward Eva.

She giggles. "Well, okay, then. If you insist." Her red cocktail stick slides into the doll's head.

"Sten?" I say.

"Me? But I don't even know her."

"Lucky you." I wave the doll under his nose. "Please?"

"Oh, go on then," he says, poking a stick through her knee.

"And now, I think she'd like a little sleep," I say, feeling satisfied and unhinged, all at once. I go to my room, wrap the doll in tissue paper and stow her away in a shoe-box under my bed.

When I get back into the sitting room Eva and Sten are on the zebra rug doing the twist. I start twisting too. There's a tingle of anticipation in my belly. I feel evil and I don't care.

Oh Egg, you've no idea how good it feels to know the Haddock's history. This is going to work. I just know it.

Drunkenly yours,

Gherkin

The Canter Agency

28 - 32 Greek Street

London W1 5UJ

England

November 1 2011

Dear Egg,

Time has really flown and already there are grinning Santa Clauses in every shop window, always a sure sign that it's time to celebrate my favourite holiday, Halloween. Last year I stockpiled bags of mini Mars Bars and ran up and down the stairs to the front door, handing them out whenever a trick or treater buzzed my bell. But last night I didn't have the energy for all that. I let the little devils buzz away to their hearts content while I sat upstairs muttering spells and tearing up photos of the Haddock, (snipped from the agency's brochure) before setting them alight. Most enjoyable.

This morning, when I get into work I go to the tearoom to grab a fistful of Hob Nobs from the biscuit barrel, only to find the Haddock and Briony chatting away and making some of that squashed bug tea. As soon as they see me they stop talking, pick up their cups and scurry out. Since Briony nicked that copy from under my nose, the Haddock's kicked me off the Easyglide account and given it to her. Which isn't a problem. She can have the account, with pleasure. However, the incident obviously created a strong bond between them, and they've now become the most nauseating buddies you could hope to meet. Every time you turn around they've got their heads together, giggling, and are forever out on long lunches. Having a friend has made the Haddock wildly cheerful, which is almost worse than her überneurotic former self. Watching them over the last couple of months has been like having a front row seat for a panto of Cinderella, starring Briony as Cinders and the Haddock as Fairy Godmother. Unlike the inane pantomimes we watched as kids, full of double entendres and bad acting, this panto is compulsive viewing. Briony's transformation is nothing short of staggering. First the Haddock waved her wand and Briony appeared with autumnal highlights in her hair. The next day she was wearing lipstick. Soon the rainbow jumpers and shapeless trousers were swapped for knee length skirts, little cardigans and low heels. And yesterday Sparky informed me that the Haddock had taken Briony to her salon to get her eyebrows plucked and her nails done. So after all that, it really wouldn't surprise me if Briony came in next week with breast implants.

While Briony's blooming, Eva's wilting. The good news is she's stopped having trouble sleeping. Now she does nothing but sleep. Just this morning I was in her room, searching for some lip salve in the jumble of products on her dressing table, when I noticed Alex's letter, crumpled and neglected, smeared with eyeshadow and dusted with face powder.

"You getting up today?" I said, lifting up a box of tissues and finding the jar of lip salve beneath it. I was about to set the box down again when I saw it. My heart did a little tap dance as I brushed my fingers over its clean, virgin surface. It was a spanking new letter, from Alex.

"When did this come?" I squealed, screwing open the lip salve and poking in my little finger.

"Um, yesterday I think," she mumbled into her pillow.

"What's he say?" I smeared the strawberry scented gunk on my lips and picked up the envelope.

"He's been living it up at some ball."

"Can I have a read of it?"

"Sure," she said, turning over and pulling the covers up over her head. I pulled them back down again.

"I've run you a bath. All you have to do is put yourself in it. Do you think you can manage that?"

I kept the letter in my handbag while I took the Tube to work. Although I was dying to read it I knew this was an experience I wanted to savour. And you can't savour an experience while you're in a carriage crammed full of German tourists, all wearing huge rucksacks that pressed against me whichever way I turned. So I waited. Until now.

I'm settled in my chair biting into a Hob Nob. The Haddock's nowhere to be seen. I ignore the irritating fact that Briony's at her desk, peering at me from beneath freshly plucked eyebrows. Taking a slurp from my Pret cappuccino I unfurl his letter and begin to read.

Count Alex von Pappenberg

Schloss Pappenberg

7865 Alpenbach

Austria

22 October 2011

My dear Eva,

Sorry for the delay in writing, but I've been feeling so wrung out lately worrying about Anya it's been hard to find the time to put pen to paper. I know that sounds terrible, but it's the truth. You mentioned that we met at a bad time for you, what with having just been dumped from a great height. Well, this is a pretty bad time for me too. I only wish I'd met you after Anya had made a full recovery (and she will get better, I keep telling myself that), because even thinking about visiting you makes me feel awfully guilty. Believe me, I'd be on the first plane over if circumstances were different, but right now I'm Anya's only lifeline and I'd never forgive myself if I left her and something happened. I'm sure we'll meet soon enough. Try and be patient?

"Shit!" I shout, because Ricky has just flung a bunch of letters onto my desk, tipping my coffee over in the process.

He grins and says, "Sorry, I missed."

"That's okay," I say, puzzled that he's apologizing for having missed my In Tray. But what the heck, even Ricky deserves a second chance. Then he goes and spoils it all by saying, "I was aiming for your head."

I grab a bunch of tissues from Eva's desk and start to mop up the coffee. Eva's seat is vacant. If she doesn't get to work soon the Haddock's informer, Briony, will be sure to notice.

I tear open one of the envelopes and pull out a pink card embossed with silver butterflies. It's an invitation to Ben's wedding in April. I barely give it a glance as I shove it in a drawer and return to Alex's letter.

As for letting my hair down, I don't do much of that at the moment. Yesterday was an exception because my mum held a massive party. She spends most of her time in an apartment she keeps in Vienna, but once a year she pulls out all the stops to host a Masquerade Ball. I told her the last thing Anya needed was to be exposed to the rich kids she'd previously partied with, but of course, she went ahead anyway. She's never thought about anyone but herself.

Back when I was a kid we used to produce wine right here in the grounds. The Schloss is located at the edge of a village called Alpenbach. This whole area (about forty miles west of Vienna) is known as the Weinviertel (wine growing region). Back in the old days we had a constant stream of people coming up here to purchase our wine. But those days are long gone, and hardly anyone visits now. It takes a big bash to draw the crowds. And come they did. Three hundred of them. Plus caterers and an orchestra. My head spins when I think about who's going to pay for it all when the bills come rolling in.

Oh yes, she really pushed the boat out this time. We have twenty bedrooms, all of which she claimed needed to be rehauled. The ballroom too, had to be repainted white. A balcony runs midway along the walls, and from thereon upwards elegant arched windows run almost to the ceiling. A pattern of stylised leaves runs around each frame, and there are motifs of grapes hanging between each window, all of which she has had refinished in gold leaf. These past weeks I've done nothing but sneeze, because the place was swirling with dust, as the workmen slaved around the clock to get it all finished in time.

Amongst all the dust sheets and against a backdrop of frantic hammering, I've been trying to spend as much time as I can in Anya's room. She's a troubled girl, all right. I know I shouldn't blame myself for her problems, but I do. Because she's so much younger I always thought of her as this troublesome little brat, who was always playing some prank or spying on me if I brought a girlfriend home. She was just an irritation. And before I knew it, she'd grown up into this beautiful young woman, and had gone wild because there was no one to rein her in.

But what with the therapy sessions, and our long chats, she really does seem to be a little better. She's been classified as manic depressive, so there'll always be issues to deal with, but there's talk of sending her back to school in the New Year. After much cajoling, I got her to leave the house and took her to Vienna to buy a new dress for the ball and to have her hair cut. Sporting a blonde bob, at the ball she looked like a frail Grace Kelly. And even though she laughed and joked with her old gang, she didn't drink or sneak off to do drugs. As far as I could tell.

When the first tune started, a polka, I was watching from the balcony. The women were all dressed in white, the men in black evening dress. Everyone wore half-face masks, with nosepieces that resembled beaks. As the figures below me started to dance, I felt totally alone, cut off by an invisible wall.

I look up to see that Eva's finally deigned to come in. She's settled in her chair and slurping noisily from her Pret cappuccino.

"This letter is incredible," I say. "I love this bit:

‘And then it hit me. What I was missing. It was you.'"

"I don't remember reading that. I didn't get to the end. Give it here."

I point the words out to her. As she starts to read, her face flushes.

"When he didn't write back for so long, I thought it was all over," she says.

"Over? It's just started."

Her eyes take on a dreamy gaze. Oh Egg, isn't it wonderful? She's all fired up for Alex again and I feel pretty giddy myself, relieved my pen is working its magic once more. I'm going to make damn sure they have a happy ending, if it's the last thing I do.

Love,

Gherkin

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: STOP

Date: 11 November 2011

WRITING TO THIS GUY!

Now you are really beginning to alarm me. You're getting way too emotionally involved in all this. My advice: jump ship before you get caught in a tidal wave.

Too tired to write more.

Love,

Egg

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Gherkin in a Pickle

Date: November 14 2011

Dear Egg,

While I appreciate your concern there is no need to be alarmed. Really. I know what I'm doing. I'm simply helping out a friend who really needs me right now, that's all.

Today I'm busy at my desk making a paperclip portrait of Alex when my phone trills. A man is talking fast in a high-pitched state of excitement. I catch the odd phrase: "It is such a pleasure to be speaking with you" and "my dearest girl."

I crumple the portrait into a ball. "Ravi? Is that you? Slow down a minute," I tell him, but the cascade of words continues. From what I can gage, Vienna's Pearl is taking the box office by storm in India, and he's now looking for UK distribution. Can we come to a viewing of the film tonight? Well, I figure, why the heck not?

After work I drag along a reluctant Eva. She's really getting on my nerves these days. This past fortnight I've been nagging her to let me write to Alex, to tell me what she wants me to write to him, etcetera etcetera, but I've got no serious response. All that's happened is that his last letter is back on her dressing table, together with the other one, gathering clumps of powder and blobs of shimmering body lotion. Seems I'll have to write to him again, all on my own. Well, I do have some ideas about what I want to say, I just never seem to get a moment to write them down, I think irately, while I drag Eva across Soho trying to locate the screening room.

Eventually, after much searching, we find it, tucked behind a dumpster in an alley off Wardour Street. When we get in all the seats are taken and we're forced to stand at the back. Which is fine if you're Eva and have legs up to your armpits, but even when I get up on tiptoes I only manage to see half the screen. Soon my calves are aching like crazy, and my head's beginning to pound, what with the wailing music, which has been turned up far too loud. A dense forest of heads obscures the subtitles, forcing me to interpret events from the top halves of the actor's faces. Anil moves his eyebrows about a lot and Shamila does a lot of eyelash fluttering. Now and again rows of women in saris thrust their hips from side to side in time with the music. It's safe to say I don't have a very good grasp of the plot, save for what Ravi told me back in Vienna.