16
The Queen’s Move
“Father seems to be ignoring the whole thing,” said Robin bitterly. “He’s gone into his urbane, hand-waving thing. Last time I tried to speak to him about it he just waved the hand and said ‘What will be, will be.’ I mean! Father? It’s never been known in the Faerie Realm! He never just lets things be!”
“I know, darling,” cooed Titania sympathetically. “He’s terrible when he’s in that sort of mood. Of course, you won’t remember…” She sighed, one hand to the bosom.
“I think I remember, Great Queen!” piped Larry Lizard on a hopeful note.
“No, Larry, dear, you’re much too young to remember!” she trilled. “There was a mortal woman involved, of course. He kept singing ‘Kay Sarrah, Sarrah, Whatever will be, will be—’ Frightful!”
“Frightful!” the chorus agreed. There was so much nodding it was like being in a squall. The topknots were quivering like anything.
“With respect, Great Fairy Queen, was this Kay Sarrah the mortal woman in question?” asked the Fairy Rosebud.
“Of course, Rosebud, darling! Come and sit close by me, darling, and I’ll tell you all the story!”
“Mother, please,” groaned Robin. “Stop avoiding the subject!”
“Silly one! I’m not avoiding it! There’s always time for a story!”
“There’s always time for a story!” chorused the sycophants.
“Come along, Robin, you can cuddle up to Rosebud!” she beamed.
Robin wouldn’t have minded—Rosebud was a very attractive young fairy indeed—except that she bore a striking—striking—resemblance to his niece Honeysuckle and his sister Philly.
“Come along, Robin, don’t be silly: it’s all in the family!” she trilled.
Well, exactly! But he sat down next to Rosebud.
“Is everybody comfortable?” smiled Titania. “Good! Then I’ll begin!”
The Story of Kay Sarrah
Once upon a time, quite a long time ago in the mortal world, beloved Robin and Rosebud, and fairies and lizards, beetles, butterflies, elves and pixies, there was a beautiful young golden-haired mortal girl called Kay Sarrah. She had the most wonderful singing voice, rather like the mermaids, if such a thing could be imagined! Yes, almost as beautiful as a blackbird’s song! –Come along, Blandy, dear, you can perch on Robin’s knee! That’s right!
Now, poor Kay Sarrah had to work very, very hard. And no-one took any notice of her singing, and no-one whisked her off to fame and fortune. ’Cos fame and fortune is what you get in the mortal world, as a great treat, you see! Very like cake crumbs, yes, Blandy, dear, and there will certainly be cake for everyone!
One day Kay Sarrah was working in a humble little café, where she had to serve the customers with their food and sweep the floor, when a handsome dark-haired man came in. He ordered a drink of cool milk and a lovely little mortal cake called a donut! Nothing to do with nuts at all: isn’t that a funny name?
When he was eating, Kay Sarrah went over to the old piano that stood in a corner of the café. Now, beloved Robin and Rosebud and Blandy, and beloved fairies and lizards, beetles, butterflies, elves and pixies all, a piano is a big mortal box that can produce music—not quite magical, no, Rosebud, darling, but very nearly almost! And she began to produce music that was like the tinkling of a rippling stream! And soon she began to sing along with it.
When the song finished the handsome man clapped very hard and cried: “Bravo! That was lovely! Why aren’t you singing for the whole world to hear, Kay Sarrah?”
And Kay Sarrah said wistfully: “I’d like to, sir, but it doesn’t seem to happen. So I just keep telling myself ‘Kay Sarrah, Sarrah, Whatever will be, will be,’ and keep on singing and hoping. Because they say, ‘Where there’s life there’s hope,’ don’t they?”
“Do they?” he said, looking rather startled. “Er—I’m sure you’re right. But just to help things along a little, take this card,”—with a flourish of his hand he produced one—“and go along to Mighty MegaMovies, and they’ll let you sing.”
“Oh, thank you, sir!” gasped Kay Sarrah, quite overcome.
“Not at all,” he smiled. And bowing slightly, he gracefully kissed her hand and was gone.
Kay Sarrah looked about her dazedly. It was as if he’d never been there! But the card was in her hand and the empty milk glass was on the table, so he must have been!
Well, my dear ones, the upshot of that was, that Kay Sarrah went along to the Mighty MegaMovies place and they heard her sing and turned her into a big mortal star! Not like our faerie stars, dear ones, no. Just a very famous person that all the mortals have heard of. And every day of the year, if the mortals turned their musical boxes on, they’d be sure to hear at least one song by Kay Sarrah!
And one day, when she was very famous, she happened to be dining at a very expensive café indeed, wearing the most gorgeous gown, with flashing jewels in her ears. And when she came out and was just about to get into her stretch limo, which is a kind of fancy coach they have, lo and behold! There was the handsome dark-haired man who had given her brilliant career its start!
“Oh, it’s you!” cried Kay Sarrah. “I thought I’d never see you again! How can I ever repay you, dear sir?”
He smiled and smiled, and helped her into her stretch limo, and began to show her how she could repay him!
And guess what? They had three of the dearest, chubbiest little golden-haired babies you could possibly imagine!
I can see you’re all thinking “And so they lived happily ever after.” Which is the way all good fairy love stories end, isn’t it? But alas, Kay Sarrah was only a mortal, and so they couldn’t, could they? And in fact she died when she was still very young for a mortal.
Which is why for a long time the King of the Fairies would sing a sad but pretty song, that went like this:
Kay Sarrah, Sarrah,
Whatever will be, will be.
The future’s not yours to see,
Kay Sarrah, Sarrah.
But don’t be sad, beloved Robin and Rosebud and Blandy, and beloved fairies and lizards, beetles, butterflies, elves and pixies all, for it is truly said, every cloud hath a silver lining in the Faerie Realm; and so His Majesty brought those three darling golden-haired babes back to the Faerie Realm, to be with us forever! And one of them is our own darling Fairy Rosebud!
Under cover of the frantic applause and the ooh-ing and aah-ing, Robin swallowed hard, even though he’d seen this coming quite some time back. He was silent while the cake was magicked up, crumbs were scattered, the other three and twenty blackbirds fluttered down to help peck them up, and a few donuts were added to the feast just to show everybody what they were like.
“Not like nuts at all!” Barry Beetle discovered in amazement.
“This one’s got JAM in it!” cried Bertie Beetle in astonishment.
“Huzzah!” they all cried.
“Robin, dearest, eat something!” his mother urged.
“Allow me, Respected Queen Titania!” chirped Blossom Blackbird. And she offered Robin a big fat crumb with her own beak.
Politely he allowed her to pop it in his mouth. “Thank you, Blossom,” he sighed.
“Dear, dear, dear, poor little chick! It hasn’t cheered him up!” the mother blackbird discovered.
Titania swallowed a sigh. “He’s worried about Isabella. Now she’s saying nothing would persuade her ever to go down to the mortal realm again, and the Ben mortal is a betrayer!”
“Ooh, dear! Is that bad?” squeaked Blandy.
“Shush, Blandy!” Blossom reproved him. “Yes, very bad. But what did he do, Great Queen of all the Faeries?”
“He nestled up to another mortal lady, Blossom, just when he’d got rid of the horrid one and we all thought it was going to be all right!”
“Oh, dear! Tt, tt, tt! There’s no denying it, males will stray,” she sighed. “It’s just the same with blackbirds. They have great difficulty keeping on the straight and narrow. It’s having only two feet, you see.”
—Robin here opened and shut his mouth.
Titania was agreeing, with terrific sympathy.
“But you see,” Blossom continued: “Princess Isabella was away from the nest.” She bobbed her head significantly.
“Away from the nest!” the other blackbirds chirped in agreement.
“Help, yes, you’re right!” gasped Robin.
“That’s right; and so his male weakness overcame him,” Titania agreed.
“Y— Um, but in mortal terms wasn’t it a bit soon, Mother?” he groped.
“Not at all, Robin, my darling.” She waved an airy hand. “Relief, indecision, even feeling astray, after making such a big change in his life; and not being sure of Isabella, of course—well!”
“And that Tracy mortal not giving it to him for ages,” he added.
“Naturally, darling!” she trilled.
Robin drooped. “Yes.”
“Have a donut, beloved Prince Robin, prince of all good fellows everywhere!” urged Liam Lizard.
Managing not to say “Sycophant,” Robin accepted the donut but broke it in half and gave Liam half. Subsequently offering a substantial part of his own half to the blackbirds.
“But Mother,” he said gloomily when the very last crumb had vanished and the entourage was sleeping it off, “what can we do about Isabella?”
Her eyes narrowed, so that for a moment she looked horribly like Runcky plotting something truly terrible. “There’s an old saying of wise wizards, that drastic times for drastic measures call.”
“Um, yes, is there? Oh! I see! You mean they call for them! Um, ye-es…”
“I shall take action,” she said with horrible finality, “since your father seems determined to ignore the whole matter!”
Robin gulped. But still, it was better than not doing anything while Isabella got more and more miserable! Half the bluebells in the Faerie Realm had withered away in sympathy! And poor Red Daisy was so sorry for her that her milk had turned to yoghurt in the bucket this very morning!
“You had better,” Titania decided, “come with me. He knows you, and likes you.”
“Y—Who— Mother, you don’t mean Ben, do y—”
But Titania had produced her faerie wand and was waving it fiercely, crying: “The iron tongue of midnight shall toll twelve! Lovers to bed; ’tis almost fairy time! Now!”
And bong-bong-bong, bong-bong-bong, bong-bong-bong-g-g, bong-ng-ng, bong-ng-ng, BONG-NG-NG, WHOOSH! They whirled away!
“New people on the floor below yours,” reported Mortimer on a sour note as Ben waited for the elevator.
“That right?” he replied morosely.
He sniffed. “Fancy dame. The kid’s supposed to be her son.”
Ben waited but the sentence just hung unpleasantly in the air. He almost said “That right?” again, but thought better of it just in time: if Mortimer got the idea he was mocking him, it’d be all up with him: no heat, for a start. Well, they were well into May, but the nights were still chilly. And Mortimer was more than capable of holding a grudge till next winter. “Does he look like her?” he asked instead.
Sniff. “Yeah, as far as that goes. Blond. Soft-looking. Dare say he’s never done an honest day’s work in his life, but these days”—hard look at Ben’s business suit—“how many have? Anyroad, she’s a nutter.” Sniff. “Asked me if anyone in the apartments had thrown a May Day party this year.”
Ben blinked.
“Yeah,” said Mortimer with sour satisfaction.
“One of those ditsy dames, is she?” he asked tolerantly. “Hung round with scarves and jangling necklaces and junk? The Flower Power type? Crystal-worshipper?”
“Nuh—well, the crystal-worshipper bit sounds about right, yeah,” he allowed drily. “Not the rest, though.” Sniff. “Fancy dame. Sort you’d expect to see on Park.”
Tracy had also had ambitions to live on Park. Not to say, dressed to suit them. Ben winced. “Goddit. Gucci purses, huh?”
“And the rest. So watch out for her,” he warned as the elevator mercifully arrived.
“Thanks,” said Ben weakly, tipping him a twenty as the doors opened, Halle Hutchinson Sortelha from the third floor got out, blenched at the sight of Mortimer, said very nicely: “Hey, Mortimer, how are you today?” and exited hastily.
“Word is,” the creep said significantly as Ben got in the elevator and pressed the button desperately, “they’re splitting up. He’s gonna be extradited to Brazil.”
What? Bullshit! The man was an official at the Portuguese consulate!
Very luckily the elevator then decided to take off, so he didn’t put his foot in it by contradicting the guy.
A cool May devolved into a warmer June. By this time Ben had met the new occupant’s son, Rob. He looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place him—chance likeness, no doubt. He was the dame’s son, no question. Complained she tried to run his life for him. He was working but Mother thought the job wasn’t good enough for him—ouch! Good-looking blond kid, but Mortimer was right, pretty soft-looking. However, he was quite fit and appointed himself to accompany Ben on his morning run. Since he did it with the obligatory electronic plugs in his ears, thus effectively preventing conversation, Ben didn’t mind. They usually went to Central Park, it was just a short subway ride. The kid confided that he loved the subway. Well—naïve, yeah. Oddly enough there were no more adverse reports of him from Mortimer. No approving ones, either, but you wouldn’t expect that.
He eventually met the “fancy dame” on an evening in June. He’d just reached the apartment building, coming home from work, when a taxi drew up and disgorged her and her shopping. Bags and bags of it, all with incredibly up-market logos on them. YSL, help! Gucci, not unexpected. Hermès as well, gulp. Saks—Saks—
“Let me help you!” he gasped, springing forward as the armfuls wobbled dangerously.
“Thank you so much!” she beamed. “Donnie would have helped me, of course, but I utterly forbade it! The poor man has a bad back; sitting in a car all day is not good for one! But with three kids to bring up, and the two oldest wanted college, and now they’ve got their youngest and her kiddie living with them as well! –Thank you so much, Donnie,” she cooed, bending down to the cab again.
“No problem, lady. You take care, now! And mind what I told you: Fabrizzio’s for the best veal Parmigiana in town, and Sarah Jane’s Home Bakery for cheesecake to die for!”
“Of course! We’ll go there this very week!” she cooed. “Bye-bye!” she carolled.
And with a loud blast on his horn, Donnie pulled out.
“Oh, dear!” she said to Ben, smiling like anything—very pretty woman, reminded him of someone, but as to who, he couldn’t have said to save his life. “They sound delicious, but where is Queen’s?”
Gulping, he managed to croak out some sort of explanation.
“I see!” she said brightly. “Isn’t it a lovely name? One can take a taxi there, I suppose?”
“Well, yeah, but it’ll cost you an arm and leg. And it’s fifty to one the guy won’t know either of those two places, you’ll have to have the exact address, or you’ll be driving round Queens all night.”
“Oh, that’s no problem: we can find out the addresses before we go. I must say, New York is big, isn't it? One had no idea, really, until one was at ground level, so to speak!”
“Uh—right,” he said weakly, juggling packages. “You’d be English, would you?”
“I’ve spent a long time in England, yes,” she agreed. “Now, do correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you may be Ben?”
“That’s right, yes,” he agreed nicely, pre-empting her attempt to get the front door.
“Thank you so much!” she trilled. “It’s lovely to meet you at last, Ben! My son Rob’s told me how you very kindly allow him to run with you in the mornings.”
“Uh—that’s okay. Glad to have the company,” said Ben weakly.
“I do hope so!” she trilled. “But I must introduce myself! I’m Mab,” she smiled.
It was very odd, but though she was a blonde woman, his guess would have been late forties, when she smiled she reminded him of Isabella. Maybe that English accent was helping. “Good to meet you, Mab.”
She might have been going to say something in reply, in fact she had opened her mouth to do so, but she was pre-empted.
“Hey! Didn’t I tell you you could ask them goddamn up-market shops to deliver?”
“Oh, good evening, Mortimer, dear!” she trilled. “I know, and it was such good advice, but I don’t know how it happened: I just started shopping and suddenly I found myself with all these packages! –Be careful, Ben, that one’s got the clock in it!” she gasped as one of the bulging carrier-bags he was juggling suddenly emitted a musical Boi-ii-ing!
“Good, ya got one,” said Mortimer. “Wouldja believe, they didn't have no clock at all in their apartment, and that kid of hers, he reckons watches don’t like him?”
“It’s something to do with lines of force—well, don’t ask me!” smiled Mab. “Oh, thank you so much, Mortimer, dear!” she gasped as he relieved her of her armfuls—not without considerable bodily contact, noticed Ben drily.
“Magnetism or some such,” he grunted. “Probably all bullshit, but ya can’t tell these kids, can ya?”
“No, exactly,” she sighed. “And he just won’t apply for a better job; there’s no future in it at all!”
“Right,” he grunted.
“What does he do, Mab? He’s never mentioned it,” said Ben.
“I’m not surprised!” replied Rob’s mother vigorously. “He works for a nursery school, Ben. Of course they had to do endless checks, as they call them, because he’s a male, but they finally gave him the job. It’s only as a helper, he’s not qualified, of course. As far as I can make out it's mostly chopping things for their lunches and snacks, and tidying up. They own a little bus and they said he could drive it, but he isn’t allowed to drive in America. So he just goes along when Sondra picks the kiddies up or drives them home. Not all of them, of course: a lot of them are dropped off and picked up by their mothers. It’s not far from here, Ben, you may know it.”
“Four blocks down, one across,” grunted Mortimer. “That Sondra, she’s only a helper, too. Big Black woman. Good-looking, mind you. Bakes a mean coconut cookie. The owners, they’re the Bronsons, second floor back.”
“A charming young couple!” beamed Mab.
“Oh—yeah, think I’ve met them. Thought he was an accountant, though.”
“Yeah,” Mortimer agreed. “She runs the day nursery, he just looks to the finances.”
Mab produced a trilling giggle. “The phrase ‘fine-tooth comb” being mentioned in that regard!”
He sniffed. “And a half. Boy, does that guy know the value of a buck.”
“I’m afraid that’s true,” she smiled. “But Heather, that’s the wife, is a dear person! And it’s such a pretty name, isn’t it? Have you ever seen Scottish heather, Ben?”
“Uh—no,” he said blankly.
“Delicate-looking, very pretty, white or pink, with tiny, tiny bell-like flowers all up the stalks, but actually a very strong little plant!”
“That’s her, all right: dunno how she puts up with the guy,” Mortimer owned. “Hey, what the Hell you been doing with this elevator, hatching it?” he greeted the luckless Mr Donaldson as its doors finally opened.
“Sorry!” the unfortunate elderly gent replied. “Frederick was so naughty: he wouldn’t step into it, though it's more than time for walkies, isn’t it, Frederick, you bad boy? Walk-ies!” he sang, soprano. Ben was now used to this phenomenon, so he barely winced, and Mortimer didn’t appear even to notice it, but Mab jumped sharply.
With that he dragged the resisting Frederick—a large spotty dog, Ben wouldn’t have taken a bet he was pure Dalmatian, but something like that—forcibly out the front door.
They had all just stood there watching.
“Uh—yeah!” said Mortimer, coming to and shoving his arm in the elevator doors just as they were closing. “Here ya go, Mab. Now, if you can’t get that clock to work, just you call me up right away, okay?”
“Of course I will, Mortimer, dear, I promise! Thank you so much! Oh, thank you, again!” she beamed as he then reached in and pressed the button for her.
Ben just leaned back numbly as the elevator took them away from the truly shocking vision of Mortimer smiling. Smiling.
He was just about capable of realising Mab was a very attractive woman and no doubt had buttered the guy up within an inch of his life, but—
“I expect it will work,” she said confidently.
Ben jumped. “What? Sorry, Mab. I’ve only ever seen that guy break down and smile once, before this. Uh—your clock? Was it going in the shop?”
“Yes, and they said it’s digital: that means one doesn’t have to do anything to it!”
Er… only if it was set right. “Yeah, but was it showing the right time?” he asked uneasily.
“Well, I don’t know, Ben!” she said sunnily. “But it was a nice shop, with a lovely name, so I expect it was! And the nice man in the shop was very pleased with it!”
An awful suspicion was beginning to overtake Ben. “Yuh—uh, what shop, Mab?” he croaked.
“Tiffany’s! Isn’t that the loveliest name?” she beamed.
Ouch. To those what didn’t have very bad associations with it, yeah. “Uh—sure,” he managed, as the elevator stopped on the fourth floor and opened its doors.
“Going down?” asked the elderly Mrs Parsons hopefully.
“Sorry, Mrs Parsons, going up,” replied Ben. “Don’t forget to ring for it again!” he cried as its doors closed without benefit of anything.
“So won’t it stop for you if you don’t ring again?” asked Mab with interest.
“Probably not. No guaranteeing what it’ll do, actually. So it’s always safer to ring again.”
“I see,” she said seriously.
“This is you,” said Ben kindly, as for a miracle the thing actually stopped at the right floor. “Let me help you, I’ll just put this thing on hold. –It may work,” he explained, ushering her and the packages out.
Her apartment door opened before she could fumble for her key, and her son said accusingly: “Mother, have you been shopping again?”
“Only for things I really need, dearest. The seasons are changing, you know, it’s quite remarkable!”
“Yeah, it’s warmer than it was last week, even,” Ben agreed.
“Oh, hi, Ben,” said Rob weakly. “There’s a word for her and shopping, I’m sure. She can’t resist!”
“Shopaholic,” replied Ben, grinning. “There ya go, Mab. –She’s bought a clock,” he informed the young man, “and, this being the end of the world, likewise the moon has turned blue, goddamn Mortimer will come and set it for you if it ain’t working!”
With this he retreated to the elevator, which astoundingly was still there waiting for him, and crying: “Good to meet, you, Mab! See ya! See ya, Rob!” was borne aloft to an evening of TV, frozen lean cuisine—it had meat in it, one small mercy—and beer.
The cat was more or less among the pigeons at Fluss, Evert, Maze now, because Old Man Maze, who might have been a hundred-two and slightly not with-it, but had seemed otherwise horribly hale and hearty, had suddenly died. Just when John Kingston had announced his retirement.
Only oddly enough this wasn’t what caused James Kingston to collapse onto his sagging brown Naugahyde couch and groan to his spouse: “Honey, bring me a beer, for the love of God. I can’t take much more: the world’s run mad!”
Calmly Denise replied: “I’ll get you a beer, but you need to calm down and realise that the whole world doesn’t revolve around your father’s dumb bank, and anyway, you don’t need the job, we’ve got more than enough to live on, specially if you sell those dumb shares.
“Y— Not my shares in the bank?” he gasped. “He’d kill me!”
Not quite, but maybe the shock’d kill him, the old bastard, thought Denise unkindly, not saying it. She duly trotted out to the kitchen and got him a beer. And one for herself, she felt she might need fortifying.
“Go on, then,” she said neutrally after he’d downed half the bottle.
“John Murtrey,” said James faintly.
The senior exec was known for his calm capability and common sense, so Denise merely replied, without much interest: “Who’s he fired now?”
“No-one—well, he’s told Cy Goldschmidt to pull his socks up. Not that. Nothing to do—I sincerely hope—with business.” He shuddered.
“Don’t tell me he’s sick, too!”
“Only in the head,” said James grimly. “But if it does turn out to be a brain tumour, I for one will not be entirely astonished!”
“Middle-aged spread,” diagnosed Denise unerringly.
“Ye— No, you cretin! Mid-life crisis!”
“Oh, yes, that. I always get them mixed up,” she said calmly.
“No, well, they are pretty well indistinguishable, come to think of it,” James admitted, a smile hovering on his mouth.
Phew! thought Denise. “What’s he done? Hang on: threatening early retirement, trip to Lhasa thrown in?”
“No, but it’s almost as nuts. He’s taken up with some blonde dame.”
The blonde aspect was news, but the rest certainly wasn’t, discreet though John Murtrey had always been. “James, honey, you’ve always known he’s like that,” she said soothingly. “I dare say it’s reaction to old Maze’s death: people do that sort of—”
“No! I mean, sure they do; sorry, honey, didn’t mean to snap. No, Denise: publicly,” he said, shuddering all over and downing the rest of his beer.
Regrettably, that proper corporate wife, Mrs James Kingston, failed utterly to control herself, gave a shriek of laughter, and collapsed in hysterics.
James sighed. “Don’t laugh, it’s not funny,” he said heavily.
Denise laughed harder.
Sighing, James got up and staggered over to the Scotch. He had more than time to down a belt and pour himself another stiff one before she recovered.
“He’s been seen all over town, wining and dining her at all the most expensive, hard-to-get-into, Michelin-guided restaurants, where you can’t turn round for the crowds of wizards of Wall Street and their wives! And Jim and Marie Stapleton saw them together at the opera,” he added darkly.
“Flaunting her!” she gasped, off in another fit.
James just sat it out.
“Yes,” he said grimly. “It’s gonna be the messiest divorce this side of the—”
“Adirondacks?” she interrupted sweetly.
“Very funny. No, the goddam Urals!” he shouted.
Her brow furrowed.
“In the entire Western world, Denise!” he shouted.
“Stop shouting,” said Denise weakly. “I do take your point—more or less,” she murmured—“but aren’t you failing to take one thing into consideration?”
“No,” said James nastily.
“James, honey, Felicity Murtrey is the coolest thing, talking of sides of, this side of the North Pole! As like to a walking human icicle as nothing! She’ll just flip that cold grey hand of hers and say in that icy Bryn Mawr voice: “There’s nothing in these things.”
James’s jaw had sagged. After quite some time he managed to croak: “That all?”
“Yes.”
“Y—uh— What about ‘We’re working it through’ or ‘It’s a stage’, or, uh, ‘Couples therapy?’” he groped wildly. “Like that?”
“Nope. She wouldn't lower herself.”
“‘There’s nothing in these things,’” he muttered to himself. He swallowed hard. “Jesus, I can just hear her saying it, too!”
“There you are,” said Denise calmly.
“Yeah.” After a few moments he staggered over to the Scotch again.
“That had better be the last one, James,” she said mildly, as he sat down with it.
“Huh? Oh—yeah. Okay.” He sipped it and sighed. “What about the humiliation factor?” he ventured. “I mean, we thought the Monica Lewinski thing was a scandal, but this! Jim said they were practically down each other’s throats at the Met!”
Denise just looked at him.
“Uh—oh.”
“Exactly. Never mind sticking by your man—”
“No,” he conceded, shuddering. “Jesus, the fool!”
She wasn’t too sure whether he meant Bill Clinton or John Murtrey, but in either case the cap fitted, so she just nodded.
They had met at one of those select does given by Friends. Not Quakers, no: “Friends Of” was how John Murtrey characterised them to himself. Felicity hadn't thought it was amusing, so he’d long since stopped saying it to her. Felicity herself was of course a Friend Of, and she’d been coldly displeased when he hadn’t managed to get rid of the quota of tickets she’d allotted him. Old Maze having taken to his bed being, apparently, not sufficient excuse. In fact, the word was: “Last week, I believe? You’ve had two months to dispose of those tickets, John.” He hadn't bothered to say he’d been busy working, he’d just lied, claiming that those he’d offered them to had either already been going or couldn’t make it that night. But he thought a couple of the younger men at the bank (you didn’t call them “guys” in front of Felicity) might be interested, if she thought it appropriate? Only very slightly mollified at having the thing referred to her superior judgment, she conceded this, so long as they were presentable.
So next day he said morosely to young Anderson: “Are you presentable?”
Since this was in the execs’ washroom, Ben looked down at his pants in a startled way. “Uh—yeah.”
“Not the fly,” sighed John. “I’ve got some tickets to a Friends Of thing, and my wife would like to see them all sold. So long as you’re presentable.”
“I’ve got a decent tux,” replied Ben cautiously.
“Good. The other criteria are the good school—we know you qualify, that’s okay; no designer stubble—don’t go in for that in your leisure hours, do you? –No: good; and just generally not eating peas off of the knife and having an equally presentable partner on your arm.”
“I don’t think I can manage the partner, John,” replied Ben, trying to sound light.
“Even stag’d do, at this juncture. It’s this Saturday, I’m afraid. You’ll be doing me a real favour, if you can make it.”
“That’s okay, I’ve got nothing else on.”
John was observed to sag slightly. “Great. Thanks, Ben. Oh—I’ll pay for the tickets. Look, I’ll give you two, and if you do find someone, bring her along.”
“Yes, of course.” Ben was looking at the tickets. “Will there be music?” he asked cautiously.
“Bound to be. String quartet, small orchestra, something like that? Um, think there might be dancing, there sometimes is. Nothing more exciting than a two-step, mind.”
“So it’s not a concert,” he said in relief.
“No, it’s people with more money than sense stuffing their fat faces in the name of supporting the arts,” replied John incautiously.
Ben tried to conceal a wince. “Right. Well, I don’t mind filling out the numbers, John.”
“Good. Can you think of anyone else that might come?”
Wanting very much to say “Presentable?”—clearly the guy had been hauled over the coals by his wife: it wasn’t like John Murtrey at all to be that outspoken in front of his subordinates—Ben replied: “Asked Cy Goldschmidt yet? I dunno if he’s free, but you could ask. And he did once tell me his wife’s musical.”
“Good. Tell you what,” said John, feeling in his coat pocket again, “I’ll give you tickets for them as well, and if they can’t make it, I’ll just say the tickets were sold but something came up.”
“Sure,” replied Ben, trying to smile and failing.
He tottered back to his office and sat down weakly at his desk. After quite some time he managed to mutter: “Jeez, she must be a Tracy! Well, she looks the cold type, yeah, but— Jeez.”
He thought it over but then didn’t give Cy the whole story: he didn’t feel poor old John deserved having it spread all over the building—not that those of them who'd met the wife wouldn’t already know she was a cold fish, but still, John Murtrey was a really decent type.
Instead he took the surprised Cy off to lunch and over it said: “Oh—by the way, I was wondering if you and the wife might fancy this Friends do that’s coming up this Saturday. An old Yale buddy gave me tickets for four—they can’t make it after all, his aunt’s very ill. So there’s two spare tickets. Think Charlene would care for it?” –Shoving the tickets under his nose.
Cy’s jaw dropped. “Yeah,” he managed to croak. “Gee, she’d love— Gee, are you sure?”
“Yeah, they’re going begging—all bought and paid for!” said Ben cheerfully.
Not managing to conceal his relief at this intel—the goddamn tickets cost more than the average worker’s wage packet for a month—Cy beamed, and thanked him fervently, assuring him that of course they could make it this Saturday, no problem!
Yeah, well, in other words they’d make it or die in the attempt. Never mind, if it helped John Murtrey out of the doghouse!
There was no-one at work he could tell the story to—well, James would have enjoyed it but in the first place tattling about a senior exec would look real bad, and in the second place John Murtrey was too decent to be sniggered over by his subordinates. So, tottering into Mike’s rather late, having stayed late at the office to make up for that long lunch, and finding Rob and Mab already there, he collapsed onto the banquette with them and, once Julie had provided him with a Bud without his needing to ask, told them all about it.
“Oh, dear!” concluded Mab smilingly. “The poor man! So shall you go, Ben?”
“Yeah: think he needs people to swell the numbers, Mab: there’ll be a fair few that’ll’ve bought tickets but won’t turn up, you see.”
“Will it be that awful?” asked Rob.
“N— Well, yeah, probably, Rob! Rich culture-vultures, in the main. Plus and the usual scattering of the would-be upwardly mobile, like Cy and Charlene. –Let’s hope he can stop her from wearing something too extreme, or Mrs Murtrey won’t consider her presentable,” he added with a grimace.
“You don’t mean the poor man actually said that?” cried Mab.
“Uh—yeah. Didn’t that come over? Yeah, Mab.”
“Oh, dear!”
“Mother, I think it makes him sound quite bright,” ventured Rob on an uneasy note.
“Yes, but darling boy, sad with it!”
“That’s him,” sighed Ben, looking round for Julie, the beer having unaccountably disappeared while he was talking. “’Nother round? On me.”
“We were going to have dinner,” replied Mab. “Shall we order that as well?”
“Why not?” Ben agreed comfortably. Somehow being with Mab, although she was such a beautiful woman that you did ought to end up tongue-tied, she was so warm and, oddly, almost cosy in her manner, that you always felt real comfortable with her.
Before he could move she was waving energetically at Mike, who could just be seen at the bar beyond the ranks of lingering happy-hourers. Ben was just gonna say that wouldn’t do any good when the guy shot over to them.
The fawning that then went on was unbelievable: he was practically bowing to her! Well, yeah, this was the woman who had wound Mortimer around her little finger, but Jesus! No, well, the guy was the right age to fall for her charms, that was for sure.
She could have anything she fancied, never mind if it wasn’t on the menu—no, ignore that, he could do it for however many she liked—and etcetera and so forth! No, of course she didn’t have to have beer! Coke was much sweeter, would she like—? She would. And a lovely salad, could he manage that, Mike? –Charming smile.
Ouch! Mike’s idea of salad was one wilting piece of lettuce—not a whole leaf, by no means—one slice of tomato normally designed to fit a burger, and a couple of rings of raw onion, normally designed for the grill and a burg— Right.
But apparently that didn’t count: sure she could have a salad, and would her son—almost bowing to the kid, boy was he far gone—like a salad, too?
Rob thought he might try the chicken in a basket: did it really come in a basket? If Mike thought it was possible tonight, as it wasn’t a Saturday! –Lovely smile, almost as persuasive as hers.
Apparently everything was possible and he agreed without a murmur that both Rob and Ben could have the chicken in a basket with a side salad and hurried off at the speed of light. Subsequently being heard shouting at his luckless wife: “YES! You heard! I don’t CARE what them bean sprouts were for, Julie, GET THEM! And the GOOD tomatoes!” Likewise bellowing at his luckless daughter: “CHRISTINA! Take over at the bar, I’m gonna grill some chicken! –Don’t ‘It's not Saturday, Dad’ ME, girl! Move your ass!”
“It’s lovely here, isn’t it?” approved Mab, leaning back in her seat with a happy sigh. “Just what one imagines the expression ‘happy hour’ should mean! Everybody’s happy!”
Or full of beer—yeah. Well, same thing, really! “Yeah,” agreed Ben kindly.
“Your father was completely wrong about it!” she informed Rob, with a little frown.
“He would be,” the young man agreed sourly.
Ben had had the impression the family didn’t know the States at all. Not to say that the husband was no longer in the picture. “So he’s been here?”
“He’s been everywhere, just about,” said Rob sourly. “Especially to hear him tell it. –So was it in New York that he met the Kay woman?”
“No, dear, you've got it wrong: that was on the other side of the country, where they make their movies.”
“California,” agreed Ben, not asking who this Kay might be, because it was pretty clear, wasn’t it?
“Yes, but never mind that!” said Mab briskly. “Most of them stray, it’s in the male nature, and Rob’s father’s certainly that! And after all, we have been married for a very long time! One has to—what was that charming expression of Mortimer’s?”
Ben quailed.
“Oh, yes!” she trilled. “One has to ‘cut him some slack!’ Quite expressive, isn’t it? –But what I meant, dears, was that he was wrong particularly about Mike’s, not New York as such! He said that the poor fellow was wasting his time here, which he manifestly isn’t!”
“No, he does real good business,” said Ben weakly, wondering what in God’s name the guy’s criteria could have been.
“Yes, indeed! But Ben, tell me a little more about this ‘Friends do’! Will it be very grand? What would one wear?”
Smiling feebly, Ben did his poor best. She was very interested in particular to hear that the ladies would all be wearing their good jewellery, and when he repeated a good one of James’s, “Tiffany tinsel,” went into a giggling fit that sounded, oddly enough, like a peal of pretty little tinkling bells!
“And will the shoes all be very high-heeled?” she breathed.
“Mine won’t,” said Ben with a grin, as Mike surfaced with the food. –Gee, that was quick! Or had they just been talking so hard he hadn’t noticed the time fly? Well, maybe the guy had done the chicken in the microwave before putting it on the grill. Whatever, it tasted great.
Rob was rather surprised to find that the chicken, duly in its basket, was sitting on what he called a “nest” of French fries, but happily ate them.
“Try a piece of chicken, Mother!” he urged.
He held out a piece of white meat in his fingers and Mab, instead of letting him put it on her plate, made a cheeping noise—no kidding—and opened her mouth, whereupon he popped it in, cheeping back! Uh—must be some kind of family thing, Ben concluded limply.
“Like the blackbirds,” smiled Mab, having swallowed.
“Uh—sure. Uh, yeah, I guess you’d get a lot of blackbirds in England, huh?”
“Yes, England has lots and lots of blackbirds. But of course the mother blackbirds aren’t black at all, but dark brown!” she smiled.
“Yes, even slightly speckledy!” Rob agreed. “Not nearly as smartly feathered as the males.”
“That right? I guess that’s not uncommon with many bird species,” Ben conceded. “Mom’s keen on birds: always has a bird feeder in her garden. Of course, she gets our native American birds. Too far north to get the hummingbirds, though: now, that’d be fun! I always tell her, if our northern winters get too much she can retire to Florida and have a hummingbird feeder!”
Mab and Rob expressing great interest, he explained in detail, and the talk turned to their American birds, and the fabulous Audubon book—Uncle Chas had had a copy of the repro edition, one of the highlights of Ben’s childhood had been being allowed to look at it… So by the end of the evening, the subject seemed to have changed so completely that he couldn’t have said how he’d ended up with Mab as his partner to the Friends thing, but so it was. She promised, giggling madly, to be very presentable, and extremely culture-y, though not vulture-y!
And they all three staggered home arm in arm, giggling like anything.
Ugh. Ben hadn’t expected it to be a sit-down dinner. Maybe the two guys at the door taking your tickets and checking your names off against a list should’ve been fair warning, though. Place cards, yet. God knew who all these people were—
“Oh hi, Cy, Charlene,” he said with relief as they joined them.
Introductions having duly been made, Charlene meanwhile looking sideways at Mab, thus necessitating Ben’s explaining she was a friend’s mother, and her pretending to believe him, they were all able to sit down and begin celeb spotting.
… Not. Well, Charlene claimed that that dark guy with the nasty little pointed beard was from the opera.
“Oh, look: there’s John Murtrey!” spotted Cy.
“Oh, yeah: so it is,” agreed Ben weakly.
Mab was peering.
“Thinnish guy, grey hair, Mab,” Cy explained with a certain keenness that, alas, wasn’t wasted on Charlene. “Well, that’s cut out one or two of them!”—Silly laugh.—“Between the woman in the bright blue and the woman in the kinda cold grey—silver-grey, would ya call it? That’s his wife.”
Charlene peered. “Oh, yes! We’ve met her at several of the firm’s parties. That’s definitely grey, not silver-grey, Cy.”
“Wonder what on earth they’re doing here?” wondered Cy vaguely.
Charlene reddened. “Honestly, Cy!”
“I think she’s a Friend, Cy,” said Ben pacifically.
“Not of mine, she isn’t, I can promise you that!” he replied brilliantly, collapsing in sniggers at his own wit.
Promptly Mab went into her tinkling laugh thing, what time Charlene tried to smile nicely.
“Hah, hah,” said Ben. “No, you know: Friend of this thing. Seems appropriately up-market, I’d say. Though I dunno if she’s musical, at all.”
“I suppose it costs an arm and a leg to join,” said Charlene on a discontented note, staring hard at the Murtreys’ table.
“Uh—to become a Friend, Charlene?” gulped Ben. “An arm, both legs, and your kids, born or as yet unborn! Well, Jesus, I mean: the price of the tickets, and at least half a dozen of these things a year? I think the assumption would be if you can't spare a casual fifty big ones, don’t bother applying.”
“Big ones, dear?” fluted Mab.
“Uh—oh, sorry, Mab! Keep forgetting you aren’t necessarily familiar with the American vernacular! Fifty thousand dollars.”
“Yeah. Or fifty Gs,” agreed Cy, grinning. “Don’t even think about it, darling. Unless you want to sell both cars and cash in the kids’ college funds.”
The poor woman had gone very red. “Don’t be silly, dear,” she said with an attempt at dignity.
“So where does the ticket money all go, Ben?” asked Mab, eyeing the Murtrey table again.
“Uh, gee… I’d say a goodly portion of it must go to the hire of this dump and the caterers. That’d include the table settings and all that. Then, uh, printing the invitation cards, that gold embossing they go in for would set them back a few bucks.”
“That’s dollars, Mab,” said Charlene kindly.
“Oh, yes: I know that one, Charlene!” she smiled sunnily. “So gold embossing is very expensive, then?”
Brightening considerably, Charlene plunged into the full intel on what Cy’s father had had to spend on the cards for Cy’s half-sister Carolyn’s recent wedding… Mab appeared actually to be interested, bless her.
Ben sat back in some relief and let a waiter fill his glass with something greenish and flat.
Cy was a bit of a wine buff: he sipped his cautiously.
“Californian something?” murmured Ben dubiously.
“Uh-uh… Not South African, I don’t think… Jesus, I think it’s Australian!” he hissed. “Had a Margaret River so-called Riesling, once, I’d take a hefty bet that’s it!”
Ben choked on his.
Cy winked. “Be how they save on some of the dough from the tickets. Say,” he then noticed: “isn’t that old Inglis joining John’s table? –Oh, shit: sorry, Ben!” he realised, going genuinely red.
“That’s okay: every time I set eyes on the old bastard it reminds me of what a lucky escape I had. Yeah, that’s him, all right. –Hey, Mab: look: Tiffany tinsel!”
She looked eagerly at Ma Inglis, and dissolved in helpless giggles. “Darlings!” she gasped at last. “She’s so skinny! That sparkling stuff round the neck makes her look like a Christmas candle!”
Boy, had she hit the nail on the head! And they all collapsed in helpless giggles, even Charlene, who’d been looking at Ma Inglis’s flashing diamonds with her tongue hanging out.
It was one of those frightful does where, maybe on account of the service was so slow, there was dancing not just after but mingled with the dinner. John Murtrey absolutely loathed that: guaranteed to give you galloping indigestion. Added to which in the event—unlikely, true—that your table was managing some interesting conversation, it completely disrupted it. Tonight, though, with the frightful Inglises at their table, he’d have been only too glad to escape between courses. Only who was there to dance with? Felicity didn’t care for it, not that he wanted to dance with her any more than she did with him. Dancing with Mrs Inglis would be like dancing with a broomstick: no, thanks. Added to which the woman had the personality of the conventional owner of the broomstick. Mrs Reginald Worth was about seventy and wide as a barn door: she wasn’t dancing. Mrs Gareth Worth—God, why had Felicity, who was on the goddamn committee, for God’s sake, placed them at this table?—Mrs Gareth Worth, though only in her forties, bore a close resemblance to Mrs Reagan in her White House days, ’nuff said.—Neither Reggie nor Gareth was in the firm, by the way: too brainless, plus and didn’t need the income, the huge trust funds took care of them, their several houses, their umpteen cars and their yachts and etcetera.—Mrs Joanne Harpingdon Smythe was quite simply terrifying. Never mind the Harpingdon millions: how did Ken Smythe stand it? Well, by ignoring her, if tonight was anything to go by. Mrs Martin Vandermeer was another Nancy Reagan clone. Mrs Herbert Rothschild, née Doncaster, was his sister-in-law, but as to whether she and Felicity were currently feuding, he didn’t have a clue, so didn’t dare ask her to dance. Mrs Gordon Doncaster was married to his brother-in-law, so ditto. Mrs Cummings-Dearden was another massive lady of Mrs Reginald Worth’s age and circumference, with even less sense of humour: she certainly wasn’t dancing. Or even smiling. In fact no-one at their table could have been said to be smiling, though some were stretching their lips in polite, meaningless rictuses.
They’d cleared the separate salad course—why it was separate, God knew, was that meant to be up-market?—and the guests were variously shuffling round the floor or sitting at their tables drinking and yakking, or just waiting for the dessert and drinking, when Felicity gave him one of those meaning looks and rose gracefully.
“Shall we, dear?”
He glanced round the room. Okay, a very few were shuffling. He got up and led her onto the floor pour encourager les autres.
It worked insofar as at their table Gordy Doncaster—brave man!—invited Mrs Martin Vandermeer, and Mrs Inglis commandeered poor Gareth Worth. The other tables didn't seem all that encouraged, however. Well, that was Cy Goldschmidt leading his wife onto the floor—that very tight blue thing kind of slashed with green had already been condemned by Felicity’s look down the nose, but she favoured it again—and young Ben Anderson leading— John swallowed hard.
“Do look where you’re going, John,” sighed his wife.
“Sorry, dear.” —Who was she?
And what in God’s name was she doing with young Anderson? He was a pleasant enough young man, good-looking, too, but a woman like that? Wasted!
There was a huge wait for the dessert course, during which John just about managed not to follow the blonde woman’s every move with his tongue hanging out. Well, had plenty of practice at that, certainly. But none of his could hold a candle to that! There was a lot more dancing, now, and Ma Inglis favoured his humble self. Right: broomstick. The terrifying Joanne Harpingdon Smythe also led his frail, trembling form out. During their dance she bent his ear unceasingly on the subject of horseflesh. Why? Well, God knew. Did the Harpingdon billions own a dozen Kentucky Derby winners or some such? Whatever the case might be, she was apparently obsessed with the topic. So did she bet? he asked nicely. Joanne rubbished that magisterially: too nice to say it was a mug’s game but that was what she meant. No, it was bloodlines and breeding, and blah, blah… He just smiled nicely, and nodded or murmured: “Mm?” from time to time: he’d had plenty of practice at that, too.
Champagne flowed copiously with the dessert—French, but both Ben and Cy managed to squint at the bottles and confirm there was no date on the labels—and what with that and the fact that a different wine had been served with every course—well, different names but all indifferent, hah, hah, as Cy remarked brilliantly, causing even his wife to collapse in giggles—Ben made a mental note to repeat that one to good old Bob Masters—what with all that booze, everyone had mellowed considerably by the time the meal ended. Just as well, because now came the speeches!
“Oh, shit,” said Ben unguardedly.
The plumpish guy opposite them, who’d introduced himself as Guy Arbuthnot, he was with Merriweather Hooten—in Arbitrage, easy to remember, huh? Arbuthnot from Arbitrage!—leaned across and said sympathetically: “They always have speeches at these Friends things, Ben.”—He’d already disclosed that Jennifer’s mom and gran were Friends—the obliging Jennifer giggling and pulling an awful face as he did so—so Ben just nodded. “But cheer up, after that they always open the bar!” he hissed as some fat guy in a very expensive tux that was wasted on him got to his feet and began pontificating.
“Ya mean there is one?” hissed Ben, his face lighting up.
Nodding hard, Arbuthnot pointed to their rear. Ben twisted in his seat. Oh, yeah: at the moment one of those roller door things was pulled down over it. This was an up-market one, in narrow varnished wooden slats, but that was what it was, all right, a bar roller door. Thank God. Maybe a Scotch would take the taste of that champagne away.
Mab squeezed his arm. “You should have just had the dessert and left the champagne alone, Ben!”
Jennifer leaned forward, smiling. “Yes. Like us!”
And they both nodded like mad at him. Yeah, well, Mab wasn’t drinking much, but Jennifer had certainly sunk a goodly slug of the red stuff they’d served with the duck. –Very small portions, beautifully presented, with all sorts of tiny things scattered round it! Baby carrots! Baby baby spinach! Baby broccoli? Oh, beg your pardon, baby sprouts! Ben had given in at that point and had a sniggering fit, but he’d eaten the stuff. What there was of it. Those who, conscientiously watching their weight, had left their dinner rolls on their side plates, had mostly, he’d noticed, looking round as the main course plates were removed, given in and were eating them.
The fat man’s speech was followed by a speech from, ye gods, Pa Inglis!
During it Arbuthnot leaned across and hissed: “They’ll have nuts, too!”
“Uh—oh! The bar, Guy? Good. Hard-boiled eggs?”
Arbuthnot shook his head sadly. And shook his head sadly. And shook his head—
"Stop it, Guy!” squeaked Jennifer, smacking his arm and then collapsing in giggles. Alas, their entire table collapsed in giggles, thus missing the rest of Inglis’ speech, what a pity!
“They make ya pay, mind,” confided Guy Arbuthnot, taking Ben’s arm confidentially as they headed for the bar—not hurrying, it was pointless, it was lined by silver-haired guys who knew the ropes and had obviously been poised for take-off the moment the last speech ended. And had made it there before the applause died away.
“Oh, well. At least I didn’t have to pay for the tickets.”
“Me, neither!” he agreed happily. “What about your buddy?”
“Cy? Nope, same guy paid for his as paid for mine.”
“Got it. –Hey, I wonder if anyone at our table—”
He didn’t need to finish, Ben had broken down in sniggers, gasping: “No! I bet that was the criterion!”
“Thought it was our age and insignificance, myself,” Arbuthnot admitted.
“Them an’ all!”
Arbuthnot sniggered but added very quietly: “Except for that Rothschild guy.”
“Yeah. Nice guy, isn’t he? I have met him before, but only at a very big corporate hooley.”
“Yeah, he is nice, but why did they put him with us? I mean, he must be fiftyish, wouldn’t you say?”
“Mm. Well, uh, a gazetted bitch at the same corporate hooley gave me the impression—now, lemme get this right… Yeah: the impression that one only invites him because he’s got the name, Guy,” said Ben carefully.
After a moment Mr Arbuthnot said numbly: “Shit.”
“Yeah.”
The Scotch, after that, seemed more than needed, so they had one. Or two.
Things were now loosening up considerably, and those who hadn't been pretty drunk already in anticipation of the speeches were now getting pretty drunk out of relief at their being over—something like that. The nobs were quietly vanishing. Well, not that bearded opera singer, he was drooling over something débutante-ish and half his age: John Murtrey had an idea she was a very young Vanderm— Oops, Martin Vandermeer had retrieved her, under orders from the tight-lipped, frowning Mrs Martin, and they were bodily—one to each arm—removing her. Uh… grandparents, he rather thought: they’d be in their mid-sixties and the girl was possibly old enough to join the armed forces but almost definitely not old enough to drink the amount of fizz she’d been letting the opera singer pour down her throat. The fellow looked sulky and went off to the bar, where he was pretty soon joined by a ripe-looking red-haired dame in a too-tight puce satin thing. John knew for sure it was puce because Felicity had earlier condemned it with: “That Mortenson woman again. Someone should really drop a hint that puce is highly unsuitable with that hair.”
By that time John had just drunk enough indifferent Australian white to murmur: “Why have her as a Friend, at all?”
“Don’t be absurd, John,” his wife had replied very quietly. “Reuben Mortenson contributed five million last year.”
Of course, mm.
Felicity was now completely absorbed with a gaggle of the committee members convened at another table. John had a dance with Gordy’s wife, since she seemed to expect it, then dumped her back on Gordy, who was so far gone it was doubtful if he’d even noticed her absence, and slid off to the bar.
Phew!
“I’d like to be stayed with flagons, but I’d better just have a mineral water, thanks,” he said to the barman.
“Uh—yessir! Mountain Valley okay, sir?”
“Fine.” –It was a very popular brand. Felicity normally never bought it.
“Sparkling or Spring Water, sir?”
Decisions, decisions… John sighed. And didn’t they both come from springs? He was however, much too experienced to point this out, it’d be met by complete blankness.
“Make it sparkling,” he sighed. Felicity normally never bought that except for Perrier, for guests. He sipped it gloomily, wondering where that gorgeous blonde woman had got to—he could see Ben Anderson with his head together with that youngish fellow from Merriweather Hooten, talking up a storm—good God, was that Lionel Rothschild with them? Oh, well, whatever turned you on. Presumably he was a Friend Of—probably nothing better to do. Or was it the wife? Uh, no, hadn’t he just been divorced for the third time? Whatever.
“Is that sparkling water you’re drinking, or just very pale champagne?” asked a voice that was like a peal of little bells—no, a peal of little bluebells in a bed of soft, velvety pansies— Good grief! Just as well he’d decided against more alcohol.
He turned to face the owner of the voice, and felt himself go very red, kind of starting with the ears, and all the way to the toes. Christ, get a grip, John, guy, you’re not fourteen any more!
“I think you mean ‘or just very pale bad French champagne,’” he said, his voice sounding very weak in his own ears.
“So it was? The boys at my table thought so,” she smiled. God, it was like the sun coming out on a mild May morning, and you and her waking up in a great big warm bed opposite the French windows, the cosy covers just beginning to slide off as the floor was gilded with strips of sunlight… Wake UP, Murtrey! What in God’s name’s the matter with you? The most gorgeous dame you’ve met these last—well, realistically, ever, though that Rachel in Paris at that bankers’ conference wasn’t bad, in a brunette kind of way—and you’re standing here blushing and tongue-tied like a schoolkid!
“Uh—yeah! No, I am drinking sparkling water. Its bouquet is considerably better than the champagne’s,” he said drily.
She laughed. You could drown in the ripples of that laugh: drown all warm and happy and sun-gilded…
“Then I’ll try it. –Oh, thank you so much!” she smiled, as the barman, ignoring five other customers who were waiting, promptly poured.
John came to. “Allow me.”
“Thank you, that’s very kind. I do love the bubbles!” she confided, smiling at him over the rim.
John lifted his own glass. “To bubbles,” he said idiotically. Felicity loathed anything with bubbles in it. Over-rated, the word puerile also having been heard in that regard—not hotly, of course, that wasn’t her style. More kind of coolly and uninterestedly. Pretty much her attitude to everything, really. Except possibly her committees.
“To bubbles!” she agreed merrily, drinking. She belched loudly. “Ooh! Pardon me!” she gasped, laughing. “Oh, dear! Aren’t bubbles fun?” she beamed.
“Definitely,” said John, smiling. “I—er—I think I saw you with young Ben Anderson, earlier?” he murmured.
“Of course. He’s my neighbour, and a lovely man gave him tickets, but he’s broken up with his girlfriend—she was rather horrid, to tell you the truth—and he’s at a loose end, poor lamb, so I said I’d come with him. Well, it’s a chance to wear a pretty frock, isn’t it?”
It certainly was. The dress was whitish, kind of sparkly all over, very low over the generous bosom—one could only hope there was no padding in there and it was all her—two ridiculous tiny straps on one shoulder tied in a bow, no strap at all on the other, but that creamy shoulder was sprinkled with stardust—uh, well, something glittery, just a dusting of it. The thing was tight, showing off the tiny waist, the generous hips and the definite tummy—John felt his ears go red again as he looked at it—and then softly flowing, no, kind of flowing and clinging, mixed, to the toes. Fifty billion minute crystal beads sewn by the workshops of Dior? Something like that. It was very clever, not white white, that would have been too young for her, gorgeous though she was, but semi-translucent, like tiny ripples of water in a stream. Reminded him of that thing Marilyn Monroe had worn in that thing with Olivier, actually. Well, the tummy sure did. He swallowed—not mineral water.
“It certainly is. Wasted on young Ben, if I may so.”
She gave that gurgling laugh again. “Thank you, kind sir! So you know him?”
“Mm. I’m the lovely man who gave him the tickets,” said John on a dry note. “John Murtrey.”
“Really? Delicious to meet you, John!” she smiled. “I’m Mab.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Mab,” said John, smiling into her eyes. There could have been dead silence in the large room full of chattering drunken Friends and their friends, almost drowning out the small orchestra, for all that registered as she smiled back at him…
John came to, more or less. “Er, Mab Who, may I ask?”
She pouted. “Oh, well, you could call me Mab King, if you insist, John, but don’t let’s talk about him!”
Okay, got it. Just as well, actually.
“That’s a pretty tune!” she smiled, setting her tumbler down.
“Uh—Strangers in the Night. Don’t know it?” She shook her head. “—No. They’re murdering it, but would you care to dance to it anyroad, Mab?”
“Lovely, John!” she beamed.
He held out his hand and she kind of melted against him… Ye gods! …exchanging glances, Strangers in the night, what were the chances… John gave in completely, pressed the hard-on, now approximately the height of the Empire State, against that tempting little mound of belly, leaned his head on hers—she was quite a short woman: good, he loathed giantesses—and closed his eyes… We’d be sharing love, before the night was through-ooo…
“Oh, help,” he said with a comical grimace, as the thing ended. “Should I apologize, Mab?”
She squeezed the hand that was still holding hers. “Of course not, silly one! It was perfectly lovely.”
John’s senses swam as those extraordinary blue-green eyes smiled into his. Almost the shade of the sea just offshore viewed from a chopper on a fine day: clear gleaming, semi-transparent turquoise, but as you looked into them, shading to deep lapis lazuli blue…
“Yes,” he said hoarsely, unconsciously licking his lips.
He heard her swallow, and she gave his hand another squeeze, as the orchestra struck up again. They seemed to have plunged into a round of golden oldies, now they were torturing Isn’t it Romantic.
He swung her gently into the dance. Isn’t it romantic …dah, dee-dah-dee-daa-ah… Same thing all over again, only better, if that could be imagined.
“Mab,” he said into the tiny gold curls that clustered by her ear—beautiful ears, she had: small, neat, and flat to the head, creamy above and temptingly pink-tinted as to the lobes—incidentally, each adorned only with a tiny rippling string of crystals, whoever the King guy was she clearly hadn’t taken him for the usual—“Mab, stop me if I’m being previous, but are you free tonight?”
“Free as the birds, John,” she sighed, pressing it all against him.
Shit! If she did that very much more he might come right here on the dance floor, it was that good!
“Great,” he croaked. “Look, I can stop over at the apartment in town: I often do, and in any case my wife won’t give a damn. If you’d like to spend the night with me?”
“I’d love to, John, darling,” said Mab simply.
“Great,” he said huskily. “Great.”
He managed to totter back to the bar with her and to sit down and order another sparkling mineral water each. “Okay, look: I’d better put up a show of propriety. Think I should see my brother-in-law home, anyroad—I mean, their driver will pick them up, but Gordy’s almost comatose, and if I don’t get him out of it before he falls over Felicity will be icily displeased—that’s her thing,” he explained with a grimace.
Mab just nodded sympathetically.
“Yeah,” said John with a sigh. “Anyhoo. If I call George, the night security guy at the apartment building, and let him know to expect you, he’ll let you in, okay?”
“Of course, darling.”
He sagged. Sometimes they got on their high horse at this juncture, though God knew why: in this sort of crowd and at his age, not to say with that ring on his finger, it was goddamn obvious how he was fixed, wasn’t it?
“Fine. Gordy’s just on Riverside, it won’t take me long, so just—uh—just make yourself at home.”
She nodded seriously. “Shall I go now?”
“Ye—Hang on! I’ll write down the address. And this is my cell number—just in case. Better give me yours.”
“I can never remember it,” she said serenely, opening her little purse—matched the dress. “It’s new. Rob bought it for me—my son. He said New York is exactly the sort of city where one gets lost.”
“I wouldn’t say that—not in Manhattan, anyroad, with its grid layout,” said John in some amusement. He’d certainly have put her down as the sort that lost herself in strange cities, yep! In sharp contrast with Felicity, who always had a map, whether or not googled, more latterly. He put his number into her phone and called his own—it was on vibrate.
“Yeah. Goddit,” he said, grinning.
“It’s very clever,” said Mab with a sigh. “I shall never understand technology, I’m afraid!”
“You don’t need to,” replied John blatantly.
Smiling, she patted his cheek, murmured “Later, then, darling,” and swayed away to Anderson’s table…
Uh—yeah. John came to with a start and made his way through the still thick, still drunken crowds to his table. Where Mrs Gordon Doncaster greeted him with the words: “Honestly, John! What a flirt you are! Who was that yellow-haired woman?”
“No idea,” said John cheerfully. “Want me to help you get Gordy home?”
“Thank you,” she said in considerable relief—though not as if she hadn’t expected the offer.
So he duly told Felicity—and incidentally the rest of the committee of Friends Of—that he was taking Gordy home.
She sighed—quite as if the guy wasn’t her own brother, not that that wasn’t par for the course. “I was just about to suggest we leave, John.”
“Oh. Sorry, dear, but I did promise your sister-in-law. Why don’t you take the limo, I’ll stay the night at the apartment. I’ll have to work tomorrow, anyroad.”
“Very well. Just fetch my coat, if you would.”
Obediently he fetched the dead animal skins—Felicity was old-school where animal rights and furs worth a king’s ransom were concerned—and duly saw her and them into the limo.
… “Thanks,” he said outside his apartment block, handing Gordy’s driver a fifty. “And thanks again for your help with my goddamn brother-in-law.”
“No problem, buddy,” replied the guy, lapsing rather from the peaked-cap-touching bit he’d earlier indulged in.
The faithful George was now holding the front door for him, and assured him the lady had arrived, sir, and he’d let her into the apartment, so he had to be tipped, too. A hundred, no sense mucking about when your life was in the guy’s hands, was there?
He was just about capable of croaking: “Hi. You got here, okay,” as he went into the apartment.
“Of course, John, darling!” she beamed. “That lovely George of yours was so kind, he brought me up in the elevator himself!”
“Good,” said John vaguely, going right up to her. He put his hands on her waist. Mab smiled into his eyes. So he kissed her. Oh, glory!
“Oh, John!” she gasped finally, panting.
Kissing Mab was like completely losing yourself. You whirled up and away, into some sublime place where there was nothing but warmth and sweetness and dizziness…
“Phew,” he said weakly. “Look, I think we better go to bed right now, okay?”
“Very much okay, darling!”
After that it was just glorious warm Mab, fathoms deep… Glory, GLORY!
He woke up in the big warm bed opposite the French windows, the cosy covers just beginning to slide off, to find the floor gilded with strips of sunlight…
From the next pillow, Mab was smiling up at him serenely.
“Oh, Hell,” said John feebly, running his hand over his face. “Did I just fall asleep like a log? I do apologise, Mab. What a thoughtless yob.”
“No, John, darling,” she murmured. “You didn’t fall asleep like a log. Like a baby.”
He went very red. “Then I apologize doubly.”
“Silly one,” she said, yawning widely. “We both went to sleep, after some lovely, lovely fun.”
John produced a silly smile. “It was that, all right!”
“Mmm… Delicious, darling,” she murmured. “Shall we do it again?”
“Uh—yeah! Well, I guess you know I’m ready!” he said with a weak laugh.
“Mmm...” She stretched her arms up above her head, the bedclothes fell back, exposing those milk-white, full breasts, and John was lost, pouring into her again, yelling his head off.
“Oh, God,” he said at last, his heart still hammering against those incredibly soft billows of Mab. “I’m sorry.”
“No, darling, you needed it,” she murmured, hugging him.
“Mm.” He buried his face in her neck. After quite some time he managed to say: “I can do something nice for you, if you like.”
“Mmm… Not until you’re rested, darling.”
He was about to say he was rested, but why fight it? So he lay back…
Shit. He sat up, blinking. Fell asleep again: what was wrong with him? After morning sex? Never done that in his life before!
Goddammit, she’d gone!
Uh—no, she hadn’t! She wandered into the room, carrying a tray and wearing his robe, open over all of it. Definitely the stuff of which dreams were made!
“I’m not very good at making coffee, I’m afraid,” she said, setting the tray on his thighs. “So I just made some boiling water and poured it on the brown stuff.”
“Sure! That’s all I do!” said John with a grin. “That fancy coffee machine has been sitting in a cupboard for years.” She’d done a plate of bread and butter, not toast.
“I looked at your toaster machine but it looked frightening, I don’t like electric things,” she admitted, getting in beside him. “You don’t seem to have any honey or jam.”
“Uh—no. Jelly, we say here. No. I did have peanut butter but several ladies told me it was fattening, so I decided discretion was the better part of valour. –It got boring,” he elaborated with a twinkle.
“Mm, very understandable. Your plates are rather plain, aren’t they? Some people have lovely flowery plates,” she said on a wistful note.
“Sure! You’d be used to fine English bone china!” said John with a chuckle. “I let the decorators have their heads, I’m afraid. It’s all supposed to tone. Like it?”
Mab looked round the big room with its subfusc cream walls and its big French windows, showing a view of the edge of the building in front of them and a tiny sliver of river beyond that. “Not really, dear. I like the windows and the bed.”
“Me, too!” He gave her thigh a quick squeeze.
“Ooh!” said Mab with a loud giggle.
“Thank you for making breakfast, Mab. I hope to repay you for it—and for everything that went before it—very shortly,” said John sedately.
Another giggle. “That would be super, dearest!”
Yes, it would, rather. He drank oversweet black coffee, not liking to tell her she’d used too much sugar, and ate plain bread and butter—very nice, as a matter of fact, made you wonder why people bothered with toast at all—and then, prudently removing the tray to the bedside table, pushed her back against the pillows, kissed her lingeringly, and then got down there and did some more kissing…
“See?” he said, lying back with a smirk. “I can do that, too!”
She gave a surprised gurgle of laughter, rolled it all against him, hugged him to her and said in his ear: “I do love you, darling John. You’re a lovely, lovely man.”
“Mmm,” said John, knowing it was real dumb but somehow not caring: “I do love you too, Mab. You’re all woman—in fact, the ultimate woman!”
Next chapter:
https://isabelladowntoearth-anovel.blogspot.com/2022/11/gossip.html
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