It wasn’t a comforting train of thought. In fact, it was so discomfiting that Leticia dragged herself out of bed, got dressed and went to the shop, just to get away from her own morbid reflections.
Only when she arrived, the electricity wasn’t working.
She rang the company. Some nonsense about her not paying the bill. She tried to give them a debit card over the phone. The payment was denied.
She rang the bank. A man in deepest India explained that even her overdraft was overdrawn. She argued and swore. He remained irritatingly calm.
It was only when she hung up and sat down, in the dark, fuming, that she noticed something else.
The dripping noise was back.
Professional Massagers of the Female Ego at Large (Part Two)
Henry took Hughie to an elegant café in Sloane Square. They sat down and ordered a couple of coffees.
‘That was unusual,’ Hughie said after a while.
‘Hummm.’
They both sipped their coffee.
‘A bit of a hose-out and I expect that van will be good as new.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Henry agreed. ‘I imagine it will.’
The memory of Amy Mortimer, howling and prostrate in the back of the van, was difficult to erase.
‘Has that ever happened to you before?’
‘No,’ Henry frowned, ‘no, it hasn’t. Well, I suppose,’ he said, brightening, ‘that we can only regard it as some kind of omen – a good one, I hope!’
Hughie raised his cup. ‘New life and all that!’
‘Exactly! Onwards and upwards!’
They both stared into space.
It had all been so graphic; the language alone left scars only time could heal.
Henry rallied first. ‘Yes, well, be that as it may.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Now, you’ve read about this one? She’s only young. You need to be careful, Smythe. Mind you don’t leer at her.’
‘Leer! I’m a little young for leering!’
‘Well, mind you don’t. OK. This one is easy,’ Henry said. ‘All you need is a copy of The Times and a good-quality pen. The pen is very important,’ he added, giving Hughie a stern look. ‘An ordinary pen won’t do at all. It needs to be an expensive, good-quality pen. Like this.’ He took out a thick black Mont Blanc pen. ‘Nothing too garish, mind you. No diamonds or God forbid, semi-precious stones … just a well-made, handsome pen that demonstrates you have both taste and means. Got it?’
‘Got it.’
‘The right props, young Smythe, sorts the men from the boys. You can use this one today. Now, the premise is simple, all that’s required is that you look like a genius …’
Poor Amber Marks left the house at the same time every day.
She told her mother she was studying at the library but in reality she spent most of the time wandering up and down the King’s Road or drinking cups of tea and reading Zola in the original French at Oriel, the café on the corner of Sloane Square. It wasn’t that she liked Zola so much as she thought it made her look smart, complicated and interesting. And Poor Amber Marks was desperate to be all of these things.
The truth was, she didn’t know who or what she should be any more. Not since ‘the Incident’ over three months ago. It happened in her first year of reading languages at Oxford. To start with, she seemed to be doing all right. Making friends proved tricky and the course work was definitely challenging, but she seemed to be holding her own. However, slowly, things grew worse. Expectation rose. The competition increased. Amber couldn’t sleep for worry. More and more she spent time on her own. Then the full-blown panic attacks started and the tears, non-stop crying jags, day and night. Finally the college rang her parents.
Her mother referred to it as a ‘bit of a wobble’; her father liked to call it an ‘academic break.’ But they all knew that it was bigger than that. Amber couldn’t cope with the rigorous demands of Oxford, only no one liked to say it out loud. It had meant so much to her parents that she got in. They had such plans for her – medicine, law, publishing; apparently there was nothing she couldn’t do.
Except survive her education.
‘Poor Amber,’ her mother sighed, loudly and often when they were alone. ‘She’s lost her confidence.’
‘Yes, poor Amber,’ her father agreed. ‘But what’s to be done?’
Taking a seat by the window, looking out onto Sloane Square, Amber ordered a cup of tea. Stirring in a packet of sugar, she stared out at the passing pedestrians. They all looked so capable. How many of them had graduated with first-class degrees?
A young man walked in and sat down at the table next to her. Amber couldn’t help but notice how handsome he was, tall with wild blond hair, dimples and a pair of striking blue eyes. He couldn’t be much older than she was. She hid behind her book. He ordered a coffee and took out a pen and a copy of The Times crossword. She watched as he filled it in with remarkable speed.
She was fascinated. He must be so bright!
Then he frowned. As he pushed his hair back impatiently from his face, the pen fell to the floor at her feet.
‘Oh! I’m so sorry!’ he said.
She bent to pick it up. It wasn’t an ordinary pen, but heavy, smooth, elegant; nicely weighted in her hand. It was the pen of someone who’d made it in this world but didn’t need to shout about it or hide it.
She passed it back. ‘There you go.’
‘Thank you!’ he smiled.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said quietly, taking up her book.
‘Look, I know it’s cheeky but there’s one clue I just can’t get. Would you mind having a look? I hate to leave a crossword unfinished.’ He tilted his head slightly and smiled at her in such a way that she found herself smiling back.
‘OK, but I can’t make any guarantees,’ she warned.
‘You star! It’s this one,’ he leant in close, pointing to the clue. ‘French for …’
It had been a long time since Amber had allowed anyone, let alone a handsome man, so close to her. The stranger’s shoulder rubbed against hers as she examined the paper. The air around him was charged with a subtle sexual energy and he smelt so lovely, warm and fresh.
It was an easy clue; she could see he’d got most of the really tricky ones straight off. But even though she knew the answer instantly, she lingered, enjoying the proximity of him.
‘Hummm …’ she pretended to think. ‘It might be … un coup de foudre’
‘But of course! You clever girl! That’s er … isn’t it?’
‘RE,’ she corrected him.
‘Of course!’ He nodded, filling it in. ‘I should’ve asked you straight away; here you are reading, what is it?’ He peered at her book. ‘Zola! Genius girl! Might have saved myself half the morning!’
‘I’m hardly a genius!’ She could feel her face growing warm. ‘Just good at French, that’s all.’
‘Well,’