Babycakes (24 page)

Easley-on-Hill

Near Chipping Campden

Gloucestershire

“Good,” he said. “Everything’s in order. I guess there’s hope for the old girl yet.”

By the time he got back to the coffee shop, the address had been reduced to gibberish in his head, slithy toves gyring and gimbling in the wabe. Spotting Wilfred, he silenced him with a wave until he had a chance to write it down. Then he showed it to him.

“Make any sense?”

The kid shrugged. “Gloucestershire does. I think I’ve heard of Chipping Campden, but the rest …”

“Is Roughton the name of a person or a place?”

“Could be either, I suppose. It’s not hers?”

“Nope. Hers is Ramsey. Mona Ramsey.”

“Maybe the dress was just a gift for someone. No … that’s not likely.”

“Why not?” asked Michael. The thought had already occurred to him. If she was being kept by a wealthy benefactress, she might well pick up a little something for her.

“Well,” said Wilfred, “she tried it on, didn’t she? Unless her friend is exactly the same size.” He paused for a moment, apparently reading Michael’s mind. “She fancies girls, does she?”

He smiled at the kid. “Most of the time. She’s pretty much of a loner, though. She doesn’t trust people. She thinks life is a shit sandwich.”

“She’s right,” said Wilfred.

“She doesn’t take any guff from people. She’s like you in that respect.”

“Nothin’ wrong with that, mate.”

“I know. I could learn that talent myself. I’ve never known a Southerner who wasn’t too polite for his own good.”

“You’re from the South?”

Michael nodded.

“The Deep South?”

“Not exactly. Orlando. And stop looking at me like that. I’ve never lynched a soul.”

Wilfred smiled and butted Michael’s calf with the side of his fool. “What are you gonna do about her?”

“Well … I guess I could mail a letter to this address. Fat chance that’ll do any good, since she ran away from me on the heath.”

“Are you sure she knew it was you?”

“Positive. And I know why she ran away.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m the closest thing she’s got to a conscience.”

“And she’s doing something wrong?”

“Well … something she’s ashamed of. She’s even got a disguise for it. She doesn’t usually look like that. Her real hair is red and frizzy and she’s never worn a string of pearls in her life. Not to mention
pink. ”

“You’ve known her long?”

Michael thought for a moment. “At least eight years. My landlady in San Francisco is her …” He couldn’t help chuckling, though it seemed faintly disrespectful to Mrs. Madrigal. “My landlady is her father.”

Wilfred blinked at him.

“She’s a transsexual. She used to be a man.”

“A sex change?”

Michael nodded. “You hardly ever think about that. She’s just a nice person … the kindest person I’ve ever known.” He missed her, he realized, far more than he missed his real parents.

He was tired of fretting over Mona, so they returned to Harrods and resumed shopping. Two hours later they dragged wearily into 44 Colville Crescent, laden with royal-family souvenirs. While Michael examined his treasures, Wilfred pranced about the kitchen making sandwiches.

“This tastes wonderful,” Michael mumbled, biting into a chicken-and-chutney on rye.

“Good.”

“How’s the noggin, by the way?”

“Aw … can’t even feel it.”

“Is it safe for you to go home?”

Wilfred looked up from his sandwich. “Sick o’ me, mate?”

“C’mon. I was just worried about your old man. Does he stay mad for long?”

The kid shook his head. “He doesn’t stay anything for long.”

The door buzzer sounded, causing Michael to flinch. He rose and peered through the front curtains. The caller was a woman of thirty or so, looking soberly aristocratic in a burgundy blazer and Hermès scarf. Her box-pleated navy blue skirt appeared to conceal a lower torso so formidable that it might have done justice to a centaur. Her hair, dirty-blond and center-parted, curved inward beneath her jaw, like a pair of parentheses containing a superfluous concept.

“Oh,” she said flatly, when he opened the front door. “You’re not Simon.”

“Not today.” He grinned. “May I give him a message?”

“He’s still gone, is he?”

He nodded. “He’ll be back just after Easter. We swapped apartments.”

“I see. You’re from California?”

“Right. Uh … would you like to come in or anything?”

She considered his lame offer, frowning slightly, then said: “Yes, thank you.” She cast a flinty glance at two black children playing in the sand next to the cement mixer. “If nothing else, it’s
safer
inside.”

He had no intention of agreeing with her. “I’m Michael Tolliver,” he said, extending his hand.

She held hers out limply, as if to be kissed. “Fabia Dane.” As she followed him into the corridor, her face knotted like a fist. “My God. That smell! Did someone park another custard in here?”

She meant puke, he decided, and he suddenly found himself feeling uncharacteristically defensive about the place. He loathed this woman already. “It’s an old building,” he said evenly. “I guess the smells are unavoidable.”

She dismissed that thesis with a little grunt. “Dear Simon’s problem is that he’s never been able to tell the difference between Bohemian and just plain naff. One could certainly understand a grotty little flat in Camden Town, say … or even Wapping, for God’s sake … but
this.
It must be awful for you. And those horrid abos with their drums going night and …”

Her diatribe came to an abrupt end as she barged into the living room and caught sight of Wilfred sprawled on the sofa. “Booga booga,” he said brightly.

Michael grinned at him. Fabia turned to Michael with a granite countenance. “What I have to say is personal. Do you mind?”

Wilfred sprang up. “Just leaving, milady.”

Michael saw no reason to humor her. “Wilfred, you don’t have to.”

“I know.” He winked at Michael. “Talk to you later, mate.”

As soon as he had gone, Fabia eased her centaur haunches into an armchair and said: “I’m sure Simon wouldn’t appreciate that.”

Michael sat down as far away from her as possible. “Appreciate what?”

“Letting that aborigine have the run of the house.”

Michael paused, trying to stay calm. “He said nothing about that to me.”

“Just the same, I would think that a little common sense might be in order.”

“Wilfred is a friend of mine. All right?”

“They’re squatting, you know.”

“Who?”

“That child and his horrid father. They don’t pay rent on that flat. They just moved in and laid claim to it. Never mind. I’m sure you think it’s none of my business. I felt it only fair to warn you.”

“But … if that’s illegal, why hasn’t …?”

“Oh, it’s perfectly legal. Just not very sporting. So-o-o … if Simon is cross with you, you’ll know the reason why.” She gave him the smug little smile of a snitch. Michael fell a sudden urge to wipe it off her face with a two-by-four. Instead, he changed the subject: “What is it you’d like me to tell Simon?”

“He’s coming home in a fortnight?”

“More or less.”

“He hasn’t gone queer on us, has he?”

Not a two-by-four, a four-by-four. With a nail in it. “I haven’t asked Simon about his private life,” he answered blandly.

She studied him for a moment, then said: “Well, anyway … the message is that he missed a marvelous wedding.” She paused, obviously for effect. “Mine, to be precise.”

“All right.”

“Dane is my new name. My maiden name was Pumphrey. Fabia will do, actually. I’m quite sure Simon doesn’t know any others.”

Michael was quite sure too.

“At any rate, my husband and I will be giving a little summer affair at our new place in the country, and it wouldn’t be complete without Simon, God knows. The invitation will becoming later, but you might give him a little advance warning, so he can think up a truly masterful excuse.”

The last remark was so full of poison that Michael wondered if she was a jilted lover. Did she stop by just to rub Simon’s nose in her marriage?

“Come to think of it,” added Fabia, “better make sure he gets the last name. I wouldn’t want there to be any confusion. It’s Dane.” She spelled it for him.

“As in Dane Vinegar Crisps?”

“Yes,” she answered, “as a matter of fact.”

“No kidding?”

“That’s my husband’s company.”

“How amazing, Wilfred and I had some of those just this afternoon.”

“Wilfred?”

“The aborigine.”

“I see.”

Michael rose. “I’ll give Simon your message.” Fabia regarded him coldly for a moment, then got up and went to the door. She paused there, apparently considering an exit line. Michael folded his arms and squared his jaw. She gave him a faint, curdled smile and left.

Michael stood fast until she was outside, then sat down and finished his sandwich.

Wilfred returned ten minutes later. “She’s gone, eh?”

“Thank God.”

“What did she want?”

“Nothing. Nothing important. Just a message for Simon.”

“It isn’t us with the drums, you know.”

Michael smiled at him. “I don’t care about that.”

“Just the same, it isn’t me and me dad. It’s those bleedin’ Jamaicans across the way.”

“Sit down,” said Michael. “Forget about that harpy. Finish your sandwich.”

The kid sat down. “You know there was a bloke watching your flat?”

“When?”

“Just now. A fat bloke. I saw him from me window.”

“Oh,” said Michael. “Probably her husband waiting for her.” The all-powerful Mr. Dane, King of the Vinegar Crisps.

“No.” Wilfred frowned. “Not likely.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he ran off when she left the flat.”

Michael went to the window. The children were still romping by the cement mixer, but there was no one else in sight. “Where was he?”

“Down there.” The kid pointed. “Next to the phone box.”

“And he was … just watching?”

Wilfred nodded. “Starin’ hard at the window. Like he was trying to see who it was.”

The Jesus Tortilla

T
HEIR PALM SUNDAY WEEKEND WAS ONLY HOURS AWAY
when Brian phoned Mary Ann ai work. “I made a sort of unilateral decision,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

By now, she had grown extremely wary of new developments. “What is it?” she asked.

“I canceled our reservations in Sierra City.”

“Why?”

“Oh … I thought we owed ourselves something a little fancier under the circumstances. How does the Sonoma Mission Inn sound to you?”

“Oh, Brian … Expensive, for starters.”

“We can afford it,” he replied, with somewhat less wind in his sails.

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“You don’t sound very excited.”

“Sorry. I’m just … I think it sounds great. Really. I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“I remembered that,” he said.

She felt a nasty little twinge of guilt. She hated to see him make such elaborate plans on behalf of her fraudulent
miltehchmerz.
“Do we need to do anything special?” she asked. “Won’t I need dressier clothes?”

“You’ve got time to pack them,” he said. “They aren’t expecting us until seven tonight.”

“Great. I should be home no later than four.”

She spent the rest of the afternoon tying up loose ends: editing footage for a feature on California Cuisine, making phone calls, answering memos that had languished on her desk for weeks. She was on the verge of making a discreet exit when Hall, an associate producer, caught sight of her in the hallway.

“Kenan’s looking for you,” he said.