“Would eight o’clock be all right?” Ms. Waverley said. “I could meet you there.”
“That sounds fine,” I said.
“I really appreciate you doing this on such short notice, Mr. McCall.” She opened her purse and took out a plain white business envelope, from which she removed a pair of keys with a paper tag and a wad of fifty-dollar bills. “I wasn’t sure how much you would charge. I hope you don’t mind cash.”
“Not at all,” I said. “But it isn’t necessary to pay in advance. We’ll invoice you.” I took our standard work order form out of my desk drawer.
“If you don’t mind,” Ms. Waverley said, “I’d prefer to pay in cash. It leaves less of a paper trail.” She smiled her very nice smile. “You know how it is with divorce.”
“I do,” I said. I slid the work order form back into the desk drawer.
After we’d agreed on an amount, to which she insisted on adding another fifty — “For the inconvenience,” she said — she returned the balance to the envelope, tucked it into her purse, and stood. “I’ll see you this evening at eight, then,” she said, holding out her hand.
I stood and took her hand. It was warm and strong, and ever so slightly work-roughened, perhaps by a hobby; I couldn’t imagine her doing manual labour. “Where can I reach you if I, um, need to reach you?”
“My cellphone number is on the key tag.” She indicated the keys on the desk. “In case I’m running late, you can let yourself aboard.”
I walked her out into the studio. She jumped a little as the stairwell door opened and Bobbi Brooks, my business partner, came into the studio. Bobbi’s eyebrows went up as Ms. Waverley went into the elevator.
“I’ll see you at eight,” Ms. Waverley said. The elevator door rattled shut on her.
“Who was that?” Bobbi asked, as she followed me into the office.
“A new client,” I said.
“How lucky for you,” she said.
“Indeed,” I said.
“Her hair wasn’t real, though.” She sat down on the sofa next to Bodger, who grunted softly as she picked him up and cuddled him in her lap. “Or her boobs, probably,” she added.
“Could’ve fooled me,” I said.
“Not exactly a challenge. What did she want?” Bodger rumbled contentedly as Bobbi stroked his ears and I explained the job. When I was done, she said, “Not a problem. I’ve got nothing on till later this evening.”
“Um,” I said. “I thought I’d handle it.”
She sighed. “Aren’t you supposed to be meeting what’s-his-name about his catalogue shoot?”
“What’s-his-name” was the ex-Honourable Walter P. Moffat, former Member of Parliament for Vancouver Centre, the riding that encompassed downtown Vancouver and Granville Island. Wally the One-Term Wonder, as the media had dubbed him after he’d been roundly trounced in the most recent exercise in democratic futility, was a pal of Mary-Alice, my sister and our new junior partner, and her husband, Dr. David Paul. Moffat had contacted us through Mary-Alice about producing a catalogue of his art collection, which he evidently intended to send on tour to raise money for his wife’s charitable foundation, something to do with children. However, first thing that morning a man named Woody Getz, who’d said he was Mr. Moffat’s manager, had called to say that something had come up and Mr. Moffat couldn’t make it.
“How lucky for you,” Bobbi said again, when I told her.
“Yes, indeed.” She smiled. “Here, deposit this someplace safe,” I said, and handed her the cash Ms. Waverley had given me.
Cradling Bodger, she lifted her backside off the sofa and straight-armed the money into a front pocket of her jeans. Safe enough, I supposed. I certainly wouldn’t have tried to take it away from her. While Bobbi wasn’t what you’d call strapping — strapping implied, to me at least, a certain amount of, well, upper-body development and Bobbi was, truth be told, almost as flat as a boy — years of schlepping heavy photographic equipment around had made her as strong as many a man her size, stronger than some. Moreover, she had recently begun to study some form of martial art.
“Moffat hasn’t changed his mind about the catalogue, has he?” she asked worriedly.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I hope not.” Neither of us had any idea what type of art Mr. Moffat collected — it could be dryer lint and chewing gum collages for all we cared — but business was a bit slow and we needed the work. “His manager just said he couldn’t make it tonight, nothing about rescheduling.”
The phone on my desk warbled. I pressed the speakerphone button. “Tom McCall,” I said, just to be reassuring.
“Tell me it isn’t so,” my sister Mary-Alice said.
“Okay,” I said. “It isn’t so.”
I could hear car horns in the background. She was calling on her cellphone, likely stuck in traffic on the Lions Gate Bridge. She normally didn’t come in until after the worst of the morning rush hour was over, and usually left before the worst began. The unseasonable fog had thrown rush hour off schedule, I supposed, without much sympathy.
“You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” Mary-Alice said, in her best schoolmarm voice.
“That’s right.” I assumed she was referring to the cancellation of the appointment with the ex-Honourable Walter P. Moffat. “But whatever it is, it isn’t my fault.”
An exasperated sigh hissed from the phone speaker. “I just got off the phone with Jeanie Stone.” Jeanie Stone was vice president of the British Columbia Association of Female Forestry Workers, the BCAFFW, for short.
“Oh-oh,” Bobbi said under her breath.
“Tell me you didn’t let her talk you into doing a nude calendar,” Mary-Alice said.
“Okay. I didn’t let her talk me into doing a nude calendar.”
“Well, she seems to think she did,” Mary-Alice said.
“Actually,” I said, “she didn’t have to.” Bobbi groaned. I glared at her across the desk. “Anyway, they won’t be nude,” I said. “Not really. It’s just pin-up girl stuff. With axes and chainsaws and logging machinery covering the important bits.”
There was a momentary and very pregnant silence, followed by, “Oh, for god’s sake, Tom.”
“Look, Mary-Alice. I know it’s lame, but —”
“Lame? It’s bloody crippled. Ever since those damned women in England started it, it’s been done to death by everyone from senior ladies’ knitting circles to female hockey players.”
“Relax, Mary-Alice,” I said. “It’s for a good cause, remember.”
All proceeds from sales of the calendar were going to the Stanley Park restoration fund; on December 15, 2006, the one-thousand-acre, densely forested park had been savaged by a freak windstorm that had destroyed as many as ten thousand trees, leaving gaping wounds that would take decades to heal.
“Anyway,” I added, “Jeanie’s the client, isn’t she? If she and the other members of her association want to do a pin-up calendar, who are we to argue?” Before Mary-Alice could reply, the phone bleeped, indicating another call. “Hang on, M-A.” I pressed the flash button before Mary-Alice could object. “Tom McCall,” I said.
“Tom,” another female voice said. “It’s Jeanie Stone.”
“Hi, Jeanie,” I said.
“Tom, you guys want