Gossip

17

Gossip

    “The word is, on the Street,” said Kyle Bannerman cautiously, in a much-lowered voice, “that the guy’s off his head. Mid-life crisis and then some.”

    Ben sighed. “Wall Street gossip, Kyle.”

    “Yeah, but that’s my point! Everybody’s talking, Ben, and they say he’s not even bothering to hide it! Well, Cy was telling me she’s not the first by any means, but I can’t say I ever heard any gossip about him before.”

    “And?” said Ben in a bored voice.

    Kyle flushed. He was only trying to do what James Kingston had advised and cut the guy some slack and not blame him for having a one-night stand with Megan. “Look, don’t blame me! You’re in this just as much as I am!”

    “What?” said Ben, genuinely puzzled. “No—don’t look like that, Kyle, I’m not getting at you. What on earth do you mean? In what?”

    “In the shit if he really is losing it. I mean, they were saying he was in line to head up the bank, with Old Man Maze gone, and John Kingston retired. It’s our jobs on the line, Ben!”

    “I see what you mean. Uh… I dunno that I’d say he was in line for… I thought the Board of Directors might appoint another figurehead, like old Maze.”

    “Yeah, as Chairman!” said Kyle scornfully. “But CEO?”

    Ben swallowed. “I see, you mean you thought he was gonna step into Kingston Senior’s shoes.”

    Kyle nodded hard. “Yeah!”

    Ben rubbed his nose. “Mm… Jim Stapleton’s got seniority, though.”

    The cheery Stapleton had never had much to do with their division. “Has he?”

    “Uh-huh.”

    Kyle looked dubious.

    “Said to be very capable,” said Ben on a firm note. “Uh—I know John Kingston moved up from Venture Capital, Kyle, but it’s not a prerequisite. That’s not all there is to the bank, you know.”

    “Yeah, but… I wouldn’t’ve said Stapleton was the right kind of guy, personality-wise.”

    It was certainly hard to envisage two more different men than Kingston Senior, and Jim Stapleton. “He’s popular with the Board, though, Kyle.”

    “If he gets it, what’s the betting he down-sizes our division?” returned Kyle gloomily.

    “He won’t if he can read a balance sheet,” replied Ben drily. “So stop worrying about it.”

    “Yeah…” he sighed. “Cy reckons the writing’s on the wall and Murtrey’s gonna give it all away. Not just divorce, he meant. Resign,” he explained.

    “Surely not!”

    His words hung in the air.

    After some time Kyle said sadly: “See?”

    “Y— Uh, this is crazy, Kyle. We don’t know anything about the situation for sure. It’s like I said: Wall Street gossip.”

    Kyle was very flushed, ‘Well, heck, couldn’t you find out a bit more? Then we’d know if it is just gossip!”

    “Me?” said Ben weakly.

    “Yes! Cy says she’s the dame you took to that Friends thing you gave him tickets for!”

    Ben’s jaw dropped. After a moment he managed to say: “Look, I grant you she’s a beautiful woman, that’s fact one. Fact two, they were both at that appalling dinner dance. Period.”

    “No, fact three, Cy swears Murtrey was dancing with her, like that!”

    “What?” said Ben tiredly.

    “You know, Ben, for Chrissakes!”

    “Oh. One dirty dance doesn’t count for much. Everyone was liquored up at that thing: they opened the bar after the goddamn speeches.”

    “Ugh, speeches; were there?” said Kyle, momentarily distracted. “Um, well, yeah, see what ya mean… I can’t see it, myself, only Cy reckons the word on the Street is, he is like that.”

    Ben sighed. Weren’t they talking in circles, here? “Look, I can’t ask the woman’s son outright if she’s having an affaire with our boss, can I? But—well, haven’t seen her round the place for a while, I guess I can ask him what she’s up to these days.”

    “Yeah! Great! And then we’ll at least know!”

    All they’d know—if the kid knew anything, he was the type that barely knew what day it was—was that John Murtrey was doing the woman. So what?

    “What?” said Kyle uneasily, watching his face.

    “Uh… I think we’re worrying unnecessarily. I admit the wife’s the cool sort, but she’s a Doncaster; I don’t think after something like thirty years of marriage he’s gonna chuck it all away for a chance-met English blonde. He won’t cut the Doncaster connection, he's too cool a customer himself to do that.”

    Kyle’s wide brow wrinkled. “I think I’ve seen his wife, was she at the big reception they made everyone go to for Old Man Maze’s birthday last year?”

    “Yes. Quite tall, very thin, silver-grey hair in a sleek bob, grey dress, grey smile, giant diamond and pearl brooch on the shoulder worth, reliable information has it, half a mill’ and holding.”

    “A brooch?” he gulped.

    “Uh-huh. The diamonds and the pearls all huge.”

    “Um, that was before I met Gaby, I went with that Lena DeWitt from Georgeson’s. Oh, yeah! Like, we’d just come in and Lena said, Isn’t that your boss, come on, we must say hullo, and dragged me over there, and his wife was real cold. Kinda looked at Lena as if she was a bug. Well, she had her hair in these crazy spikes, but she was wearing a little black dress, nothing wrong with it,” he ended glumly. “Only I didn’t notice the brooch.”

    Ben looked at him with some sympathy. You wouldn’t, no, if your girl was being looked at down Mrs John Murtrey’s nose. “Yeah, well, she’s like that, but an upwardly mobile, ambitious, serious-minded guy like John Murtrey isn’t gonna ditch an investment like that: she’s got a large slice of the Doncaster billions plus and the Doncaster influence. –Old money. The original Doncaster was a beef baron, the son married a Rockefeller,”—Kyle gulped—“and they just went on from there. Big in the leisure industry, these days: DC Resorts is one of theirs.”

    “I just thought that meant, like, Washington, DC,” he admitted.

    “Yeah? Try reading The Wall Street Journal instead of listening to Wall Street gossip,” said Ben unkindly. “Look, I will speak to Rob—that’s the blonde woman’s son—but no guarantees, okay?”

    “Yeah. Thanks, Ben.”

    “And Kyle—this is with my official supervisor’s hat on—just can the gossip. It’ll get you a real bad reputation in the firm and your career won’t go anywhere. Got it?”

    “Yes,” he muttered, very red. “Sorry.”

    Ben managed to speak to Rob next morning on the subway, after their run. For once, the kid’s ears weren’t plugged in.

    “Haven’t seen your mom for a while, Rob,” he said easily. “What’s she up to, these days? Shopping trip to Paree, or some such?”

    Rob smiled palely. “No—well, she’s capable of it. No, she’s staying with a man she met at that dinner thing you took her to.”

    Ben had to swallow. So that much was true. “Uh—any idea of his name, Rob?”

    The kid looked vague. “John Something. It starts with M, I think.”

    “Right,” said Ben heavily. “Goddit. –I’m sorry, Rob.”

    “Uh—no!” he said with a startled laugh. “Don’t be! I mean, Mother’s like that! To her, men are like—like—” His eye fell on a small boy across the aisle who was eating a lollipop. “Like lollipops,” he ended drily.

    Ouch! True, Ben had had a suspicion this might be the case, but— Poor old John. On the other hand, once she’d passed on to the next lollipop, he’d no doubt come to his senses and go back to the wife—if so be as there was an actual separation, which, note, no-one had heard.

    “Whenever I speak to her she tells me he’s delicious,” the young man added glumly.

    Ben choked.

    “Yes!” said Rob with a sudden laugh “Well, lollipop, eh? –Mind you, it doesn’t seem to stop her getting bored during the day and going out and getting lost in New York. Some misguided fool she was chatting to—she goes and sits in little cafés and gets chatting,” he explained a trifle superfluously—“well, they told her about some special shop somewhere up near some fancy art museum; um, some name like Google?”

    Ben choked again. “The Guggenheim, you moron!”

    “That’ll be it,” said Rob mildly, unphased. “She managed to get there but couldn’t see any shop, so she wandered into the museum and got talking to some fellow and ended up going to lunch with him at some place just up the street and round the corner—well, to hear her tell it! No sense of direction,” he explained, grinning.

    “An arty guy? Mab?” croaked Ben.

    “No, well, she loves people, you know, and they all seem to love her—but no, he wasn’t an arty guy, Ben, he was a guy who buys art. As an investment.” They got off the train but Rob happily continued his narrative. “Anyway, they went to this place that this chap claimed does the best steak sandwiches ever, not that Mother eats steak, really, but she was happy to be there, she said it had the loveliest atmosphere: everyone was happy, it was rather like happy hour at Mike’s.”

    “Uh-huh. Sit-down place, was it?”

    “Yes. So this man—I think his name was George— No, hang on, she called him Paul at one point, that can’t be right.”

    “G— Not Paul Georgeson?” croaked Ben. He bought art, all right. Bit like Peggy Guggenheim had bought art. With the billions to do it. Owned Georgeson’s on Wall Street, of course, but more than that, owned the building. Plus several more, similar.

    “Yes, that’s it!” said Rob sunnily. “Well, he had a steak sandwich—you ought to go there, Ben, Mother said it was huge slices of steak, with gravy—but then he had to go, he had an appointment, so he made a date to meet her next day. But Mother stayed on, enjoying the atmosphere, and ordered some kind of cake. And then she seems to’ve made friends with some woman who couldn’t find a table and asked if she could sit with her. She works at a nearby gallery. Mother said she was quite plump and very pretty, maybe about forty-five, and a very cosy sort of woman.”

    “Doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever seen working in a gallery.”

    “No, but that’s the interesting part! This place specialises in antiques and she works in the back room, restoring things! She told Mother all about how she was re-gilding some old mirror frames. Mother loved that: anything gold, she’s like a moth to a flame.”

    “Right,” said Ben, trying not to laugh.

    “So after lunch she went back to this gallery with this cosy woman—”

    “Yo, boy. What did she buy? Tell me before the suspense kills me,” said Ben in a hollow voice.

    Rob laughed, but made a face, too, and said: “It’s a statuette thing of a naked guy standing on his toes, with wings on his heels. It’s gilded, too. She said it reminded her of me.”

    Ben choked.

    “Well, it might be all right in some contexts, but I said to her, how many mothers in New York have naked statuettes of their sons in their sitting-rooms?”

    “Or in London, I imagine!” yelped Ben, going into a paroxysm.

    Rob smiled feebly. “Yeah, hah, hah. I said to her, if she was so fond of John, why didn’t she give it to him, but she just laughed and did her cheek patting thing.”

    Ouch!

    “Yes, well, like I said, he’s just another lollipop to her. She did go on that date with the Georgeson man. And dinner as well; I don’t know what John was doing that night.”

    “I think possibly that was the night that Felicity Murtrey—his wife, Rob—had a dinner for the entire Board of the bank plus the senior execs—part of her campaign to get him made CEO.”

    Rob nodded. “That would be right: Mother said he had to spend the night at his house, so she and the Georgeson man went to a hotel.”

    Probably the very large hotel in downtown Manhattan that the man owned. Yeah.

    “I can’t help feeling sorry for John,” Ben admitted.

    “Oh, they never know they’re lollipops, Ben!” said the young man with his charming smile.

    Jeez. Did that make it better, or worse?

    Titania turned up at their flat some two days after this encounter, ostensibly to collect some of her clothes, but actually to check up on Robin, he was in no doubt.

    “Look, Mother, what on earth are you playing at, seducing Ben’s boss?”

    “Good gracious, darling, I didn’t seduce him!”

    “Not much.”

    “It was perfectly mutual!” she trilled.

    It always was, according to her.

    “It isn’t going to prove anything!” he said crossly.

    “I don’t know that it’s meant to do that, darling.”

    “Then why do it?” he shouted

    “Because he’s perfectly delicious, silly one!” she trilled, going.

    He followed her out to the landing.

    “Mother—”

    The lift arrived and she got into it. “I can’t stop, dearest boy, I have to get these back to John’s, and then I’ve got a date for lunch with Paul, I absolutely must do something about my hair before that!”

    With that the thing’s doors closed and she was gone.

    Robin retreated to the flat, scowling. “What can it prove?” he muttered. “The cases aren’t the same! Murtrey’s a married man, he’s strayed before, the wife doesn't care, and she certainly isn’t serious, with her chance-met art buyers picked up in museums!”

    Things were still very tense at Fluss, Evert, Maze, with nothing as yet decided, no-one sure who their boss was gonna be and who, if anyone, would be moved up. It certainly wasn’t the time for making decisions, but somehow Ben had decided that he did want to see Isabella again, at least see if maybe they might have a future—well, how they got along together in everyday life, kind of thing, with a view to maybe thinking about a future together later. So he called Margot.

    “Oh, dear!” she gasped. “I’m terribly sorry, Ben! I mean, I can get in touch with her, of course, but it won’t do any good: she doesn’t want to speak to you.”

    “Why not? Look, she knew how I was fixed, I was completely up-front about it, and I didn’t make her any promises or like that. But I have definitely broken up with Tracy, now. Her stuff’s out of the apartment.”

    “Yes,” said Margot weakly, “I’m sure it is. I mean, Jessica told me, and we passed it on. The thing is, um, Denise Kingston’s been talking to Jessica.”

    “Uh… ye-ah… Real nice woman, I thought.”

    “Yes, she is. But, um, evidently someone told her husband—well, I can’t remember all the names, Ben, but anyway, her husband told her that you’d got mixed up with some girl—someone’s sister or something—Megan, that was it!” she remembered. “And Jessica told me, but neither of us would have breathed a word to Isabella, Ben, we quite understand, there was nothing in it, and in fact Denise stressed that to Jessica. Only then Bob went and let it out to Dan, when he was planting his cabbage patch. I mean, planting carrots there instead: Ronny seems to have told him some stupid story he got off his grandmother— Sorry, Ben. Burbling. I’m afraid Dan was very cross, and he told their mother and father, and I think they must have told Isabella. Anyway, they all know. And after that Isabella said she wouldn’t speak to you ever again.”

    Silence down the phone.

    “I’m terribly sorry, Ben,” said Margot in a small voice.

    “No, I am, Margot,” said Ben grimly. “It’s all my fault.”

    “Well, yes, but everybody’s human!” cried Margot on an anguished note. “Only she can’t see that!”

    “No,” he said bleakly. “Uh… look, can you give me her address, Margot? I’ll try and explain everything in a letter. Well, apologise, mainly; I can’t explain it, except to say I was a goddamn fool and I dunno why I did it.”

    Margot sighed. “The human factor again, yes. Write to her here, Ben, and I promise to see she gets the letter. If necessary I’ll tell her dratted father he won’t ever get to see Ronny again, if he tries to stop me,” she added grimly.

    “Right. Thought he was anti-me,” Ben admitted tightly.

    “Um, actually, we thought he was coming round to the idea, only then—” Margot swallowed.

    “Got it. Then I went and cut my own throat. Well, thanks very much, Margot, I will write care of you. But if you’d pass on my sincere apologies, next time you speak to her…” His voice trailed off. Then he said: “I dare say it won’t do any good, but it might at least suggest I’m sincerely sorry.”

    “Yes, of course, Ben!” she said warmly. To her huge relief he then thanked her again and rang off.

    “I suppose there’s no alcohol in the house,” she said under her breath, going to investigate the sideboard. No. An empty bottle of Cherry Heering. She grabbed it, took it out to the dustbin and threw it in viciously.

    Um… well, the kids were at school, so— She went over to Jessica’s, told her the lot, and let her give her a belt of ruddy Bob’s sacred Glenlivet.

    “Gosh!”

    “Is it?” said Jessica weakly. “I’m not drinking, of course.”—Patting the bulge. “The thing is, Ben’s always been attractive to women.”

    “So this Megan girl didn’t put up any resistance,” agreed Margot, nodding.

    “Threw herself at him, more like,” said Jessica drily. “Going on past experience. Not that, though: he’s gotten used to more or less having his pick.”

    Margot shuddered. “Right.” She drained the glass.

    “Have another,” said Jessica kindly.

    “I don’t mind If I do!” she admitted.

    Puck had been sent to join Isabella’s classes—no-one was quite sure why, but doubtless he’d done something to get up His Majesty’s nose. Again. He was hopeless at sums, but Isabella was gamely persevering with him.

    “Now Puck, if you have two beetles—”

    “I know!” he chirped. “Two beetles make four!”

    She gulped. “No! Think! How can they?”

    “In the usual way!” he gasped, collapsing in giggles. Obligingly Runcky and Philly also collapsed in giggles.

    “I wouldn’t bother,” Runcky then advised his big sister. “Anyway, that’s too easy. Say you have fourteen dock leaves, and divide them into two—”

    “Fourteen will only go into two if they’re fourteen delicious little somethings, twins, like strawberries!” Puck retorted swiftly.

    “Ooh!” began Philly, her eyes lighting up. “Can we have—”

    “No,” said Isabella repressively.

    “Um, but for lunch?” she pleaded. “Please, Isabella!”

    “Well, maybe. If you get all your sums right,” she said repressively.

    “Ooh, yum!” cried Puck. He began singing: ‘Are you going to Strawberry Fair, Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme,” but everyone cried: “Stop!” so he stopped, pouting. And Isabella kindly told the Fairy Parsley, the Fairy Sage, the Fairy Rosemary and the Fairy Thyme that that hadn’t been a faerie summons, they didn’t have to stay. Unless—hopefully—they’d like to learn sums?

    They wouldn’t, and vanished.

    “Oh,” said Isabella sadly, looking at her class, which now consisted of the twins, Puck, Lenny Lizard, and a small frog, known generally as Gulper, because he did. And at that, Gulper was asleep. So was Grimalkin, but she wasn’t really part of the class at all, she was only there out of solidarity. “Well, go on, Runcky, you’ve got fourteen dock leaves and you divide them equally into two—”

    “Why equally?” asked Philly, wrinkling her brow over it.

    “Never mind,” said Isabella repressively.

    Grimalkin roused. “Because you two kittens are far too young to do f-rr-rrractions.” Immediately she fell asleep again, purring.

    Runcky gave her an evil look. “I hope she doesn’t call that a purr. I’d say it’s a snurr.”

    Isabella coughed suddenly. “Never mind that, Runcky. Get on with it! Or no strawberries.”

    Sighing, Runcky divided his dock leaves into two piles and demonstrated that there were seven leaves in each pile. “Seven!” he shouted as Barry Beetle emerged from under one of the few remaining dock plants that hadn’t suffered and endeavoured to remove one of the larger leaves. “Leave it!”

    Promptly Philly collapsed in helpless splutters, gasping through them: “You—said—leave—it!”

    Barry Beetle waited until the airwaves had stopped quivering and then said, bowing very low to Isabella: “Please may this humble beetle petition the Fairy Princess Isabella for this delightful dock leaf? That plant isn’t shading me any more, and if permitted, this humble beetle would like to go to sleep under this lovely leaf.”

    Runcky stuck his tongue out at his twin. “Leaf, not leave, you ass’s head. Nyah!”

    “Twins, that will do,” said Isabella firmly. “Of course, Barry, dear, have the leaf, but you know, if you go round to the other side of the dock plant, you’ll find lots of shade there.”

    At this Puck went into a helpless giggling fit, gasping out something incomprehensible about girdles round the earth and elements-aree, my dear Beetle.

   “‘What?” groped Runcky.

    Looking smug, Puck recited:

“Beetles may come and beetles may go,

But sure as night follows day,

The sun will move from June to May,

And shadows follow, to and fro.

’Tis simple law, as all do know,

Just elements-aree, as they say!”

    Philly looked down her nose. “Total rubbish.”

    “I’ll say!” Runcky agreed quickly, wishing he’d said that.

    “Um, no, he’s right, actually,” Isabella admitted.

    “But it’s not ‘June to May,’ Isabella!” cried Philly loudly.

    “Um, yes, it is, darling. Think about it. –You, too, Runcky,” she said to the scowling boy twin.

    Nothing.

    “Dear me!” said Puck with a loud giggle. “Well, while they’re thinking, Isabella, would you like to hear the news?”

    Not really, no. She sighed. “Go on, then.”

    “Your lovely mortal—”

    “He isn’t mine,” she said tightly, going very red.

    “Of course he is, Respected Princess! Your lovely mortal is very unhappy and very sorry for slipping up. It was only once. Goodness me, if your respected father was to be condemned for one little slip like that—”

    “We’re not talking about him!”

    “Or, indeed, your beloved mother,” added Puck, unmoved. “Why, I dare say there’d be no Faerie Realm at all!”

    “Ooh, wouldn’t there?” gasped Philly, her eyes very round.

    “I say!” gasped Runcky.

    Isabella swallowed. “Little pitchers, Puck,” she said grimly.

    “Er—mm. I could put it in a rime.”

    “Please don’t,” she sighed.

     Undeterred, he burst into song:

“Are you going to Strawberry Fair,

Very sor-ry, all of the time?

His letter says that he was a foo-ool,

And he loves you all of the time!

Are you going to Strawberry Fair,

Very sor-ry, all of the time?

Remember mortal men are so we-eak,

And he’ll be a true-love of thine!”

    “Huh! Fool doesn’t go with weak!” discerned the brilliant Runcky.

    Isabella was very red. “No, it doesn’t. Just sit up and pay attention to the lesson, Puck, or you won’t get any lunch.”

    “Fool always goes with weak, in my experience, dear!” retorted Puck swiftly. “And especially in the mortal realm!”

    “Brilliant,” said Runcky sourly.

    “Yeah, brilliant,” agreed Philly sourly, for once supporting her twin. “Go on, Puck, if you’re so smart: if you divide fourteen equally into two, how many in each pile?”

    Nothing.

    “Nyah, nah, nah-nah, naa-ah!” they chorused.

    “Yes, hah, hah,” agreed Lenny Lizard.

    “Sycophant,” said Puck sourly.

    “Puck!” cried Isabella loudly. “Pay attention or I’ll report you to Father!”

    “I’m paying attention, Princess, dear!” he said quickly.

    “Now, if I take one dock leaf and add another one dock leaf, how many dock leaves do I have?”

    “Two,” he said in relief.

    “Very good. –That will DO, twins!” she said terribly.

    Help! The sky darkened and thunder rolled in the distance!

    “Don’t do that, Respected Princess Isabella!” gasped Philly.

    “We’ll be good, Respected Princess Isabella!” gasped Runcky.

    “See you are,” said Isabella on a weak note. “Um, I think we’d better practise writing until lunchtime. Yellowed cherry laurel leaves!” she ordered.

    Immediately a pile appeared, more than enough for everybody to write on. And the pointed sticks to do it with, too. Magic writing, of course. In fact Puck, brightening terrifically, some might have said horribly, immediately recited the lore of the cherry laurel:

    “When Cherry Laurel is in the sere and yellow leaf, then do gather these Leaves, for they be most apt for Magick Writing, as all Wise Wizards do know. Then if you Write upon them with an Pointed Stick or other Instrument, the Words will be Hid from all Sight. But Warm these Leaves and Lo! By Magick the words do appear. Which is most meet to be done with a Fairy’s Breath but if not, sit upon them a while. For ’tis truly said:

Sit Upon a Laurel Leaf, and the message thereupon,

Appears to view, warmed by thy Situpon!

And eke is this little rime most fit for a faerie Roundel, for all will Laugh if ’tis said after Dinner.”

    The twins rolled their eyes madly at each other, but luckily everybody else clapped. And then they practised writing. Sort of. Everybody’s was dreadful, Gulper coming off a poor first: he could spell, but his froggy hands weren’t very good at neat writing.

    Still, his was better than Puck’s effort: “Te Kat Sat Uñ Te meat.”

    Or Lenny’s: “Tha Ket set on tha meT.”

    Or Philly’s: “Tha Kat sat onn tha mat.”

    And certainly better than Runcky’s: “T Ktt st ñ T mtt mT   mtt.”

    Just as everybody was hoping wistfully for lunch and reflecting gloomily that probably Isabella wouldn’t let them have anything nice, in view of the spelling performances, not to say the lack of brilliance in the sums department, down she came! The flutterings, the tinklings of myriads of tiny bells, the far-off flutings of sweet paeans…

    All the more impressive, certain faerie personalities could not but reflect, as she'd been neglecting her children terribly of late.

    “Dearest!” she cooed, kissing Isabella’s cheek. “I’ve been so awfully busy, but we really must have a talk!—My little ones!” she cooed, swooping upon the twins and kissing them in spite of the scowls. “Come and sit on my knee!”

    “No stories,” replied Runcky with a glare.

    “No, they’re stupid and babyish,” added Philly with a pout.

    “Now, now, now, naughty little faerie children!” trilled Puck, flitting gaily up to them and hitting their noses playfully with a plantain stalk.

    Titania sighed. “Don’t, Puck, there’s a dear. I’m afraid I have been neglecting them, just lately; it’s not surprising they’re cross. But if you sit on your mother’s knee nicely, twins, you shall have a special treat from the mortal realm, just for you!”

    Oddly enough the twins sat nicely on her knee, and so she produced…

    “Ugh!” cried Puck, recoiling.

    “Very dark,” said Isabella dubiously.

    “Yes, but in the middle,” said Titania significantly, “they have the yummiest white frosting, as the mortals call it, nothing to do with the Ream of Cold, but very sweet, and the dark parts are rather like cake!”

    Okay, the twins were eating them.

    “Bisquites?” ventured Puck, still eyeing them dubiously.

    “Almost, Puck, dear!” she trilled. “That’s an older mortal word! These days some mortals call them ‘biscuits’—it’s almost the same, isn’t it?—and some call them ‘cookies,’ but these ones are special cookies, called Oreos!”

    “Confusing,” he decided, scowling.

    “Never mind, Puck, dear, I’ve brought some treats for everyone! Donuts!” she cried, and a pile of them appeared on a large lily pad.

    “Mother,” said Isabella nervously, “aren’t all these a bit, um, sugary?”

    “They aren’t the ones with J,A,M,” she replied calmly, setting a selection of insects, waterweeds and worms before Gulper and a bowl of cream before Grimalkin.

    True. Or honey. “The letter of the law, then,” Isabella concluded drily.

    “Certainly!” she fluted.

    Sighing, Isabella gave in and ate a donut. Mmm! Cinnamon!

    The feast had disappeared, Titania, with a little scream, had remembered Merlin and magicked up some fresh donuts for him, and most of them had dozed off.

    “Now, my darling child, we can talk confidentially,” she said, taking Isabella’s arm and whisking her off to a convenient grassy hillock.

    “I don’t think there’s anything to talk about, Mother,” replied Isabella uneasily.

    “Silly one!” she trilled, patting her cheek. “I've been to the mortal realm—”

    “And discovered donuts and Oreos, yes,” she sighed.

    “More than that!” returned Titania with a loud giggle. “But never mind that. I’ve seen your lovely Ben—”

    “Mother, he is not my Ben!”

    Ignoring that superbly, she continued: “And I have to admit, the poor darling is really miserable. Didn’t Puck report as much to you?”

    “So?” returned Isabella with a scowl worthy of Philly or Runcky at their worst.

    “So, my dearest, you need to make allowances. He hadn’t made you any promises, had he? And he was—what is that phrase? Oh yes! All at sixes and sevens!” she trilled, with a laugh. “Isn't that silly? But rather charming, too! Feeling very unsettled, my dear—well, mortals do seem to rely, emotionally I think is the word I need, yes, emotionally, on having things around them, don’t they? And of course all the things were hers, so he gave them back to her. Um, well, tables and chairs and, er, rugs, was it? And all the china and cutlery and the funny pots and pans! So there was nothing left in his apartment to sit on or sleep on, it was quite empty!”

    “I don’t see that that—”

    Ignoring this superbly, Titania swept on: “And then, that Tracy hadn’t been letting him have any cuddles or nice little things, let alone doing it with his lovely stalk, for ages, you know; and, well, he was out doing something that he enjoyed, for once, not something she’d decided he had to do, and what with a nice cosy meal at Mike’s cosy diner, and of course the beer, and then some lovely sweet drinks with cream and more alcohol; and the girl, one must admit, was very keen, dear, and didn’t hold back—well! One doesn’t deny he strayed, but it was only the once, and he was very sorry afterwards. And just think of it this way, dear: he needed some simple comfort. And I know he wrote you a lovely letter, Isabella. He said he’s very sorry, didn’t he?”

    Isabella’s cheeks were now a fiery red. “He still did it, though.”

    Titania sighed. “Darling child, that’s what I’m trying to explain! He’s a mortal: all mortals are weak, didn’t Puck just remind you what fools these mortals be?”

    “Him! He thinks everyone’s a fool but him!”

    “Nevertheless he wasn’t wrong, Isabella. –Now, to give you an illustration, I met the loveliest mortal man, quite delicious—“

    “Stop it, Mother,” said Isabella, putting her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to  know!”

    “Very well, I’ll spare you the details!” she gurgled. “But I must just make the point that he’s swearing there’ll be no-one but me, but—”

    “They all do, according to you,” noted her daughter drily, getting up. “I said: I don’t want to hear it.”

    “And he’s even talking about leaving his wife, that he’s been married to for almost thirty mortal years!” she trilled gaily. “One shall have to stay a while, I suppose, but I’ll be popping back regularly, so don’t give the little ones the impression that I’m going to be away for long, will you, dear one?”

    “Very well,” said Isabella with a sigh. “Excuse me, please, Mother, I’m going to go and tidy up the cave, it’s in a disgraceful state.”

    She could just as well do that from here. Sighing, Titania let her go. “Bother,” she said, pulling a grass stalk idly and nibbling its juicy end. “And I was going tell her all about the gold things, and what fun mortal shopping is…” She brightened. “I dare say I could tell the twins and Puck, why not? Everyone likes gold, it's so shiny! And then I could give them some proper flying lessons!”

    Forthwith she flew back to the grassy area outside the cave.

    “Still asleep,” she discovered. “Oh, well… “ She cuddled up beside Grimalkin. “I thought it was quite a lovely story,” she said to herself.

    “Purr-rr-what?” murmured the cat.

    “Well, mortal shopping, and gold things, Grimalkin, dear.”

    “Kittens don’t like that,” she murmured, dozing off again.

    “Snurring,” discerned Titania with a sigh. “Well,” she added with a smothered giggle, “she’s not alone in that! –But,” she concluded, yawning and closing her eyes, “if no-one here wants to listen to me, I may as well go back to the mortal realm and stay for as long as he wants me!”

    James Kingston had hauled Ben off, willy-nilly, to happy hour at a convenient watering hole. Even for happy-hourers they were early. He ordered double Scotches without asking what Ben wanted and then, instead of propping up the bar as expected, steered him over to a booth.

    Ben watched numbly as he downed half his Scotch at a swallow.

    “The man is out of his tree,” he announced grimly. “Definitively. I mean, out of it!”

    Swallowing, Ben croaked: “Yuh—uh—who?”

    “John Murtrey, who else?” he said grimly, downing the rest. “Jim and Marie Stapleton saw them at the races. They went down to the paddock—Jim’s leg was running—and so did John and the blonde dame, in—get this—the Governor’s party! And there he was, kissing her under the hat!”

    Ben blinked. “Under the hat, did you say, James?”

    “Yeah. You know, Ben! Not just in your jeans, way up in the stands where the horses look two inches long and you’re jumping and down in the hopes of winning thirty to one on a thing with three legs, this was gubernatorial! Giant hats, frilly dresses, and vintage Bollinger at the average man’s weekly wage per!”

    “Oh. Giant hats,” said Ben feebly. “Sure.”

    “Jim said—well, you know Jim: doesn’t mince words. Said he’d never seen a dirtier kiss. His tongue musta been halfway down her throat and he was sort of…” James’s hands moved in a squeezing motion. “Uh… not fondling her, exactly, don’t think.”

    “Squeezing?”

    “Much, much more than that, guy.”

    Yo, boy. “Uh… massaging?”

    James winced. “Put it like this. I got the impression, if you combined squeezing, massaging and—what was the other one? Oh, yeah: fondling—you’d pretty much have it. You know.” His fingers opened and closed again. “Jim said she was the juiciest dame he’s ever laid eyes on.”

    Ben had to clear his throat. “Well, yeah—for her age, James. Sure.”

    James leaned back in the booth, sighing. “Get us a beer, for the love of Mike,” he sighed.

    When the Bud was in his hand he sipped it, sighed, and said: “He’s filed for divorce.”

    Ben swallowed.

    “She’ll take him for the lot. There is a pre-nup, but it was on her account: means he doesn’t get a cent of the Doncaster loot. Jesus, half of New York can bear witness he’s been flaunting the woman in every public spot there is! –Seen her myself. Took the kids to the ball game last week, and there they were, all over each other, on the big screen for all to see! –Seats with the mayor,” he explained glumly.

    Ben gulped.

    “Well, exactly! It’s not just Wall Street, now: it’s City Hall, plus and the Governor’s mansion!”

    “Yeah—uh—James, you sure you’re not exaggerating?”

    “No,” he sighed. “No. We went to some fundraising thing the Governor had graciously condescended to make a speech at. Mother and Father were there, last big thing they’d promised to turn up for before they go to England to catch the Queen Mary 2, and back when it was so far off we could comfortably ignore it, Denise and I coughed up for tickets for it. So we had to go. I mean,” he said, draining the beer, “coulda got out of it if it hadn’ta been their last— Ya got that. John and the blonde dame were right up there on the daïs with him, holding hands. I can’t recall when I was last that embarrassed. Well, Denise reckons it was almost as bad as when her underpants fell down in the Mall—you can laugh, she was about ten at the time,” he said kindly.

    Ben did smile, but ventured: “Well, yeah, very public thing, I guess, but was it that bad? I mean, holding hands?”

    Sighing heavily, James groaned: “How can I explain it? They kept sorta looking at each other… And every so often she’d kind of giggle and, uh, wriggle: you could tell even from where we were sitting that he musta given her hand a squeeze…”

    Ben swallowed. “Right, I think I get it.”

    James eyed him somewhat drily. “Yeah. Then last night we were afforded a close-up. I gotta say it, Ben: my eyes were on stalks. In fact once we were safely in the cab Denise told me to pull them in if I didn’t want them snipped off.”

    Ben gulped. “Where?” he managed.

    James took a deep breath. “Lamont’s.”

    Ben’s jaw dropped. It was so exclusive that you couldn’t get a table for love, money, or the promise of your firstborn, plus and if you didn’t have the right surname you wouldn’t’ve been considered in any case, and even the favoured few had to book, it was rumoured, more than six months in advance. It prided itself on its genuine French cuisine and genuine French wines, and the word “minceur” was a dirty word there, likewise the words “El Bulli” and “sous vide”, plus and anything at all associated, even remotely, with TV chefs. If you were thinking of celebs in that regard, think again. The place would possibly have accepted a booking for the President and the First Lady, but not for anything from Hollywood or at all likely to get itself in any kind of gossip medium. Tracy had had a story—coincidentally, the week that Father Inglis had failed to get a booking—that a prominent New York socialite had been refused a table the week that her photo arm-in-arm with a Formula One driver had appeared in the gossip column of French Vogue. Not even the American edition: no-oo.

    “You may well ask,” James added heavily, “what In Hell were we doing there?”

    “No: your father,” said Ben, very faintly. “Murtrey took her there?”

    “As I live and breathe,” sighed James. “The thing she was in… On any other woman,” he said in a lacklustre way, “you’d’ve said it was a little black dress.”

    “Uh… yeah?”

    “I dunno, Ben,” he sighed. “What mere mortal could describe the sight of that dame done up for Lamont’s? –No, sorry! Well, to the best of my poor ability, it was tightish, outlined the curves, but you wouldn’t’ve called it extreme. Shoe-string straps, was Denise’s claim, without boning, also her claim, though actually that was self-evident.”

    Ben had to swallow. “Right.”

    “No, wait.”

    There was a long pause, during which Ben wondered (a) if he oughta get the guy a refill and (b) if James was gonna have to drive to his house from the station where he normally left his car.

    “There were these brilliants,” said his boss finally, “on the straps. Kind of as if they were brilliants, see? And on the thing itself, sort of… not outlining, exactly. Sort of strategically placed…” He looked limply at him. “You’d’ve had to see it. Denise said it was the most artful thing she'd ever seen and it musta come straight from Paris, France, only judging by what you see in the mags these days all of them are gay and none of them know what a woman is, not necessarily in that order.” He paused for breath. “I mean, she said ‘not necessarily in that order’, see? And, um, some name like Raf? That ring any bells?” he ended on a pathetic note.

    “Nope. Okay, Mab’s found the one dress designer in the 21st century that knows women,” said Ben kindly. “I must admit, if anyone was going to, it’d be her.”

    “Yeah. Mother’s face went sort of… rigid,” he said thoughtfully. “Think that’s the only word. ’Nother Scotch?”

    “Uh, James, don’t you have to drive home from the station?”

    “No, the car’s being serviced. Denise drove me to the train in the SUV.”

    “So it’s fixed?” said Ben with a smile.

    “Apart from that strange grinding noise when you change gears, yes.”

    “Right,” he croaked. “Uh, well, should you?”

    “Yes! Christ, Ben, old Hochstetter and Charles Dalgliesh were at the next table to theirs, and next table over from them,”—he swallowed hard—“one Assistant Secretary and one Under-Secretary from Treasury, and two top people from the Fed.”

    Ben raised his eyebrows. “DC bureaucrats? Didn’t think Lamont’s let them in.”

    James sighed. “The Under-Secretary is a Vandermeer, married to Lionel Rothschild’s sister. –He was there, too—not in their party, at a table for two, talking French with something very chick,” he reported on a sour note. “Skinny, though. He kept looking over at John’s table.”

    Ben swallowed. “Got it. Dare I ask what the food was like?”

    “I didn’t notice, Ben,” he said heavily.

    Ben laughed feebly. “I’d have quite liked to know.”

   James sighed. “Father approved of it. –I think he’s getting very short-sighted: he didn’t seem to register her and John—well, waved to John, but I could swear the full details didn’t penetrate. Mother did say he isn’t driving any more.”

    “Uh-huh. Can’t you at least tell me what the courses were?”

    “Uh… pâté thing to start. Mother wouldn’t touch it: had some tomato thing instead. Uh… fish thing. Kind of a sauce with it—or was that the meat thing? Well, meat: some kind of bird, I think.”

    “Quail?” asked Ben eagerly.—Nothing.—“Um, that would’ve been ‘cailles’ on the menu, James.”

    “Don’t think so… Well, I looked at the menu, sure, but Father was gonna dictate what we had, anyroad, so—!” He shrugged.

    “Right. Was there a salad course?”

    “Uh… was there? Think so. Well, mighta been. –Well, Hell, guy, during the bird thing—pinkish, that’s right—John leaned right over the table and put a forkful of something in the dame’s mouth!”

    Ben’s shoulders began to shake. “At Lamont’s? Terribly bad form!”

    “You’re not kidding!” he agreed, shuddering. “Mother was placed so as to have a splendid view of them. –Come to think of it, that proves the short-sight thing.”

    “Oh—yeah. Well, if you can’t remember the salad, what about the cheese course?”

    “Can’t stand runny cheese,” replied James instantly.

    “So there was! Camembert?”

    “I don’t know, guy! I couldn’t even swear we ate cheese, I was desperate to get out of there!”

    “Guess I won’t ask you about the dessert, then,” said Ben, now blatantly grinning.

    “No, don’t. –There was a disgusting sweet wine with it, I do recall that,” he offered dully.

    “Genuine Imperial Tokay?” Ben suggested. He broke down in helpless splutters.

    James just sighed.

Next chapter:

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