Chapter 21

From her sofa in the drawing room Gwendolen saw the postman come. She saw him walking up the path and heard the clatter of the letterbox as he dropped Stephen Reeves's letteron the mat. Already feeling stronger, she got herself off the sofa without too much strain and went to the front door for theletter. It wasn't from Stephen but from a charity appealing for funds to research cystic fibrosis. Her disappointment quicklygave way to reason. If he was away on holiday he wouldn't havecome back until Saturday or Sunday, so could hardly have got a letter to her by today.

She was hardly back on the sofa, thinking that in an hour or so she would go upstairs and have a bath, when Queenie arrived. Queenie refused to burden herself with bags and had brought her offerings in a shopping trolley.

" What an enormous appetite you and Olive must think I have, " said Gwendolen. She examined the packet of Duchy Originals, the bag of marshmallows, the two tubes of Rolos, the dairy‑ free yogurts, and the pack of couscous salad without enthusiasm. " Perhaps you'll put it all in the fridge. Oh, and" ‑ as Queenie went‑ " please don't mislay the flashlight again. "

Queenie wondered what eccentric quirk or whim would make anyone keep a flashlight in a fridge but she didn't move it and, coming back, sat meekly in a chair opposite Gwendolen.

The weather being so unseasonably warm, she had put on her new pink suit and, though she knew such a happening unlikely, she had been hoping for her friend to compliment her on her appearance. Instead she was shown a red and black pouch thing on a kind of narrow belt that, without ever having seen anything like it before, she immediately knew to be part of the costume (if you could call it that) of a certain kind of dancer. The realization made her flush darkly.

" I suppose you know what it is and that's what you're blushing about. "

" Of course I know what it is, Gwen. "

She had spoken as she always did, very mildly, but Gwendolen chose to see it as recalcitrance. " All right, no need to bite my head off. Olive thinks it may be the property of a‑ er, paramourof Mr. Cellini's. "

" Does it matter, dear? It doesn't look as if it cost very much. "

" I don't like these mysteries, " said Gwendolen. " It means he or she or both of them have been in my washhouse. "

" You could ask him. "

" I intend to. Of course he's out at present, doing whatever it is he does. " Gwendolen sighed. " I think I shall have a bath in a minute. "

This was a hint to her friend to leave, but Queenie took it differently. " Would you like me to help you, dear? I shouldn't mind at all. I bathed my dear husband every day when he was so ill. "

Gwendolen contrived a stagy shudder. " No, thank you very much. I can manage perfectly. By the way, " she said, though it wasn't by any way, " that Indian has written to me that Otto has eaten his guinea fowl. " Temporarily forgetting Mr. Singh's prose prowess, she said, " Of course no decent English person would break the law by keeping what amounts to chickens in urban surroundings, virtually in the middle of London. "

Very little roused Queenie, but as a voluntary worker forthe Commission for Racial Equality, she. could become irate when discriminatory remarks were made'. '" you know, Gwendolen, or perhaps you don't know, that if you said something like that in public you could be prosecuted. You're actually committing an offense. " She added in a less haughty tone, " Mr. S ingh is a lovely man. He's very clever, he was a professor in the Punjab. "

Gwendolen burst out laughing. " How ridiculous you are, Queenie. You should hear yourself. And now I'm going to have my bath, so you'd better run away. "

On the way out Queenie met Otto in the hallway. He was sitting on the stairs near the bottom, part of a mouse grippedin his jaws, its head lying beside him on the worn carpet. " Go away, you horror, " she said to him.

Otto gave her the sort of look that made Queenie very glad she was quite a large human being instead of small, four legged, and covered in fur. He managed to pick up the mouse's head as well as its hindquarters and streaked toward the first floor with his burden. Mix coming in the front door at that moment muttered something incomprehensible to Queenie and followed the cat upstairs.

Mr. Pearson had insisted he continue working through the week, though Mix would have liked to leave then and there. As for working out four weeks' notice…! They'd pay him till the end of next month, that was something. Of course it hadn't been the missed appointments and failed calls that had made Pearson sack him but a call he'd had only that morning fromthat old bitch Shoshana. Mounting the tiled flight, Mix thought self‑ pityingly that nothing but trouble had come to him from his association with Shoshana's Spa. He had gone there in the first place only in the hope it would introduce him to Nerissa, but he had got to know her anyway, she was almosthis friend now, and through his own determination not through any help from the spa. That had simply brought him an association with Danila, who had so insulted and provoked him thathe'd had to react violently against her. Frankly, she'd forcedhim to kill her. He'd agreed to produce and sign that contract, again because of Danila, and now the result of it was that Shoshana had called Pearson and told him about it and then had the nerve to allege he'd never carried out his part of it. Thespite, the malevolence, took his breath away. What had he everdone to her? Nothing but fail to restore two pieces of equipment, not because he hadn't seen to them and told her what was wrong but because he hadn't yet been able to get the parts. He went into the flat and took a Diet Coke out of the fridge. When he had peeled back the cover and opened the hole in the lid, he drank about an inch of it and filled the can up with gin. That was better. Of course he'd have to get another job. That meant the Job Centre and probably drawing benefit for a while. The DSS would pay his rent, thank God. It was time he got something out of the government, it was his right, he'd paid enough in. Of course it wasn't just Shoshana's treachery that had stitched him up, it was Ed too, going to head office instead of keeping quiet for a few days when Mix hadn't made those two calls for him. That was what started it.

One thing Pearson could be sure of. He'd take with him as many of his clients as he could persuade to come. He'd undercut his old firm‑ why shouldn't he set up in business on hisown? This might be the making of him. He drank some moreof the gin and Coke mixture. Everyone knew how much betterit was to be self‑ employed than an employee. A fantasy beganforming in Mix's mind of himself as founder and boss of the largest exercise equipment and gym fittings company in th ecountry, a mega‑ conglomerate that took over Tunturi and PJFitness and of course Fiterama. He pictured the joy of sitting at his huge ebony desk in his glass‑ walled thirtieth‑ floor office, two glamorous secretaries in micro‑ skirt in the anteroom, and Pearson coming to him cap in hand to beg a small pension for his enforced early retirement…

Meanwhile, freedom lay before him. He'd use the time in cementing his friendship with Nerissa. Maybe think of some other reason to call on her and get inside the house. Suppose he delivered a parcel to her? It wouldn't have to be real, itwouldn't have had to come from a mail order company or besomething she'd ordered from a shop, it could be just old magazines wrapped up in brown paper. She'd understand once it had got him inside and she'd talked to him properly. Or he could pretend to be peddling election campaign literature, takeher some candidate's manifesto that had been delivered first tohim. There must be a local election coming up next month, there always was, wasn't there? Anyway, she wouldn't know anymore than he did.

Once he was taking her about, getting in the public eye, the offers from TV and newspaper editors and fashion mags would start coming in. He might not even need to set up in businesson his own. Or if he did, the money he got from being Nerissa's squeeze would get him off to a flying start. Dreaming on, he paused to congratulate himself on his resilience, how rapidly he was recovering from losing his job, what those supposed to know called one of life's major setbacks, comparable to bereavement.

Next day, though, he had to work. His head was banging from the gin and sometimes it swam so that he nearly fell, but he had to work. Every call he made he told the client he had resigned and would be setting up in business on his own. If they would consider staying with him he would make a specialc harge for them, less than they had been paying, and they would be assured of top‑ quality service. Three said they would remain where they were but the fourth agreed to come with him, after telling him he looked pale and asking him if he was all right. At head office he ran into Ed, who told him Steph was pregnant, so they had decided to postpone the wedding until after the baby was born.

" Steph says she doesn't fancy looking fat on her wedding day. Her mum thinks people will say we only got married because she was pregnant. "

" I've resigned, " said Mix.

" So I heard. "

Ed's expression told him that what he'd heard was a differentversion of events. " You telling management I'd let you down, which was an exaggeration to say the least, made it impossiblefor me to stay. "

" Oh, yes? What do you reckon you did then? Acted like a mate? Stood in for me when I was sick? "

" Why don't you fuck off? " said Mix.

That was the end of a beautiful friendship. He couldn't care less. He thought of driving up to the spa and having it out with Shoshana. But he ought to remember the spa was number thirteen, a fact which might be at the root of all his troubles. And when he thought about it, about that darkened room with the draperies and the figures, the wizard and the owl, and above all of Shoshana herself, dealing as it seemed to him in love and death, he realized he was afraid of her. Not that he put it like that even in that part of his mind which talked to itself, advising, warning, and resolving. There, he said he should be cautious. It was one thing her getting on the phone and spreading slanders about him; he was more wary of darker deeds, the kind of thing witches used to do‑ spells cast, demons raised. All rubbish of course, but he'd once thought ghosts rubbish and now he lived with one.

By Saturday he'd have more time, all the time in the world, and that was when he'd begin his real efforts to see Nerissa. Meanwhile he'd plan what his campaign was going to be.

A cosmetic company with a fast‑ expanding line in makeupfor black women had asked Nerissa to be their " Face of 2004. " This year they had used a famous white model and Nerissawould be the first black woman for this sort of role. The money was mind‑ blowing, the work minimal. Visiting their Mayfair salon for preliminary tests, she wondered why she wasn't feeling a greater thrill. But she didn't wonder for long. She knew.

Darel Jones had made it plain he wanted her for a friend only, someone to protect perhaps, a mate, a standby to make upthe numbers at dinner. Her mother said a man and a womancan't be friends, they have to be lovers or nothing. Nerissaknew differently. Perhaps what her mother said had been truewhen she was young. It wasn't true now that women had careersand approached nearer to equality. She knew men who weren't gay but who had a woman friend with whom they had been at school or university and were close to for years without ever even exchanging a kiss. Was that how it was going to befor her and Darel?

Not if she could help it. Sometimes she felt positive, atother times like she did now, rather despondent, with nothing to distract her from the certainty that what she wanted morethan anything in the world, that he should fall in love with her, would never happen. The man Cellini hadn't shown himself outside her house since she had seen him on Saturday. Seeing him was the last thing she wanted but, on the other hand, if he showed up in his car and waited for her to appear, it would bean excuse for calling Darel.

She wandered about her house, newly cleaned and tidied by Lynette, and resolved to try and keep it that way. She oughtnot to be so messy, Mum was always saying so, saying she hadbeen brought up to be neat and this was the result of too muchmoney too soon. Darel's flat was a miracle of order. It wouldn't always be like that, she thought, picking up a tissue she had dropped on the bathroom floor, no doubt he had made its specially tidy for his guests, but he was obviously a well disciplinedman. In the unlikely event of his coming here‑ and with each day that passed it seemed to become less probable he would be put off her by all the cups and glasses that habitually stood around, the magazines dumped on the floor, and absurd combinations like a bottle of nail varnish in the fruitbowl. She was as bad as old Miss Chawcer, who, Aunty Olivesaid, kept a flashlight in the fridge and bread in a bag on the floor.

On Friday afternoon, Dad once more having the Akwaas'car, she had promised to drive her mother to St. Blaise House. Hazel said it would be polite for her to call on Miss Chawcer, ask how she was and if there was anything she could do. Miss Chawcer was so very old and frail, she had been ill and must really be quite helpless.

" Oh, Mum, don't ask me. He lives there. Can't Andrew do it? "

" Andrew will be in court in Cambridge. You needn't come in, Nerissa, just drop me. "

So Nerissa had said she would. She'd drop her mother and come back for her after an hour. After all, if she did see the man, or the man saw her and came out to speak to her, she could call Darel on her car‑ phone. She dressed carefully, mistress as she was of the smart‑ casual look, in new olive drab combat trousers, a low‑ cut top and satin jacket. But when she was ready she realized that the clothes designed to attract Darel would also be attractive to the man, so she took them all off and got back into her jeans and T‑ shirt. Besides, though this was inimical to everything she worked to attain and to everything those she worked for took as gospel, she believedmen never noticed what a woman wore, only that she " lookedgood" or did not.

It would be just her luck when she had no time to spare to find the man waiting outside, but no one was there. Campden Hill Square lay deserted and silent, sizzling in the heat that continued into September. Her car had been standing in the sun and the driver's seat was almost hot enough to burn her. She picked up her mother from Acton and drove down to St. Blaise Avenue, dropping her off outside Miss Chawcer'shouse. There was no sign of the man, nor did she meet himdriving to Tesco in West Kensington, where she did her week's shopping, buying in addition to a quantity of sparkling water, a lot of salad stuff, and some fish, two bottles of a very good Pinot Grigio because she had noticed that this was what Darel drank.

The spell that disabled its victim's spinal column came by second‑ class post. Hecate had always been as mean as hell. Shoshana had expected some potion or powder, which would have meant she had to think up a way of administering it and virtually eliminated anyone she had no easy access to, but thiswas only incantations over a smoking mixture in a crucible. As far as Shoshana could see, the spell might as well have beensent by e‑ mail. On the other hand, it was miles long and Hecate was too cheeseparing to get herself a scanner.

" I may as well give it a go, " Shoshana said to the wizard andt he owl. Who better to try it out on than Mix Cellini?

Gwendolen had graduated from the sofa and was sitting in anarmchair, well into the last chapter of The Golden Bowl, the thong in a brown paper bag on her lap, ready to show to the lodger. Hazel had let herself in with her aunt's key, and though Gwendolen didn't jump or look as if she was about to have a heart attack, she seemed less than pleased to see her.

She didn't quite ask her visitor what she was doing here. " Imust get those keys back. I suppose your aunt had another one cut. Without asking me of course. "

" How are you? "

" Oh, I'm much better, my dear. " Gwendolen was softening. She put the book down with the letter from the cystic fibrosis charity to mark the place. " What have you got there? " Seedlesswhite grapes, William pears, Ferrero‑ Rocher chocolates, and a bottle of Merlot. Gwendolen was less disapproving than usual. She never ate any fruit except stewed apples but she would enjoy the chocolates and the wine. " I see you're more discerning than your aunt and her friend. "

Hazel didn't know what to say. She had realized she was going to find conversation difficult with this elderly lady whom once, long ago, her own father would have called a bluestocking. Hazel didn't read much and was aware she couldn't talk about books or any of the things that probably interested MissChawcer. She was struggling to comment on the weather, the improvement in Miss Chawcer's health, and the beauty of her house when the doorbell rang.

" Who on earth can that be? "

" Do you want to see anyone or shall I say to come back anothertime? "

" Just get rid of them, " said Gwendolen. " Say what you like. "

It might be a letter from Stephen Reeves come by special delivery. Gwendolen hadn't yet heard from him and she was growing quite anxious. Suppose the letter had gone astray? Hazel went to the door. A man of about sixty, tall and handsomeand wearing a turban, stood on the doorstep. To Hazel's eyes he looked very like a Pathan warrior she had once seen in a film about the North‑ West Frontier.

" Good afternoon, madam. Mr. Singh from St. Mark's Road to see Miss Chawcer, please. "

" I'm afraid Miss Chawcer hasn't been well. She's been inhospital. Could you possibly come back tomorrow? Well, nottomorrow. Say Sunday? "

" Certainly I say Sunday, madam. I return eleven A. M. "

" What did he want? " Gwendolen asked.

" I didn't ask. Should I have? "

" It doesn't matter. I know, anyway. It's about his wretched guinea fowl. Otto must have eaten them. I found feathers ont he stairs. Now I expect this man wants compensation. "

Hazel was beginning to think this a very strange household, what with this old bluestocking and the stalker upstairs and now a person with a German name who ate the neighbors' poultry. She began to look forward to Nerissa's return and was relieved when the doorbell rang.

" Who is it this time? I can't think why I've suddenly become so popular. "

" It's my daughter. "

" Ah. " Gwendolen inevitably associated the daughter, and would associate her for the rest of the life that remained to her, with uncontrolled amorous behavior in her hallway. " I don't suppose she will want to come in. "

Hazel saw this as an unprovoked put‑ down and was veryglad to be leaving. " Why had Aunty Olive never told her what an old horror Miss Chawcer was? She said a cool good‑ bye and rushed out to Nerissa, who was waiting on the doorstep in a fever of nerves in case the man suddenly appeared.

Gwendolen fell asleep as soon as she was gone. Since her illness she was finding a rest in the afternoon wasn't goode nough; she needed to sleep. Dreaming she didn't need but the dream came to her, sharper and more vivid than any nighttime episode, apparently real and happening in the present. She was young, as she always was in dreams, and visiting Christie in Rillington Place. The war was on, the only one she ever thoughtof as " the war, " discounting conflicts in Korea and Suez and the Falklands and Bosnia and the Persian Gulf. Sirens were sounding as she knocked on Christie's door, for in the dream that seemed real it was she who was pregnant and she who was going to him for an abortion. Only, like Bertha, but there was no Bertha in this reality, she was afraid of the man and his instructions and she fled, determined not to go back. When sh ecame out, as is the way with dreams, instead of in Rillington Place she was with Stephen Reeves in the drawing room at St. Blaise House and he was telling her he was the father of her child. It was a shock to her, a surprise and a relief. She thought then he would ask her to marry him, but the scene shifted again. She was alone in Ladbroke Grove, standing outside his surgery in the sudden dusk, and he was nowhere to be seen. She was running this way and that, looking for him, when she fell over, banged her head, and woke up.

Such daylight dreams take longer to recover from than any nightmare met with in the hours of darkness. For a moment or two she lay in the armchair, wondering where he was and when he would come back. She even looked at her hands and marveled that at her young age they were so wrinkled, the branching veins standing out like tree roots in dry soil. Gradually, ar eality that was welcome yet unwelcome came back and she sat up.

Whileshe slept and perhaps while she was talking to Hazel Akwaa, the brown paper bag containing the thong had slippeddown between the seat cushion and the arm of the armchair. Wide awake now, she had forgotten it was there.