The Lies of Fair Ladies (23 page)

He smiled modestly. "Three years gone, Lovejoy."

"Tinny had himself shipped inside a container. Room size.
Filled with antiques. Takes his job seriously, does Tinny."

"Ever since, they've called me Tinny. Tin Can, see?" He
smiled with pride, a wizened little bloke with an oddly protuberant belly,
waistcoat, watch-chain and all. He looks a dehydrated bookie, but is all there.

"It was that fire in Norfolk. The great house at—"

"Pentlesham Major?" Luna cried. "I remember it!
Seventeen paintings, all burned!" Her thrilled mode again. She was getting
the hang of the antiques game. Not before time.

"And?" I prompted, with mute apology to Tinny.

"And ..." She worked it out, after apologizing to Tinny.
"And Mr. Tinny took the paintings to the Continent to sell, because . .
. they hadn't been burned at all?"

"Bravo, lady!" Tinny patted her hand while Luna blushed.
I liked that. She fluffled out like a preening bird.

"We want at least a can. Tinny."

"Christ, Lovejoy. You don't ask much, do you?"

A customer drove in, parked, got out and looked around at the fence
posts.

"How much, mate? There's no prices marked."

"Get stuffed," Tinny called over.

"You what? You'll never make any sales with that
attitude!" The customer drove off in high dudgeon, shouting that he'd go
to Blakeson's at Nine Ash Green, serve everybody right.

"Get on my nerves," Tinny grumbled.

Luna stayed silent. Like I said, learning. A couple of days back
she'd have given him a lecture on business charm.

"Right, Lovejoy. Two weeks?" It was very reluctant.

"Sooner, Tinny. Four days?"

"I'll do what I can."

Luna asked what had we asked for. I told her Tinny would get us a
container shipment of antiques four days from now. Tinny never lets me down.
Except I'd caught his worried frown. It was old time's sake doing me the favor,
not Tinny.

So others, probably instant payers, wanted the same. And just as
fast. I told Lune. She was indignant, said the very idea and what cheek it was
for others to want what we wanted.

"Now,” I said. "Station, please. Got enough for the
train?"

"Can't we go by car?"

"No. It's their London flat, not their local shed."
Also, I didn't know if I was going to get beaten up again. Del Vervain's
mobsters might abstain if they knew I had Luna along. She wouldn't go over big
with Joan. True love never does run smooth.

The Vervains occupied one of those flats that seem divorced from
reality. In darkest crammed London, they stand aloof, away from it all behind
tall iron railings. The gate was surmounted by lions. Paving, mostly, with a
few jardinières but none Sevres porcelain. That would be a real find. I told
Luna I live in hopes.

"What are we here for, Lovejoy?"

"Eh? Oh, this invitation."

She looked with horror. "You mean you—?" She would have
clawed my eyes except the door opened.

"I thought you'd be pleased," I grumbled. There's no
pleasing women. Here I was, taking her to the lovely London home of a famous
radio personality, and she flies off the handle.

"I'll kill you, Lovejoy," she said through a fixed grin
as Joan and Del Vervain advanced to welcome us. She recoiled in awe, recognizing
Del Vervain. I steadied her. Luna started apologizing, for not having known,
that she hadn't had time to go and change, the whole grovel.

"So you're Lovejoy!"

Vervain announced this. He meant. Pretend we haven't met before,
Lovejoy, or else. It felt like being given gracious permission to hereafter
call myself my own name. He was definitely tubby. He was living up to his
reputation, already well soaked. Irish whiskey, by all accounts.

I shook his hand, a flabby dough-filled glove of a thing, made the
feeblest stab at bussing Joan. I'd have been clouted as a little lad for such a
halfhearted calling kiss. Her eyes startled me. She looked lovely, cocktail
frock in a rich royal blue. Real pearls, a double choker, and a pearl bangle.
Mid-Victorian, and suffering, but that's what pearls go through. I could have
throttled the stupid bitch for the slow murder she was inflicting on such
lovely jewelry. Pearls must never be worn against a skin sprayed with perfume.
Yet the silly cow had—

"Eh? Oh, may I present Mrs. Lune Caterer, mayoress of—"

"Luna Carstairs. I've met Mrs. Vervain. At your workshop, Lovejoy.”
Luna raised her game, smiling, admiring the lovely hallway, but I could tell by
the red dots on her cheeks that she really would murder me when she got me
somewhere safe.

"Come in. What's your poison?"

"Orange juice, please." Luna bravely faced the flak of
Joan's interrogative gaze. I said and me. We were taken by the
hail-fellow-well-met sweaty Vervain into the company.

Three other guests, all seemingly stamped out by some machine
round the corner. Girls, lank of hair and drab of garb, skeletally thin and
smoking with edginess bordering on the frantic. All were well into their
poteen. One quite stoned.

"This is Lovejoy. Count all available rings!" Vervain
held the shot for some imaginary applause. Pause, two three, then a quick
capper, "I mean jewelry, nothing anatomical!" Chuck-chuck-chuck and
move on. The girls tittered, looked at me with hard appraisal.

Christ, I thought. The bloke's a cipher, a printout.

"Catch my show, Lovejoy?" asked His Heartiness.

"A few times." I was going to say only the start, but
caught Joan's sharp reminding glance and went, "It was quite good."

He'd actually started to preen when the words hit him.

''
Quite
. . ."He
managed the word. It hung alone in the vast room. I waited, looking out into
the lovely walled garden. I bet myself those bricks were truly William IV. It
was about then that red brick became imperative for gardens. "...
Good?''

He sounded choking, ready for a duel. What had I said? I thought
I'd given him a compliment. Amiably I looked about.

"Hey, Lovejoy," one slightly staggering lass said.
"You in the presence of thee repeat twice thee Mr. Personality of ever-ee
radio band in the wide countree, y'know it?"

"Yes, we have met."

Once before, I met some broadcasters. They frightened me to death.
Like now. But none of them scared me like the look in Joan's eyes. My view kept
finding her bright, brilliant eyes somehow even if I wasn't looking. They
looked wrong. And women don't as a rule have wrong eyes, do they? I'm hooked on
faces. I can't help it. Sometimes I'm caught staring at a face just for
nothing, and create the wrong impression. But faces are great, aren't they?
Except when they're wrong. The eyes are something people forget. Babies and
little children know the truth about faces and eyes. They can spot a dud miles
off. I think that's why they always grin at me straight away, knowing an easy
touch.

"He for ree-yull, team?" The staggery one flopped,
beckoning for more sustaining fluid.

"Exactly my question!" Del Vervain cried. He affected a
suit that looked cut by some trainee tailor with the wrong scissors. Image
again.

I hadn't a clue what they were on about. Luckily Luna took up the
gauntlet.

"Oh, Mr. Vervain! My husband and I think your show is
absolutely marvelous! Why don't you do it on Sundays too? It's lovely. The way
you say that ..." The three lankies from Alpha Centauri nodded, flicking
ash, sipping, murmuring.

Del grinned modestly. "All er-rightee too-nightee!" he
intoned. The girls beamed. ''Great-great-
great
!"

And Luna, to my embarrassment, almost fainted with delight,
exclaiming, "Yes! Oh, Mr. Vervain! We think it's the best thing!"

That was what I'd done wrong. I'd forgotten to worship his ego. He
was addicted to worshipers, fawners, acolytes. Without them he would vanish. In
fact, as I turned to That Look in Joan's eyes, I actually saw him become a
different person. Genuinely twinkly, humorous, jokey and welcoming. To Lune,
that is. Me, I was written out of his script of existence. It gave me a chance
to talk quietly to Joan.

"I'm sorry, love," I told her. "I couldn't escape
the invitation. His blokes beat me up. Is there somewhere we could meet?"

The best I could do to stay in her good books. It gave me the
chance of a look at her eyes.

They were a-glitter, expectant, almost as thrilled as Luna's. I'd
expected anger, calm shielding her inner distress. But she looked like some
bird about to go to a boxing match. You know, that deep intensity which women
show at savagery. Mystically charmed by the prospect of violence. She smiled a
confined smile, wetting her lips, and drifted me aside.

"Shhh, Lovejoy. Careful." A roar of laughter from Del's
admirers gave cover. "Go along with what Del suggests. It's the best thing
ever. For us, darling. It’ll come soon."

"Come?" I said in dismay. Tried again, brighter.
"Come?"

"Your cottage. He's starting a new contract. I've missed you,
darling."

"I've missed you, Joan." Not with those eyes I hadn't.
I'd rather have her old eyes, brittle with anger, delirious with—

"Hey, Lovejoy. Do your divvy trick, hey?"

Sod it. Party time. "If you want, Mr. Vervain."

"Del, if you pull-lease."

Another riot. Admiration's great in a way, but in excess becomes
worrying. Like the chanting mania you see on television sometimes, with a
uniformed general sitting in some council chamber acknowledging his voteless
subjects' plaudits. You think, Christ, isn't somebody in that crowd simply
bored witless?

"They're here. Props!"

The three girls fell about, stroked Del Vervain, did the
subtle-monger's near-accidental touch. Open day here at Betelgeuse House. I
wondered which he'd had, if not all.

A maid brought six plates. Four fakes, two authentic.

"These, Del?" First name terms with the great.

"Don't break"—he caught himself theatrically,
twinkled—"the ones that cost. Break the BBC canteen crockery!"

Oh the merriment. I nodded gravely. Luna was being super-thrilled,
laughing at every non-witticism. Marvelous what fame does for sham. Like in the
antiques game, really.

"Take your time, Lovejoy. Want special effects, sounds . . .
?"

The rioting stopped. I'd taken four of the plates and dropped them
onto the carpet. Two crashed and broke.

"Bristol Delft," I said over Luna's faint scream.
"Don't worry, Lune. They're modern fakes. Junk."

Her face looked imploring. "What if they're not, Lovejoy?"

The question didn't arise. But I politely stepped aside to give
her room. She lifted the two unbroken plates and put them reverently on the
table.

"I'm so sorry," she was telling everybody.

"Gunge is best broken, love." One of my maxims. I never
do it, except for effect.

They were looking at me in silence. Luna was trying to say we'd
get replacements, but Del shut her up with a slowly growing smile, his first
sincere response.

"Oh, yes," he said softly. "He's the one.
Definitely."

"I knew it," Joan Bright-Eyes said.

"You didn't even look, Lovejoy." Del was still smiling.
And his eyes looked the same as Joan's.

"There'll be a faint bluish tint to the white glaze," I
said, "if you held them up in daylight. There'll be three little uneven
marks beneath where the plates were put on stands for the kiln firing. That
indigo decoration isn't quite the proof of Bristol delftware it's cracked up to
be, but—"

"But nothing, Lovejoy. You're the one."

I'm still not sure if it was Del's forceful personality that moved
us across to the buffet, or whether he actually shoved us. Power is as power
does. Joan's eyes glittered as brittle as her husband's. I realized I didn't
know her at all.

The buffet was some of the best grub I’d ever had. Luna ate
sparingly. The Martians only picked, but drank with the solemnity of purpose.
Joan also picked. Del noshed with vigor, raising his plate for minions to leap
and replenish. Twice he sent the maid back. She'd guessed wrong. The usual
display of moronic power.

Fifteen minutes after we'd started—I’d hardly got going—two people
arrived. One was a rotund misery, the other a febrile nervy woman chained to a
briefcase. Both denied hunger, both smoked, both cried for vodka. They were
producers, I learned. They accepted Del Vervain's pronouncement that I was The
One, and got down to business. One of the girls tried to chat me up, but I was
starving. I mean, it had been a hell of a journey.

Joan watched. Her eyes said I was being fattened.

"Glad you're on the show, Lovejoy," she said. 'It'll be
the all-time winner."

It wouldn't, because I wasn't on any show. I’d once done an
Antiques TV Showtime
. It was pathetic, a
real fraud.