Lalla On Wednesday Morning

4

Lalla On Wednesday Morning

    Lalla woke to a cool room and a quiet house. It couldn’t be all that early, the sun was making patterns on the cabbage-rose curtains. At some time in the small hours she’d come to and pulled the duvet up: she sat up slowly, pushing it away, and was astonished to discover she was still dressed. She got out of bed, removed the skirt and top, and went over to the big windows in her slip. She peeked out cautiously from behind the curtain. It looked early, if you could tell all that much from the sight of a large tree and a piece of blue sky and a little bit of what might be a garden wall. Well, at least no-one could see in. Not even if they were Paul Keating standing next-door on his gold-plated, ermine-lined dustbin! Lalla gave a smothered giggle, and heaved on the curtains. Nothing happened. After a moment’s puzzling she remembered that really swept-up hotel she’d stayed in for the Melbourne conference and investigated at the end of the curtains. Oh, yes: strings. She hauled unavailingly on the strings for some time but eventually, entirely by good luck and not at all by good judgement, as she freely admitted to herself, the curtains swept back. Indeed, swished back. She pushed the window up a bit more and the fresh Canberra morning invaded the room. Lovely!

    Then it suddenly came all over her where she was and what she’d done and she tottered blindly back to the bed and sank down on it. Yikes. What a nit!

    Help, and she hadn’t rung Aunty Barb or anything, they must think the plane had crashed or— Yikes, and they’d be ringing up Mum and— Help, what was she gonna do? Lalla looked round wildly. On one of the bedside cabinets by the immense king-size bed there was a pink phone. Not merely translucent pink plastic: it had a sort of ring of pink fluorescent tube all round it, and really, it was the epitome of yuck. Still, at least it was a phone; but there didn’t seem to be a phonebook and the cabinet only held… bottles of water, a jar of biscuits, and packets of—yikes—condoms. Lalla rolled over on the bed and investigated the twin cabinet on the other side. Pink tissues in a gold filigree box: she got it out and put it on the top of the cabinet: if he reckoned they were supposed to use everything the house, then she might as well, and anyway, she’d lost yesterday’s hanky somewhere in her travels. A couple of books: she decided they were probably rude, not classics with dirty bits, but just plain rude; and three videos which judging by the titles on them were definitely rude. And a pink plastic Thingy in a pink plastic case. Lalla looked dubiously at the vibrator, decided that whatever it was it looked rude, and it was in the rude cabinet so it was ten to one it was, and pushed it to the back of the cabinet. No phonebook…

    After a quick trip to the bathroom she investigated the adjoining sitting-room but there was no phonebook there, either. Ring Mum and ask her what Aunty Barb’s number was? No: Mum would get out of her what she was up to, and also she’d say she’d given her the number and had she lost it already? Lalla hadn’t precisely lost it, she could see in her head exactly where it was: on a piece of Mum’s kitchen notepad thingy with the pattern of lettuce and carrots and tomatoes at the top of it, sitting on top of her chest of drawers next to a pile of clean hankies so as she wouldn’t forget to put it in her purse...

    On the strength of it she went back into the pink cabbagey bedroom and blew her nose on one of the pink tissues.

    After chewing her lip for a while she picked up the translucent pink phone. She sort of thought that at home, if you dialled 0 you got Directory Enquiries. Or had that been ages ago, before the post office had split off from the telephone-thingy bit? Very gingerly Lalla dialled 0 but nothing happened. Was it 1, then? Or was that at the office: didn’t you have to dial 1 to get a li— Hah! If you dialled 1 to get a line and then dialled 0! Lalla dialled.

    “Yes, what is it?” he said crossly.

    Lalla gasped and dropped the receiver. Fortunately only on the bed. “Um—sorry!” she gasped, grabbing for it. “Um—is that you?”

    “Of course it bloody well is, who did you imagine you were dialling: the tooth fairy?"

    Help, he sounded in a bad mood. “Um, no. Um, Directory Enquiries!” she gulped.

    “Why?” he demanded coldly. –Lalla was not to know it, but he had immediately assumed she was ringing for a taxi, having had second thoughts about the whole bit.

    “I’ve gotta ring my Aunty Barb!” she gulped, too startled to even think of lying.

    “Oh,” said Peter feebly. “Er—why?”

    “She lives here. Um... I was supposed to ring her yesterday, only I forgot,” said Lalla miserably.

    “Oh. Er—well, you don’t need Directory Enquiries: look her up in the book, for God’s sake.”

    “I can’t: there isn’t one, and the little cupboard’s full of rude thingies, and I’m sure we shouldn’t be using their stuff!” wailed Lalla, suddenly bursting into loud tears.

    In the downstairs study Peter swore to himself, shouted: “LALLA!” into his phone several times with no result, and finally belted for the stairs.

    Sure enough, she was face down on the bed, sobbing. That black slip was really— He swallowed and went over to her. “Oy, stop it.”

    She merely bawled harder than ever.

    Sighing, Peter sat down beside her. He touched her shoulder cautiously. Mm—warm silk. Uh—no: no point in thinking that way: he didn’t want any sort of involvement with a semi-potty, semi-hysterical Australasian. After a moment he said: “What’s all this rot about rude thingies?”

    “In—there!” she gasped, waving an arm more or less at the bedside cabinet.

    Raising his eyebrows slightly, Peter investigated. So there were. “Look— Listen!” he cried. “I’ll take them away, okay?”—No response.—“OKAY?” he shouted.

    Sniffing and gulping, Lalla sat up. “Yes. Um—thanks.” She blew her nose on a small, damp wad of pink tissue.

    Sighing, Peter tore a handful out of the box and handed them to her. “Here. Now pull yourself together. We are not obligated to use any rude thingies we may find in this house, even though I have taken it furnished.”

    “No,” she admitted with a wobbly smile. “Um, it wasn’t really that.”

    “No…” said Peter vaguely, investigating the pink plastic container. Yes: as he’d thought. Same case as Sylvia’s had had, except that hers had actually been modelled after the male member. Flattering, really, it had been, to find she kept one of those beside their joint bed. Should have got shot of the bitch then, really...

    Lalla sniffled and looked at him cautiously. “Um—sorry. Um, it wasn’t really that,” she repeated.

    “Mm? Er—oh. No. Your aunt’s number, that it?”

    She nodded mutely.

    Peter hung up the phone, picked it up again and dialled 11. “I need a local number,” he said to the yuppie. “What’s your aunt’s name?"

    “Aunty Barb. Oh!” said Lalla, flushing. “Um, Singleton, her husband’s Tom Singleton.

    “Tom Singleton. Possibly under T. and B. Singleton, depending on the local usage,” said Peter heavily.

    The yuppie reported back that there was a T.J. Singleton at an unpronounceable address. Not far away, Peter rather thought. “Are there any other T. Singletons in the bloody book?”

    Um, no, apparently. Peter breathed deeply. Hurriedly the yuppie read the number out to him.

    “Y— Uh— Hold on just a moment, Shane. –Find me a pink pen, for God’s sake,” he said with a sigh.

    Lalla looked round wildly. “Um— I can’t see— Hang on!” She rushed over to a battered handbag which rested on a pink-cabbage-covered Victorian lady’s chair and scuffled in it. Peter looked at the view of well-shaped, not small behind, soft backs of knees and soft beginnings of palest pink thighs, and sighed.

    “Here!” she gasped.

    “Write it down,” he said clearly. Shane read it out to him, he repeated it, and she wrote it down. “All right?”

    “Yes. Thanks,” said Lalla, going very red. “I didn’t know he was here.”

    “He came for breakfast. Apparently feeling he might owe me something for having disappeared without warning last night. –Don’t argue,” he said wearily.

    “No. Um, can I just dial?” she said, looking uneasily at the phone.

    “What? Oh,” he said with a sigh. “No. Push one of these buttons at the top to get an outside line.”

    “Oh. And—and dial 1?”

    “NO!” he shouted.

    There was a short pause. “Dial direct,” said Peter heavily, getting up with an armful of rude thingies. “Are there any more rude thingies in your bathroom, or don’t I dare ask?”

    Lalla nodded convulsively, not meeting his eye.

    Peter went into the bathroom. After considerable head-scratching he came out of it again. “Unless you require me to unplumb the bidet, I’m damned if I can see what rude thingies you mean, Lalla.”

    “I thought that was what it must be. Um—they’re in a box. Um, I think they must be for— You know.”

    Peter shrugged, and went back into the virulently pink bathroom. Box? What box? Oh: hang on. At the back of the cabinet under the pink hand-basin. He raised his eyebrows and whistled slightly. Quite a lady, the owner of the pink suite must be.

    “Yes,” he said, coming back into the pink cabbagey bedroom with the box containing whip, black velvet mask and handcuffs tucked under his arm, “I think these could fairly be classed as rude thingies.”

    Lalla nodded convulsively.

    “How the Devil,” said Peter, hoping to God he wasn’t going to lose control of his mouth: she might start bawling again if he laughed, “did you find these? Given your proven reluctance to use anything that belongs to the house.”

    “I thought that box must be for the hairdryer!” she gasped.

    “Got it,” he conceded, smiling. He went out, whistling.

    Lalla sank back onto the bed, quivering. How dreadful. Dreadful. And—and what sort of man must he be? He’d obviously thought those thingies were funny!

    It was a full quarter of an hour before she remembered what she’d been about to do in the first place. Cringing, she picked the phone up.

    “Yeah: ’lo?” said a young female voice.

    Lalla had been all nerved up to speak to Aunty Barb, so she floundered. “Um—y— Hullo— Um, is that, um, Singletons’?” she gasped.

    “Yeah. Do ya want Dad?” said the voice. “He’s in the shower, I’ll give him a yell.”

    “No!” gasped Lalla in horror. “Um, this is Luh-Lalla. Um, Lalla Holcroft!” she gasped.

    There was a puzzled silence.

    “You—um, I mean, I’m your— I’m sorry: who are you?” she gasped.

    “Patty.”

    “Oh! Yes: you’re the one who’s at ANU, aren’t you?”

    “Yeah, that’s right,” conceded Patty Singleton, sounding vaguely pleased.

    “Um, I’m sort of your cousin,” said Lalla feebly.

    “Aw!” said Patty Singleton in great enlightenment. “Right! Hey, weren’t you supposed to arrive yesterday or something?” she added without much interest.

    “Ye— Um—that’s why I’m ringing up!” gasped Lalla. She stopped, expecting Patty to suggest she’d better speak to her mother, then, but she didn’t. “I wanted to say,” she continued feebly, “that there’s been a mix-up, and the Group’s booked me into a hotel for the conference, after all, and—and I can’t get out of it, it’s paid for and everything!” she added desperately, her ears and cheeks now a glowing red.

    “Aw, right. I’ll tell Mum and Dad,” said Patty without interest.

    “Ye— Um, thanks. Um—maybe I’d better speak to her!” gasped Lalla.

    “Ya can’t, she’s in Brizzie.”

    “What?”

    “Mum’s in Brizzie. That’s a conference, too. Only she hadda go up to Townsville first. Or was that after? Anyway, she’ll be back on Friday. She said you could have the yellow room. I’ll tell Dad we can move the spare video player back in there.”

    “Yes?” said Lalla foggily.

    “The twins go in there and do their fatuous jazzercize and stuff,” explained Patty glumly. “Mum won’t let them have it in their room, it makes the ceiling shake downstairs. Only the yellow room’s at the back of the house. Anyway, she reckons they’re addicted to it and we need to put it somewhere where we can monitor it.”

    The twins were only ten, as far as Lalla could recall. Unless she was getting them mixed up with some cousins of Coralie’s on the other side. “Um, I thought they were only ten?”

    “Doesn’t stop them being addicted. Nothing but pale fawn fluff between the ears, Dad reckons.”

    Lalla gave a sudden loud giggle. “Yeah!”

    “Too right,” said Patty Singleton—Lalla could hear she was grinning. “Biggest disappointment of Dad’s life, really. Well, after Bob going into the Navy,” she admitted cheerfully.

    “Yes: is he still?”

    “Yeah, he loves it. Mum had kittens when he was sent to the Gulf, I can tell ya.”

    “Yes,” said Lalla faintly. The kittens had reached all the way across the Tasman: Bob was the eldest son and the apple of Aunty Barb’s eye.

    “It’s solid concrete between his ears,” explained Bob’s sister cheerfully.

    “Yes. Um—is—is Geoff—”

    “Still going round giving his famous imitation of a Greg Norman groupie: yep,” acknowledged Patty. “Dad reckons it’s got to the stage where ya can’t pass him in the street without blushing: he wears these weirdo shirts all the time and white daks and a dumb hat, and he tows his flaming golf clubs after him on a little cart!”

    Geoff was only fifteen. And reputed to have been very bright before he got golf fever. They let them play it at his up-market school as an alternative to cricket or football—unfortunately, as it turned out.

    “Yes,” said Lalla feebly. “Um, well, it was nice talking to you, Patty. Um—tell Aunty Barb I’m sorry, will you?”

    “No worries!” said Patty fervently. “See ya!”

    “Bye-bye,” said Lalla limply as Patty rang off.

    She hung up slowly, wishing very much that she was staying with Aunty Barb and Uncle Tom after all. Because—well, Aunty Barb sounded a bit odd, but she must be reasonably easy-going if she invited her cousin’s daughter to stay and then rushed off to Queensland. And Patty sounded really nice—and very fond of Uncle Tom: so he must be all right, too.

    Lalla went gloomily into her pink bathroom and had a shower, wondering what he would expect her to wear. The day dresses were almost as bad as the other ones.

    “Hullo,” she said, walking shyly into the kitchen.

    The lady at the bench turned round, smiling. “Hullo, dear: you’ll be Lalla, that right?”

    “Yes,” agreed Lalla shyly. Help, the lady was wearing a pink overall with white collar and cuffs! True, over it she had a large plastic apron with an ad for Foster’s lager on it—well, the whole thing was possibly supposed to represent a beer can—but the uniform itself was just like something out of those American soapies that Lalla’s flatmates in Wellington had always watched. Not the daytime ones that they watched if they were home with a bad cold, the ones that had been on at night. Trisha was a primary school teacher and Janette and Georgia were lawyers in QuotaCorp’s Legal Division, but they were as addicted as their mums. Not to say Lalla’s mum. One was Dallas and one was Dynasty and Lalla had always got them hopelessly confused. Though she had liked the man with the lovely silver-blue hair: he’d reminded her a bit of Professor Black.

    “I’m Merle, and this is Donna,” said the lady in the pink overall cheerfully.

    “Hi,” said the girl in jeans who was working at the big kitchen table, looking up with a friendly grin.

    “Hi, Donna,” said Lalla shyly. The girl had a short mop of very black, shiny curls and huge dark eyes, she was very pretty indeed. No make-up, noticed Lalla with something approaching envy: she had a feeling that make-up would turn out to be appropriate for pool parties.

    “Does ’Is Nibs want breakfast yet?” asked Donna.

    Lalla blushed and gasped: “Um—I don’t know!”

    “Shut up,” said Merle mildly to Donna. “Ignore her,” she advised Lalla. “She just comes in in the mornings to help me out.”

    “And if Mum has to do a dinner. But His Nibs doesn’t requayre our feeble culinary efforts at nayght, does he, Mum?” said Donna, grinning all over the pretty face.

    “I said, shut up,” said Merle, still mild. “I need this job, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

    “We’re all that’s left of Merlin Catering,” explained Donna to Lalla with something like relish. “Mum and Dad started it but they had a big bust-up and he rushed off home to the rellies in South Australia. He’s Italian, that’s where I get my hair from,” she explained kindly.

    Lalla nodded: Merle’s hair was a sort of pale fawn, not quite blonde, and her eyes were pale blue. She didn’t look at all like her daughter.

    “Of course Nonna, that’s my Italian gran, she welcomed him back into the fold with open arms because she never wanted him to marry Mum in the first place. –Not Catholic,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

    “That’ll do, I’m sure Lalla doesn’t want to hear all that,” said Merle briskly to her loquacious offspring. “Just get on with the fruit.”

    Lalla had now had time to perceive that Donna was cutting up fruit and arranging it on a big plate. “It looks very nice,” she said shyly.

    Donna winked at her and, though she did get on—slowly—with the fruit, continued: “Then Mum went into partnership with that dumb Wendy Martin—I said it wouldn’t work,” she noted, “and all of a sudden Wendy meets a bloke and announces she’s off to WA with him.”

    “Dubba You Ay?” echoed Lalla. “Oh! Yes, I see: Western Australia. –Yikes, did she go and leave you in the lurch, Merle?”

    Merle leaned on the bench, in spite of what she’d said to her daughter about getting on with it. “Yeah. Sorting out the business was a real to-do, I can tell ya. She had money in it, you see, only she barely did a hand’s turn even when she was here.”

    “Her forte,” explained Donna, wrinkling her nose and picking up a pale yellow, shiny fruit, “was dainty pâtés.”

    “I see.”

    “Whereas what was actually needed, with our clients,” said Merle with a sigh, “was more like solid breakfasts and not too proud to get round with a vacuum cleaner and duster.”—Lalla nodded sympathetically.—“Well,” said Merle, sighing again, “it’s all sorted out, now. But it hasn’t left me with much to come and go on. –And if Donna doesn’t get on with it,” she added evilly, “QS Australasia’ll sack me, and that won’t leave me with anything to come and go on, and Someone will have to give up her uni course, won’t she?”

    Grinning, Donna said to Lalla: “You like these?”

    “Um—what is it?” gasped Lalla, looking at the yellow fluted fruit which was about as long as her hand and pointed at one end. Quite a dainty-looking fruit, talking of dainty.

    “It’s a star fruit, of course,” said Donna in amazement. “Standard nosh in these parts. I bet Paul Keating’s dustbin’s full of star fruit peelings.”

    Lalla bit her lip. “Mm,” she agreed in a strangled voice.

    “What?” spotted Donna instantly.

    “You mean his gold-plated, ermine-lined dustbin!” she choked.

    “Yeah!” choked Donna delightedly, going into a hysterical paroxysm.

    Merle watched indulgently as Lalla also collapsed in giggles.

    “Hey,” began Donna when she’d recovered: “Mum knows some caterers that often do parties at The Lodge, an’ ya should hear what they—”

    “Just drop it,” said Merle firmly. “What would you like for breakfast, Lalla?"

    Lalla went very red. “Um, it’s all right, Merle. I’ll get it.”

    “No, ya gotta let Mum do it or they’ll think she’s not doing the job she’s being paid for,” said the helpful Donna.

    “Don’t take any notice of her, Lalla,” said Merle briskly. “Motor-mouth. Of course I’ll get your breakfast.”

    “Have fruit,” said Donna in a bored voice.

    “Oh, is that what it’s—” Lalla broke off, gulping. “It looks lovely,” she said weakly. It was a huge plateful, it couldn’t just be for her. “Um, haven’t they had theirs, yet?”

    “No, they’re waiting for you, dear. But even if they had had theirs,” said Merle with a twinkle in her shrewd pale blue eyes, “I’d still get you some, ya know! Want coffee?"

    “Ya better: she’s just made—”

    “Shut up. Do you, Lalla?”

    Lalla nodded feebly. “Yes, please.”

    “That’s good,” said Donna to the ceiling.

    “What else would you fancy? Let’s see,” said Merle before Lalla could say anything. “I can do you eggs anyway you’d like them; bacon, sausages, tomatoes, muesli, cornflakes of course, Weetbix, muffins, croissants... We usually have bagels but the baker let me down, this morning.”

    “The Hyatt took them all, ya mean.”

    “That’ll do. We’ve got wholemeal, wholegrain, rye or white, if you want toast.”

    “Rye toast’s really horrible,” noted Donna.

    Merle sighed. “Have you finished that fruit, yet?”

    “Yeah. Here.”

    “Well, we’ve got fresh fruit—at last,” she noted pointedly. “Or would you prefer half a grapefruit, dear?”

    “Have one: then I can eat the other half, they don’t keep that well even with Gladwr—”

    “They keep for one night,” said Merle in a steely voice.

    “They’re pink,” said Donna glumly to Lalla.

    “Pink grapefruit?” she gasped.

    Donna brightened. “Yeah, haven’t you ever had them? They’re ace. I think they’re milder than the yellow ones but Mum thinks I’m talking through the little hole in the back of my neck.”

    Lalla smiled: Dad sometimes said that. “I would like to try one. If—if it wouldn’t be a bother,” she said shyly to Merle.

    “No worries! –Get on with it. And don’t ruin the other half accidentally on purpose,” she ordered her daughter.

    “Mu-um!” said Donna on a note of protest that was mostly tolerant scorn.

    “Okay, coffee, grapefruit; what would you fancy after that?” said Merle, smiling.

    “Just toast, please,” said Lalla shyly. “Um, wholemeal, please.”

    “Right. What does Mr Sale feel like this morning?”

    Lalla goggled at her in dismay. “Um— I duh-don’t— He never said!” she gasped desperately.

    “Well, you’re appointed to ask him, he’s your fiancé!” said Donna with feeling.

    Merle had gone rather red. She took a deep breath. “If you wanna stay part of this firm, keep it shut.”

    “Sorry,” said Donna glumly to Lalla.

    Belatedly Lalla realised the reproof had been on her account, turned puce, and gasped: “No! That’s all right!”

    “It isn’t, but I’m relieved to hear you say so, Lalla,” said Merle, still grim. “He had croissants and coffee day before yesterday.”

    “Yeah, bare,” contributed Donna.

    Lalla gaped at her. Donna didn’t look up, she was operating on a grapefruit. it was pale yellow after all, how disappointing. But perhaps it had been a joke—something to do with Lalla’s awful pink suite?

    “Not him, the croissants,” said Merle tiredly.

    “Oh!” said Lalla, sagging. “I see: you mean he never had butter or jam or ham or anything on them?”

    “No, and Shane reckons,” said Donna, not looking up from the grapefruit, “that he dunks them in his coffee: like a gingernut.”

    “That would explain the sludge in the coffee cup,” noted Merle drily, getting eggs out of the enormous fridge.

    Lalla nodded. “Yes, wouldn’t they go soggy? Ooh, it is pink!” she gasped as Donna then laid bare the flesh of the grapefruit.

    “Yeah, ’course,” agreed Donna, picking up a curved knife. “–Ya can tell you’re a Kiwi. ‘Ut uz punk.’”

    “That’ll be quite enough. Just do the grapefruit. And you can do Lalla’s toast, in a bit. Shane’s having bacon and scrambled egg: I’ll just put the egg on now,” she said to Lalla. “–If this object can be trusted to keep an eye on it while I see what the others want.”

    “Yes—um—others?” gasped Lalla in horror.

    “Only two this morning, besides Shane and Him,” explained Donna.

    Despite her disturbance, Lalla looked admiringly at the grapefruit. “That’s awfully clever.”

    “Neato, eh? ’S not clever really,” she said regretfully. “It’s the knife.”

    “Exactly,” said Merle drily, briskly whisking eggs in a big glass bowl.

    “They’ve been before. They’re both from QSA,” explained Donna.

    “Yes,” said Lalla feebly. –Why hadn’t he said there’d be guests for breakfast? She was only in her jeans and a clean tee-shirt: yikes. “Is it—is it a breakfast meeting, Donna?” she asked timidly as Merle tipped egg into a pan.

    “Must be.”

    “No, she doesn’t mean that,” said Merle briskly. “It isn’t a meeting, Lalla, only his own execs.”—She removed the plastic apron. Help: under it she was wearing a little white apron: sort of—not frilled... Scalloped! discovered Lalla pleasedly.—“Some of them want ya to wear caps, into the bargain,” she noted drily.

    “What? Oh: yes!” gasped Lalla, jumping and smiling sheepishly.

    “I’ll only be a tick. Donna! Watch this pan!” She went out, apparently trusting Donna to obey her.

    Donna did go over to the stove, though noting as she did so: “Watching it won’t do any good."

    “No,” agreed Lalla, eyeing her nervously. However, she then began to stir the eggs slowly with a fork, so that was all right. Lalla came up to her side and watched interestedly. After a few moments she said: “Mum always does it with a spoon.”

    “Yeah: Mum used to, until she went on this dumb cordong blue course. Far’s I can see, it teaches ya to use forks when any sane person’d use spoons, and spoons when the rest of the world uses forks. And to put cream in everything: see?”—She nodded at a small carton on the bench. Lalla saw: she gulped.—“S’pose Shane knows what it’s gonna do to his cholesterol level?” added Donna, not with interest, exactly, but more a sort of dry relish.

    “Um, he might not, he’s only a boy!” gasped Lalla.

    “Yeah. Well, a bit older than me. But I’m not volunteering, he came the young upwardly mobile ex-ec-you-tive with me,” said Donna sourly.

    Lalla grinned. “My brain sort of automatically labelled him ‘yuppie,’ too. I said it in front of Peter before I thought, too.”

    “Whadd’e say?” asked Donna with interest, not apparently registering that this was not the way a fiancée should speak of her fiancé.

    “Um—he thinks he is, too!” gulped Lalla, realising what she’d just said. “He calls him ‘the yuppie’ all the time, now. Only—only I think that’s only because I said it,” she finished in a small voice.

    “I geddit,” said Donna in a tone which indicated that she did, indeed.

    Lalla waited nervously for Donna to ask her the sort of rude, personal and probing question about how she and Peter had met that all the ladies at the cocktail do plus Pegeen, the Dire Daphne and the big lady had asked her last night, but Donna didn’t. So Lalla said shyly: “Did your Mum say you’re at university?” –Not being capable of casually saying “uni” like the Aussies always did.

    “Yeah: ANU. Anthro’.”

    “Really?” cried Lalla pleasedly. “My cousin’s doing that! –Patty Singleton.” It was dumb to suppose Donna would know her, Australia was huge, ANU must be a huge university, no doubt the anthropology classes were h—

    “Yeah, I know her, she’s a year ahead of me.”

    Lalla smiled.

    Donna then told her a lot, not all of it comprehensible, and at top speed, about her course and the personalities who taught it. Well, mostly about the personalities who taught it, but Lalla was used to that, having been a student herself. She listened with interest.

    “Fruit, wholemeal toast for three, bacon and tomatoes for one, poached eggs for one, croissants,” said Merle briskly, coming back into the kitchen. “I hope you’re stirring that.”

    “Yeah!”

    Merle peered at it. “It’ll do, take it off the heat.”

    “Can I do anything, Merle?” asked Lalla shyly.

    “No, thanks, Lalla.”

    “She could—”

    “She could not, we are employed to do this job! –And don’t forget you’ve got the beds, yet.”

    “Bed.”

    “Beds: Lalla’s in the pink suite,” said Merle—firmly, but avoiding both her daughter’s and Lalla’s eyes.

    Donna’s jaw had dropped. She goggled at Lalla.

    “Get the bacon out,” ordered her mother.

    Donna went slowly over to the fridge.

    There was a sticky silence in the kitchen.

    Donna turned from the fridge with the packet of bacon in her hand. “I get it: it’s because he’s a Pom!”

    “Yes,” croaked Lalla, swallowing. “Um—very up-market.”

    “Yes,” agreed Merle: “and put that bacon under the grill, Madam, it won’t cook itself.”

    “Um, could I take something through?” said Lalla, standing on one leg and hooking the opposite foot round her ankle.

    “Yeah, the fruit,” said Donna instantly.

    Merle sighed, but said: “If you wouldn’t mind, Lalla? The breakfast room’s on the ground floor, just off the white lounge-room.”

    “Breakfast room?” said Lalla numbly.

    “Yes, it’s quite easy to find. You’ll soon find your way around, it’s quite a simple layout.”

    “Yes,” said Lalla numbly. True, she had found her way to the kitchen all right, but only by dint of locating the front door, at the foot of the big staircase, and going in the opposite direction. They both seemed to be buried in their work, so she picked up the heavy plate of fruit and went out.

    There was silence in the very up-market kitchen of the big white stuccoed concrete house.

    Then Donna said numbly: “What’s she doing engaged to a creep like him?”

    “That’ll do,” said Merle feebly.

    “But she’s nice!” she cried. “And heck, why isn’t she sleeping in his bed?”

    “Um—well, he is a rich Pommy, dear,” she said without conviction. “You said so yourself.”

    “Yeah, but now I don’t think it’s the Real Reason,” she said darkly.

    Merle swallowed.

    “Do ya reckon he’s gay?”

    Merle gulped. True, Donna was only nineteen, but— “No. Definitely not,” she croaked.

    “He could be. Lalla could just be, like, camouflage: y’know?”

    “Donna, he is not gay,” said Merle in a shaking voice.

    “It isn’t that funny,” she muttered, turning her attention to the bacon.

    Merle snorted and shook for a bit.

    “It’s NOT FUNNY!”

    “Not to nineteen and thick with it—no.”

    Glaring, Donna hauled the bacon out from under the grill. “This is done.”

    “Shove it in the warming oven. And find me those stupid silver dish-covers. –And that reminds me, if Kathleen Frears really wants a job, she can come round here tomorrow morning and polish the lot.”

    “Um, I dunno that she’ll wanna start as early as us, Mum.”

    “Then she’s virtually unemployable, and you can tell her to forget it,” she noted grimly.

    Donna swallowed. “Yeah. Okay."

    They worked in silence for a while.

    “It is funny, ya know, Mum. I mean, she’s so nice.”

    “Yes,” said Merle limply.

    “I think,” she said, narrowing the eyes, “that there’s something odd going on. –She really is a Kiwi, though.”

    “Yes, and don’t you dare to remark on her accent again!”

    Donna looked blank.

    Merle sighed. “Get the bread out, please.”

    Donna got the bread out. She still looked as if she thought there was something odd going on, though. Actually Merle couldn’t blame her. Separate bedrooms? Not only that, at opposite ends of the ruddy upstairs passage that took half an hour to vacuum! White—white!—shag pile. Highly desirable for a heavy traffic area like a passage, yeah. Oh, well, hers not to reason why. And QS Australasia were good and reliable payers. Not Like Some. Merle concentrated on the breakfasts and tried not to think about the oddness of the combination of the not gay, in fact sexy, but terrifying Mr Sale and nice, friendly, quiet Lalla.

    ... It was odd. Really odd. Because if she could see Lalla falling for him, all right, and him for her, she was pretty as well as very nice, why in God’s name were they sleeping at opposite ends of the house?

    “Ted Bright might know what’s going on, Mum.”

    Merle reddened. She’d just been thinking that. “Shut up and get on with it!”

    They got on with it.

    Lalla went very cautiously through the sitting-room. She could hear voices from somewhere off to her left. The breakfast room must be to the right, then. ...Heck. Limply she put the fruit on the table. It was gigantic. Enormous. More like a banquet table than a breakfast table. There were five places laid, all at one end. She looked with interest at the silver, which was very, very pretty, a pattern of little roses on the handles, and at the plates, which were also very pretty, a wide, pale pink edging, a rosebud in the white middle, and gold rims, and at the real serviettes in the shape of—possibly they were what were called waterlilies in books, they didn’t really look like waterlilies but they were pretty. Merle must have done them, wasn’t she clever? There was no cloth on the table, but each place setting sat on a very pretty mat: pale pink linen with a little fringe, matching the serviettes. There were a lot of glasses: perhaps there would be orange juice as well as water and... whatever. The table also sported two vases of pink roses with those little white flowers: little spritzy flowers, Lalla wasn’t sure if they were real or not: they made a sort of light froth, almost a mist, around the roses. All of the glasses were heavy cut things with gold rims and after a while Lalla began to frown.

    “What?” said a Pommy male voice from just behind her.

    Jumping, she gasped: “Nothing!”

    “Then why were you scowling?” asked Peter politely.

    “Um—the combination of the gold bits on the glasses with that silver,” said Lalla limply.

    “Too much: mm,” he agreed.

    “Ye-es... Not only that: it sort of clashes.”

    “It does, indeed. Do you like the flowers?”

    “Yes, they’re lovely,” she said with a shy smile.

    “Good. I’ll tell Mrs Whatsit to keep on with them, then.”

    “Do you mean Merle?"

    “Er—possibly. Now what are you scowling about?"

    “If you mean the lady that does the breakfasts and stuff, her name’s Merle,” said Lalla crossly.

    Peter raised his eyebrows slightly. “I concede that’s possible, Downunder.”

    “Not ‘Mrs Whatsit’!” she hissed angrily.

    “Oh. Mrs Linarello, I think it is. Not that she looks particularly Italian.”

    “No, she isn’t: her husband was. Is, I suppose. He’s gone back to South Australia. –I see!” said Lalla pleasedly: “Mer-Lin!”

    “Wot?” said Peter in a gormless voice.

    “Merlin Catering, that’s the name of her firm. That’s where the ‘lin’ comes from!”

    “Er—mm. No doubt. When did you glean all this information about the help’s private lives, darling?”

    Lalla went very red. “Don’t call me that!” she hissed.

    “Mm? Oh—sorry,” said Peter with a little smile. “Practising. When did you—”

    “Just now: in the kitchen.”

    “I see.”

    Lalla looked at him suspiciously but the oval, rather supercilious English face was quite blank. “Her daughter’s helping her. Donna. There’s just the two of them.”

    “Well, I don’t suppose that looking after the two of us is all that arduous a task,” he drawled.

    “No! Silly! In the firm, I mean!”

    Peter Sale’s lips twitched very slightly: he could not recall anybody’s ever having called him “silly” in just that tone. “I see,” he murmured.

    Possibly Lalla took this for encouragement, for she burst out: “She’s a student, but her term won’t have started yet, I mean semester, I think they all have those, now. She’s at ANU, and guess what? She’s doing anthropology, just like my cousin, Patty!”

    “What?” he said feebly.

    “Oh,” said Lalla, blushing. “Sorry. I forgot I hadn’t told you that. Um—Aunty Barb, she isn’t really an aunt, she’s Mum’s cousin, well, her oldest daughter, Patty, she’s doing anthropology at ANU, too. Donna knows her.”

    Peter winced.

    “What’s wrong with that?’ she said dangerously,

    “Nothing.” He took her elbow and led her over to the French windows that gave onto the patio, well away from the door to the sitting-room. “Just for Christ’s sake be careful,” he said in a lowered voice. “Or have you announced to the Singletons, en masse or, er, singly, that we’re engaged?”

    “No! Don’t be— Oh,” gulped Lalla. “Yikes. How awful.”

    “Quite.”

    “Help, if Donna tells Patty and Patty tells Aunty Barb, Aunty Barb’ll tell Mum! What’ll we do, Peter?” she gasped, grabbing his arm fiercely.

    Peter suppressed a wince, but for some reason or another didn’t attempt to prise her grip loose. “Not panic, for a start. If the university semester hasn’t even started, it’s highly unlikely these two girls will get together. Or are they bosom buddies?”

    “No, they’re not even in the same year.”

    “Thank God for small mercies.”

    “Yes,” said Lalla feebly, releasing his arm. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t think.”

    “I realise that. Endeavour to think from now on. Oh—and tuck that tee-shirt into the jeans, please, unless you want to see me weep all over my pink Californian grapefruit.”

    Lalla tucked her tee-shirt in obediently but said: “I think they’re Australian. But they are pink inside.”

    Pinkish, yeah: the tee-shirt was white and rather thin. “Mm.” The jeans were too big for her round the waist, and were hauled in tightly with a belt. Not that that was bad. “Wearing the—? Yes,” he said, picking up her left hand. “Good girl.”

    Lalla sighed. “If you’d said we were having guests for breakfast, I could have worn a dress.”

    “Rubbish, we’re not having guests. –Come on in!” he said as the guests came in. “Let me introduce my fiancée: Lalla Holcroft. You’d better call her Lalla, because if you don’t, she will undoubtedly tell you to,” he added with a sideways look at her. “Lalla, this is Clyde Wainwright, the CEO of QS Australasia,”—Lalla shook hands, smiling shyly at the smooth, silver-haired gentleman—“and this is Bernie Carpenter, he’s with Quinn Sale Mining and Mineral Exploration—”

    “QSMME: yes, I know,” said Lalla, shaking hands with him. “I read an article about you in The Bulletin. You’re an Australian, aren’t you?”

    “Yeah, only don’t hold that against me!” said the big, burly, craggy man with a laugh. “Yeah: I started right at the bottom with QSMME, worked my way up. Literally at the bottom, worked as a miner while I did my degree.”

    “Yes, I know: the article said so. You did a Ph.D. in geology, didn’t you?”—Dr Carpenter grinned, shrugged and nodded.—“Then you began to work your way up in the company and you got your Business Management qualifications and then you went to Harvard Business School, is that right?”

    “Yeah, I was the only joker on the entire campus that didn’t wear button-down collars,” he drawled.

    At this Lalla said in mild surprise: “I thought they were a pre-requisite?”

    Bernie Carpenter choked and gasped: “You’ll do, Lalla!”

    “I’m beginning to think so, too,” murmured Peter, the normally cool grey eyes twinkling. “Come and sit down, everyone, or she’ll be telling me we’re hurting Mrs Linarello’s feelings by letting the food get cold.” He looked under his lashes at Lalla. “Though why she should care, with what we’re paying her—”

    Predictably, she cried: “This is a great big house and her and Donna are doing it all themselves!”

    Peter smiled a little, and held a chair for her: “Yes, you said so: hush. I was trying to get a rise out of you. Sit here, darling.”

    Blushing, Lalla sat down, avoiding his eye.

    She had been afraid she wouldn’t be able to talk to the men during breakfast—and also that they would ask her personal questions about how her and Peter had met—but to her relief they mostly talked business with Peter. Though Bernie Carpenter looked at her rather a lot and spoke to her whenever he wasn’t talking to the others or eating—he ate a lot, he was the bacon and tomatoes. Shane didn’t seem to be included in their conversation, except for every so often being told to make a note, or get onto so-and-so, and it gradually dawned on Lalla that he was a sort of secretary or PA. Yikes, in the Carrano Group it was always ladies that did that! Smart ones, with big earrings and long fingernails and very neat hairdoes. Neat but with-it. Still, at least it gave her a chance to ask him about his sister’s wedding anniversary and to warn him about the cholesterol—he said the cream must be what was making it taste so good, but added, as Lalla looked anxious, that he did a lot of running. “Jogging,” explained Peter, looking up briefly. Lalla nodded and said: “I see. When do you jog, then, Shane?” Shane told her, happily unaware of the storm-cloud gathering on his employer’s brow.

    “Must you wave so enthusiastically?” said Peter with a sigh as he stood at the front door with his arm round his false fiancée’s twenty-four-inch waist, watching his senior execs disappear into the wilds of Canberra.

    “What?”

    Heavily Peter replied: “I suppose it didn’t occur to you that some people might have thought it odd that the only person to whom you did not voluntarily address one remark at the breakfast table was me?”

    “I didn’t like to interrupt you,” explained Lalla shyly.

    “No,” he sighed. “I got that. –Come on, you’d better get changed for this damn’ pool party.” He drew her in and closed the door.

    “Yes. What are you going to do now?” asked Lalla, looking up at him meekly.

    Peter scratched the back of his head. “Get Shane to fax Carrano Development—that fax you sent for me last night doesn’t seem to have produced results—um... mug up a lot of stuff about Yashimoto for tomorrow’s dinner-date… What?”

    “About the company or the old man?”

    “Both.”

    Lalla nodded seriously.

    “And prepare for this afternoon’s meeting with the Yanks,” said Peter with a heavy sigh.

    “I don’t have to come to that, do I?” said Lalla in a tiny scared voice.

    Peter smiled and dropped a kiss on her shiny brown head. “No, darling: you most definitely do not have to go through that torture. Above and beyond the call—” He broke off: she had blushed like a peony and backed abruptly away from him.

    “Look—uh— Tu parles français? Il faut que nous jouions nos rôles de fiancés dévoués devant les domestiques aussi bien que devant... mes employés. No,” he concluded ruefully as her jaw sagged.

    “You can really speak it,” said Lalla numbly. “That sounded real!”

    “My darling moron, my mother was born and bred in France: please get it through your thick head; there are one or two people in this burg who might expect you to know that.”

    “Mm,” said Lalla, nodding hard. “Sorry. What did you say?”

    “Uh—oh. Come in here.” He led her into the sitting-room, closed its door firmly, and repeated his warning remark in English.

    “Ye-es…”

    “Don’t you dare to tell those bloody women in the kitchen! It’s bad enough you let it out to bloody Ted!”

    “He won’t tell—”

    “So you keep saying,” he groaned.

    “Anyway, it’s all right: I won’t tell anyone else,” she said reassuringly.

    “No. Good.”

    “Um, Bernie Carpenter doesn’t know, does he?”

    “No. Nor does Wainwright; in fact no-one in the Sydney office is aware of why they were asked to screen lovelies for escort duty. –Sorry,” he said as her cheeks flamed. “I let them get the wrong idea a-purpose like, you see.”

    “Mm,” she said, biting her lip.

    He frowned over it. “What made you think Bernie might know?"

    “Um, he kept giving me odd looks,” said Lalla uneasily.

    Peter laughed. “Those weren’t odd, you moron! He was eyeing you up! –I damned nearly told him to bloody well stop if he valued his job.” He shrugged a little. “But he’s the type that can’t help himself: didn’t mean any harm.”—Lalla was goggling at him.—“Bernie’s a ladies’ man: okay?”

    “I thought the other man would have been: Clyde.”

    “Rubbish. –Good God: do you mean all that smooth silver hair, smooth silver suit stuff?”

    Lalla nodded.

    Peter was driven to clutch his head. “Lalla, think this over carefully and answer me honestly: did you experience the faintest, even the faintest, flicker of sexual awareness in Clyde’s proximity?"

    Lalla reddened. “No. And don’t be rude.”

    “I am not being rude, I am being brutally realistic. Now apply the same criteria to the case of bloody Bernie Carpenter.”

    Lalla turned positively puce. Her eyes filled with tears.

    “It’s all right,” he said, touching her shoulder: “you were meant to. He has that effect on all the ladies, so I’m told. Er—terrifically male animal.”

    “I’d have said... Isn’t he more a man’s man?” she said in a tiny voice.

    “That’s very much not the same thing. But he is, yes. –The only other fellow I know who successfully combines the two—ah—modes, is Jake Carrano,” he said thoughtfully to himself.

    Lalla only just stopped herself from nodding agreement. She couldn’t go any pucer, but she felt as if her face was trying to. Yikes! She wasn’t supposed to know Sir Jake at all! If only his name would stop cropping up!

    “Anyway, that’s why Bernie kept giving you odd looks!” he said with a little laugh.

    “What?” said Lalla dazedly. “Oh—yes.” She paused. “I didn’t encourage him, did I?” she said in horror.

    Peter most sincerely doubted that she knew how to. “No. You didn’t need to.”

    “Good,” she said innocently.

    “Shane’s had some place send a few swimsuits round for you to choose from: you’d better run up and look at them. Please don’t choose anything bright blue.”

    “No, okay,” she agreed obediently, going out.

    Peter passed his hand over his face and sighed.

    “Isn’t she down YET?” he demanded grimly.

    Ted shrugged. “Don’t look at me. They also serve, ya know.”

    “WHAT?”

    “‘They also serve who only stand and wait.’ It’s a saying.”

    Taking a deep breath, Peter turned on his heel, and hurried upstairs. “Lalla, you’re going to be Hellishly late for Pegeen’s— Oh,” he said limply. Lalla was standing in her bedroom surrounded by gaggles of females. Well, three. After a dazed moment he realised that the one on her knees was Mrs Whatsit, the housekeeper. “What the—?”

    “They’re helping. Donna says the Seventies look’s coming back.”

    “Yes. –That’ll do it, I think,” said Mrs Whatsit, scrambling to her feet.

    “Almost any look that won’t entail her getting round the town in padded shoulders like a bloody American footballer will do me. –Good God, she looks almost human,” he said as Lalla stood revealed in a simple white dress with a lowered waistline and slim skirt.

    “We let the skirt down a bit: fortunately it had a proper hem. And we cut the sleeves out, she said you didn’t like shoulder pads,” explained Mrs Whatsit.

    This could explain why it had taken approximately fifteen hours, then. “Er—good show. It won’t come adrift if she coughs or some such, will it?”

    “No!” said the black-haired girl loudly and angrily.

    “It’s a bit sketchy under the arms but it won’t show,” said the little red-head.

    “Mm.” He eyed them drily.

    “Um—sorry!” gasped Lalla, blushing fierily. “This is Donna, she’s Merle’s daughter, and this is her friend Kathleen: she’s gonna help.”

    “How do you do? –Help with what?” asked Peter politely.

    “The silver, mainly, Mr Sale: it looks to me as if no-one’s ever polished it since it was bought,” said the housekeeper firmly.

    “Oh. Well, good show. Er, have you ladies tried any swimsuits on her?” he asked politely.

    “Yes,” said the black-haired Donna pugnaciously. “All of them.”

    “Even the bright blue one!” said Lalla with a loud giggle.

    “Yes. Go and get into the green one, dear: see what he thinks,” said the housekeeper firmly.

    Lalla went meekly off to the bathroom.

    Peter avoided the housekeeper’s eye. As her fiancé, he might be supposed not to be shocked by the sight of Lalla’s naked body. And now he came to think of it, the woman must be finding the separate-beds thing bloody odd. Damn: should have thought of that. Was she the sort of woman that would inspect the sheets for actual signs—? Er, well, put it like this: she certainly struck him as the sort of woman that would notice their absence! There was only one solution: he would have to scatter Lalla’s bedside cabinet with torn condom packets. Or would that constitute rude thingies? Damn, almost inevitably. Well, it would have to be his bedside cabinet, then, and Mrs Whatsit could just assume he made the poor girl trek all the way down the corridor back to her own bedroom because—uh... Droit de seigneur? Mad Pommy? Thought he really was H.R.H.? One of the above: yeah.

    “Oh, yes,” he said, grinning, as Lalla returned looking desperately shy in a one-piece of a soft jade green shade.

    “We’ve given her a bikini line,” said the red-headed Kathleen helpfully.

    Poor Lalla’s blush was evident from about where the cleavage of the green bathing-suit started, right up to her hairline.

    “Kathleen, dear, I don’t think that’s a need-to-know,” said Mrs Whatsit firmly. “You can run along and start on the silver, now. –Donna, take her downstairs and show her that cupboard with all the stuff in it, in the big dining-room.”

    “Not all that stuff, too, Mum?” she gasped.

    “Yes. So you’d better get started, hadn’t you?”

    “Yeah. Come on, Kathleen,” she said glumly, dragging her friend over to the door.

    “Thanks, Donna. Thanks, Kathleen,” said Lalla shyly.

    Saying loudly and cheerfully: “No worries! See ya!” they disappeared.

    Lalla fidgeted nervously with the narrow bow at her waist.

    “Lalla, don’t pull that, the whole thing’ll come undone,” said the housekeeper.

    Lalla gasped, and stood to attention.

    Peter smiled. “Couldn’t be bad,” he murmured. “Yes, that’s definitely the one, Mrs Linarello.”

    “Well, we thought so. –Don’t forget, Lalla, plenty of sunscreen.”

    Lalla replied shyly: “Yes. Thanks very much, Merle,” and the housekeeper, smiling and nodding, tactfully disappeared.

    Peter walked round her inspecting her carefully.

    “It hasn’t got much back,” she said nervously.

    It didn’t have any back, just a couple of sets of narrow strings. It was good, though: very good indeed. And she had a tiny round mole, just to the right of her spine, about a hand’s span above the waist...

    Peter swallowed and wandered over to perch on the bed. “Yes, fine. But for God’s sake take Mrs Whatsit’s advice about the sunscreen, darling.”

    “Yes,” said Lalla, going very red and avoiding his eye. “Um, there’s a hat, too. It matches the dress, sort of. Um—well, it’s white. Kathleen took the flowers off it, she said they were too much. Only now it looks awfully plain.”

    “Splendid. A bonus for Kathleen, then. –Dare I ask how she got here, and why? I thought you said there were only the two of them?”

    “I think she just came round; I think Donna said there might be some jobs she could do.”

    Peter winced. Half of Canberra was evidently beating a path to his supposedly secure, electronically controlled gates in the expectation of odd-jobs. “Mm. Hurry up, you’re late.”

    Lalla eyed him uneasily. “Are you just going to sit there?”

    “If I leave, Mrs Whatsit’s suspicions will be aroused."

    “Oh.” She went slowly over to the bathroom door.

    “What?” –He had a fair idea what was coming.

    Sure enough, she hissed: “We ought to be sleeping in the same room!”

    “I entirely agree,” he drawled.

    Lalla went very red, gave him a furious glare, and slammed into the bathroom.

    Peter lay back on pink cabbages, grinning.

    “Try this, my dear,” said Belinda Fitzherbert graciously.

    “Um—no, thank you very much!” gasped Lalla desperately. The British High Commissioner’s lady in the course of the pool party had tried to foist about five varieties of strong drink on her. This made it six. Lalla was now sure she was doing it on purpose, though she was not exactly sure why: there could be several reasons.

    “Surely just a small one? Pegeen’s rum punches are always delicious; and I think the sun’s over the yardarm, by now?”

    “No—um—he told me not to drink!” she gasped desperately. The suspicion had crossed her mind that Lady Fitzherbert might not merely be doing it to tease, but to get her drunk—so as to worm things out of her about her supposed relationship with Peter. But surely a real English lady in that position wouldn’t? She looked helplessly at the real English lady.

    Belinda Fitzherbert raised her slender eyebrows and murmured: “Did he? But need one take any notice of him, in this day and age?”

    Lalla swallowed. “Not necessarily, no. But I gave him my word, so I’m going to keep it. Not because I’m into suh-servitude and stuff, but because I don’t break my word.”

    The real English lady raised her eyebrows again, knocked back her rum punch, and said: “I see. Very old-fashioned all round, in fact. Well, now we know what else darling Peter sees in you, my dear.” She looked very hard at Lalla’s breasts in the damp green bathing-suit.

    Lalla went red, half with anger and half with embarrassment, and looked away.

    “Tell me, my dear, did you ever meet Monica?"

    “N— Uh—who?” said Lalla limply.

    “His wife,” said Lady Fitzherbert with immense precision.

    “No,” said Lalla in a strangled voice. “He did say her name was Monica, that’s right. I wasn’t really listening.”

    Belinda Fitzherbert had just put a small shrimp canapé in her mouth. She choked on it. “How delightfully insouciant!” she gasped.

    Lalla licked her lips. “Well, it was ages ago. He’s been divorced for years.”

    “True. And the little girl must be nearly grown up.”

    “She can’t be!” said Lalla in astonishment. “He isn’t old enough!”

    “I’m sure he’d be flattered to know you think so. Let me see… No, you’re quite right, my dear: she was born the same year as our son, that’s right. Only thirteen, then. Of course we haven’t seen very much of poor Monica since the divorce. Perhaps I should warn you, my dear: she bears a grudge.”

    Lalla just looked at her limply.

    “I think the name was Candida. Or Camilla? No, I forget. I do remember that Monica wanted something and his mother wanted something else, and of course poor darling Peter has always been absolutely under his mother’s thumb—well, those brisk little Frenchwomen can be so managing, my dear, and of course poor sweet Richard had fallen so utterly, no-one could tell him a thing, not even old Sir Peter… Daphne!” she cried, waving. “Darling, remind me: is Monica Sale’s little girl a Candida or a Camilla?”

    The marmalade-haired Daphne hurried up to them, beaming all over her bony mahogany face. “Darling: Candida; don’t you remember how that terrifying little mother of his would have it that ‘Candide’ was a boy’s name? And Monica al-most gave in—not like Monica!”—she gave a high-pitched titter—“and suggested Camilla, only then the horrid little creature said something about ‘Camille’ having nothing to do with camellias, too obscure and tiresome, and of course it was a boy’s name, too! So Monica went right back to Candida, and stood by her guns!”

    “Of course. Well, just as well, would one want to have a child called Camilla, these days?” she asked drily.

    Daphne gave a high-pitched trill of laughter. “Quite! –If one must drag up the topic of disastrous marriages between ra-at her disparate ages!”

    The High Commissioner’s lady squeaked, and said: “Naughty! –No, but do listen, darling: Pamela Horbury tells me that he and Camilla—”

    Lalla edged away. She really couldn’t take any more of that. Half the Brits at the cocktail party yesterday had been going on about it, and honestly, who cared who’d done it with who, or who started it, or— Well, for Heaven’s sake: arranged marriages, in this day and age? What did they expect? And it was true that Princess Diana was a lot younger than Pr— Lalla went over to a big cane seat piled with cushions in bright blue and white diagonal stripes and sat down numbly.

    After a little Pegeen came up to her. “All right, dear? Not letting the cats get you down?” She sat down beside Lalla and fanned herself with her hand. “Poof! Stinking today, isn’t it?”

    “Yes. Um, Pegeen,” said Lalla in a low, trembling voice, “when those British people start talking about—about that Camilla lady and Prince Charles—”

    “What I say is, who cares? Let them get on with it, they should never have married him off to a silly little girl in the first place. And it’s got to the stage where you don’t know whether half of what you read’s propaganda from one side or the other, anyway! Personally I agree with Paul Keating—not that I hold much brief for him, mind—but he’s right about the Royals: who needs them? Let’s stand on our own two feet, that’s what I say!” She gave Lalla a sharp look from behind her huge blue-rimmed sunglasses and added: “What about them, anyway, dear?”

    Lalla swallowed. “They keep going on about how the Princess of Wales was too young for him. Sort of… pointedly.”

    “Do they, just! Well, she was, poor silly little kid. Don’t you take any notice of them, they’re all killing themselves because you’ve nabbed Peter Sale from under their ruddy upper-class noses! Who was it: Madam her Bitchin’ High-Falutin’ Commissioner?"

    “Um, no, it was Daphne, just now. Um, only it was her last night,” said Lalla limply, nodding at Belinda Fitzherbert in pale lime printed silk.

    “That dress makes her look as yellow as a Chinaman, doesn’t it?” said Pegeen dreamily. “Last shade anyone with that skin should wear. No-one’ll tell her, of course: they all hate her guts at the High Commission. –Well, I’ll settle her hash!” she said grimly, heaving herself up.

    “No: don’t! Peter wouldn’t like it!” gasped Lalla in horror.

    Pegeen paused. “Oh.”

    “I only mentioned it because I thought perhaps I was getting, um, paranoid,” admitted Lalla, blushing and smiling sheepishly. “I mean, I’m not that much younger than him.”

    “You’re not paranoid, either,” said Pegeen grimly. “I tell ya what, I’ll tell Artie not to go ahead with that cannery deal with the bloody Brits!”

    “N— Um—you don’t mean— Not Sir Arthur— No!” gasped Lalla in horror.

    “He’d do it for me: we go way back. And he hates the Poms: he was a refugee, ya know: Austrian Jew, I think it was. Deported as an undesirable alien, even though his family had been in bloody Britain for twenty years.”

    Pegeen had it a bit mixed up but she was right in essence: Lalla nodded.

    “They stuck him in that bloody camp, ya know: somewhere in Outer Woop-Woop.”

    “Yes. Only please don’t, Pegeen.”

    “Well, I won’t if you don’t want me to, dear. Only Artie— Here, I know! ’Er Bleeding Highness Belinda and Sir Useless are expecting to be invited down to Artie’s for his son’s wedding later this year!” She chuckled evilly.

    “Pegeen!” gulped Lalla in horror. “You wouldn't!"

    “Not flaming half! I’ll ring him now!” Pegeen strode into the house, a grim smile on her scarlet-lipsticked mouth.

    Lalla shrank numbly back onto her cane couch. Yikes.

    Peter threaded his way between clumps of yattering females. There she was—with a glass of something yellow in her hand: it had better only be pineapple juice—trying to look politely interested in what one of Pegeen’s more improbably platinum friends was jabbering on about.

    “There you are,” he said.

    Lalla jumped. “What are you doing here?”

    “I thought we might lunch together. Being as how you are me fi-an-cey—remember?"

    “Mm!” she gulped, turning scarlet.

    The platinum female, once she’d got over her fit of arch titters, told him how wonderful it was to see him again, he was looking well—arch smirk at Lalla—and how lovely it had been to meet Lalla, and by the by, she and Jimbo were having a little dinner party, just a few friends... Peter pleaded five score previous engagements, grabbed his fi-an-cey’s elbow, and more or less escaped unscathed. Pegeen caught up with them at the front door and, not entirely to his surprise, planted a smacking kiss on Lalla’s cheek. She then ordered her to tell him all about it right away, reminded her that they were due at the stud this Sunday, and, not neglecting to plant a smacking kiss on Peter’s cheek, let them go.

    “It’s hard to know where to start,” he said feebly once they were in the car.

    “How’d it go, Lalla?” asked Ted over his shoulder.

    “She’s just about to tell me,” said Peter pointedly, putting the glass up and cutting the bloody man off in his prime. “You can tell him later, if you must,” he said grimly.

    “Why can’t I tell you both at once?”

    “Because,” he replied repressively. “As I was about to say, it’s hard to know where to start, but let’s get the worst over with first, shall we?”

    Lalla looked at him fearfully and he said: “‘Jimbo’?”

    “The Aussies do that,” she said limply.

    “Balls. Name one other.”

    “Steve-o.”

    “Rubbish,” he said weakly. “Apocryphal.”

    “No. I heard it on TV. It was a football player, I think.”

    “It’s impossible even to spell it!”

    “Yes,” said Lalla mildly.

    He grinned, but said: “Now tell me that yellow muck I surprised you with was just pineapple juice.”

    “That yellow muck you surprised me with was just pineapple juice.”

    “Very funny,” he said feebly.

    “No, honest!” said Lalla, laughing. “Hang on, I’ll breathe on you.” She breathed on him.

    “Pineapple fumes,” conceded Peter feebly, trying not to laugh. No other lady in his experience had breathed on him in quite that way. “And—uh— God: not seafood?"

    “Only a couple of wee shrimp thingies. What is this with you and seafood, anyway?”

    “It goes off before you can look at it, in this heat: that’s what!” he said strongly.

    “Pooh, every inch of that house is air conditioned to near freezing, and those thingies were straight out of the fridge, they were still cold.”

    “Nevertheless, please do not eat any more seafood, my nerves can’t take it.”

    “All right, I won’t eat seafood. –Is it just shellfish?” she added on a hopeful note.

    “Shellfish, crustaceans, er... sea urchins—anything that crawls or sits under the sea,” said Peter, closing his eyes in agony.

    “Sea urch— You mean sea-eggs? Kina?”

    Peter opened his eyes and goggled at her.

    “The Aussies don’t eat them!” said Lalla with a loud laugh.

    “They’re a great delicacy,” he whispered.

    “Not out here,” said Lalla with great finality. “Anyway, I’ve said, I won’t. I’m not all that fond of it, really. What can I eat?”

    “Uh—anything else, really, darling,” he said limply.

    “Oh, good,” she said, blushing.

    Peter affected not to notice the blush. “Now, what is all this about telling me all about it right away?”

    “Oh. Um—nothing. Um, just those British ladies.”

    “And?” he said grimly.

    “Um… Well, at first I thought I was paranoid, only I asked Pegeen and—and she thought they were saying it on purpose, too,” she faltered

    The long, narrow nostrils flared. “What?”

    Lalla swallowed loudly. He was awfully sexy when he did that. Terrifying as well, of course. Though probably that was part of it. “Going on about Prince Charles, I mean the Prince of Wales, and the Princess of Wales."

    Peter raised his eyebrows and drawled: “I was under the impression that it was one of your most strongly-held beliefs that I am not he?”

    “No—um—not that! Because he’s a lot older than her!” she gasped.

    After a moment he said tightly: “I see.”

    Lalla looked at him nervously. “Um, it’s stupid, you’re not that much older than me.”

    “About a dozen years, I think. I’m sorry, Lalla: I should never have let you go to the bloody thing. I might have known they’d have a go at you. I thought— Well, they were quite restrained at the bloody cocktail thing.”

    “It wasn’t too bad, really. Only Pegeen— Um, when I said it was Lady Fitzherbert, she—”

    “Christ, don’t tell me she’s alienated Belinda Fitzherbert?”

    “Not exactly. She, um, she got onto her friend, Sir Arthur, um, you know: and made him promise he wouldn’t invite them to his son’s wedding!”

    Peter’s eyebrows rose in genuine surprise. Good old Pegeen. “Er—good old Pegeen. But poor old Bruce has to sell his cows and so forth in the U.K., you know.”

    “No, he doesn’t, don’t you understand what he does?” said Miss Holcroft kindly. “He is on all those boards and so forth, only he doesn’t take an active rôle in the companies now. He’s sort of a lobbyist, really. For the beef industry.”

    “Mm,” said Peter faintly.

    “Of course he owns all those beer companies and so forth, too.”

    “Mm.”

    “Only his heart’s with the beef side of it, really.”

    “And the horses, apparently. What’s all this about us being due at the stud this Sunday?"

    Lalla looked at him doubtfully. “Pegeen said you said you’d like to.”

    “My darling moron, I might like to, but the bloody stud’s in Victoria!”

    “Ye-es... She said we’d go in the plane, though.”

    “Jesus, darling, she meant that bloody death trap of a Lear jet that bloody Bruce bullies his pilot into letting him drive!”

    Unnoticed by his employer, Ted had lowered the glass. Now he said with interest: “’E’s never crashed it yet. Woulda been in the papers. Wouldn’t be walking around, either.”

    Peter sighed. “We’ll talk about it later, Lalla. I may be able to manage it. We’ll see.”

    She looked at him hopefully, and nodded. Peter found he had mentally begun to rearrange the whole of the weekend schedule. “Was there something else, Ted?” he said pointedly.

    “Where didja say ya wanna go, again?” asked Ted unemotionally.

    “That French place. In the suburbs, I think. –I thought you said you remembered it?"

    “Oh, I remember it, all right,” he said in a voice heavy with significance.

    “And?”

    “She won’t like it, ya know,” said Ted, apparently to the ambient air.

    Peter opened his mouth to shout at him, but thought better of it. “What sort of food do you like, Lalla?”

    Lalla swallowed and looked plaintively at the back of Ted’s head.

    Ted pulled into the curb, turned round and said: “She wants to go to some Lebanese place, only she won’t tell ya, ya know.”

    “Do you?” he said grimly.

    “Um—yes. It sounds lovely. Shane’s mother likes it: it’s very clean. The lady that works there’s Chinese, but it is Lebanese.”

    “Take us to this Chinese Lebanese dump, then,” he said to his driver with huge resignation.

    “It’s right in town,” he warned.

    “JUST GO THERE!”

    Ted shrugged, and went there.

Next chapter:

https://thelallaeffect.blogspot.com/2024/01/afternoon-delights.html