Paradise Interrupted

7

Paradise Interrupted

    The phone rang and Lalla waited obediently for Merle or Kathleen to answer it, but they didn’t. Perhaps they were both busy, or one of them was in the toilet, or if the vacuum was on, they wouldn’t—

    Lalla snatched the phone up and gasped: “Hullo?”

    There was a little pause and she was going to say “Hullo?” again, but then a young female voice said grimly: “I want to speak to Mr Sale, please.”

    “Um, he isn’t here!” gasped Lalla.

    Another little pause. Then the young voice said—it had a very posh accent, very like Peter’s, but that didn’t mean Lalla still wasn’t sure it was young: “This is the right number for him, is it?”—This time Lalla thought she could hear breathing, and maybe traffic in the background? It was quite noisy, anyway. Then the girl read out a number, very slowly and, Lalla thought, angrily.

    “Um, I’m sorry, I don’t know what our number is!” gasped Lalla. “But this is the right number for Mr Sale. He’s at a business meeting.”

    Angrily the voice shouted: “Where ARE you, then?”

    “Um—here. This is the house. Oh! I see what you mean!” gasped Lalla. “Are—are you ringing from—um,”—help, what did the Aussies say—“um, interstate?”

    “What?”

    “Interstate,” said Lalla miserably. “Are you? I’m sorry. This is a Canberra number.”

    The voice might or might not have taken that on board, because what it said next, after a pause for heavy breathing, was: “A house?” Lalla then thought she heard her say something cross to someone in the background. A man’s voice said something, she thought it was “Let me talk to them,” and the girl who had rung shouted “NO!”

    “We were originally told,” said the girl’s voice grimly in Lalla’s ear, “that he was in a hotel.”

    “Ye-es... He did book in at a hotel. Only he hates them. So he got the yu—Shane to find him a house. It’s only rented,” said Lalla feebly.

    More discussion in the background. It went on for some time. Finally Lalla, thinking desperately that the call would be costing them a fortune if they were ringing from interstate, said shyly: “Are you there? I can give Peter a message, if you like.”

    “SEE?” shouted the girl’s voice furiously—not to Lalla. “She just called him Peter!”

    More confabulation in the background. Finally a man’s voice said loudly: “Give me that!”

    Then an extremely la-de-da male voice said in Lalla’s ear: “Hullo. Frightfully sorry to bother you and all that. I’m afraid you might have been given the wrong end of the stick by my idiot cousin, here. I’m Davey, by the way. –Shut up!” he added impatiently, not to Lalla. “What we’re wondering is, when’s he expected home?”

    “He’ll be home for tea,” said Lalla numbly, forgetting a previous injunction of Peter’s to call it dinner on pain of not being allowed any. “I mean dinner!” she gasped.

    “Oh, right you are. –He’ll be home for dinner,” he said, not to Lalla.

    In the background the girl cried loudly: “You mean he is in Canberra after all?” Then she came back on the line and said without preamble: “Who are you?”

    “I’m Lalla. Lalla Holcroft,” said Lalla, reddening, as she remembered her rôle. “I’m Peter’s fiancée.”

    She heard very deep breathing. Then the voice said grimly: “Say that again,” and the rumbling background noise increased: Lalla was sure she was holding the receiver out to him. She repeated glumly: “I’m Lalla Holcroft. Peter’s fiancée.” They were undoubtedly more English people like the Dire Daphne and Lady Fitzherbert, ugh. And she had undoubtedly come over as very un-fiancée-like.

    Then Davey Whoever-He-Was came back on the line and said: “I say, sorry about all that. Congrats and all, that, mm?” Sounding disconcertingly very like Peter on this last syllable.

    “What? Oh! Yes! Thank you!” gasped Lalla.

    “I say, we’re in Sydney. We sort of expected to end up in Canberra because it’s the capital—”

    “Only because you didn’t read what it said on the tickets, you moron!” shouted the girl in the background.

    Davey continued calmly: “What I’m trying to say over the noise of this babbling moron is, we’ve ended up in Sydney instead of at your version of Heathrow: could you possibly tell us how to get to Canberra?”

    Lalla knew she was hopeless at explaining things like that: oh, dear. She took a deep breath and said: “You have to get a little aeroplane.”

    To her astonishment he replied pleasedly: “Right. Little aeroplane: got that.”

    “Da-vey!” cried the girl in the background, but he ignored that and said cheerfully to Lalla: “Got any idea of what the airline’s name might be?”

    “Well,” said Lalla cautiously. “it had a Qantas flight number on my ticket, but its name was actually Eastern Airlines, I remember that, because when I got there the lady said it was in another building. And when I got there it did say Qantas only you go sort of round a corner and along a thingy and then it says Eastern Airlines. And, um, it’s got propellors, only it hardly bumped at all, and it’s only a short flight: I shouldn’t think you’ll be sick."

    “Right—right: got all that,” he said happily. “Eastern Airlines, props, under the Qantas sign, different building: right. I say, thanks very much.”

    “That’s all right,” said Lalla feebly. “Um, if your ticket says Sydney,” she said, blushing as she realised she was revealing that she’d overheard their private conversation, “then they might make you pay more money.”

    “Oh, Hell,” he said, sounding quite cheerful. “–I say,” he said, not to Lalla: “she says they’ll sock us for more moolah for the extra leg to Canberra. Got any Australian dollars?"

    “Look, just HANG UP!” shouted the girl.

    “Not yet,” he said mildly. “I say, tell ’em to save some dinner for us, will you?” he said to Lalla. “And—uh—look, would you do me an immense favour and, er, just drop it into Uncle Peter’s shell-like that I’m here? Because otherwise it might be a norful shock for him!” he ended with a laugh in his voice.

    “Y— Um, yikes, are you his nephew?” said Lalla numbly.

    “Absolutely! No, well, technically some sort of cousin, our grandfathers were cousins, sort of thing. Nearest thing to a nephew, though, and I feel the news of my arrival would definitely be better broken by a fiancée rather than yours truly!"

    “Yes,” said Lalla numbly, thinking that it very likely might be but she wasn’t a real fiancée and if Peter was going to be wild— Help.

    “I’ve walked out on my job, you see,” he said happily.

    “Y— Um, have you?”

    “DAVEY! HANG UP!” screeched the girl.

    Davey Whatever-His-Name-Was said in Lalla’s ear: “Better go. I say, you will, though, won’t you? Promise?”

    “Yes; I promise!” she gasped.

    “Thanks awfully. Well, till din-dins, then!” he said cheerfully.

    “Yes. Bye-bye,” said Lalla numbly. He hung up, so she did, too. Yikes.

    Peter had had nearly a week of Paradise on Earth with Lalla. She was still pretty shy with him, but he hadn’t expected otherwise, and frankly was enjoying it rather than otherwise. And sleeping in her pink cabbagey bed with her was— Well, Paradise on Earth, there was no other way to describe it. It wasn’t just the sex, though that was wonderful and he couldn’t get enough of it: she was so eager and not only that, just so grateful—! But the bed was a sensual experience in itself: it smelled deliciously of Lalla and of Arpège; Peter was aware that in spite of his conscientious showers he probably smelled of Lalla and of Arpège, too, and didn't care: rather the reverse, if anything; and found his thoughts wandering off at odd moments, when he should have been concentrating on business, to the scent and feel of her hair, clean and shiny and then sweaty and tangled on the pillow, and the softness of her breasts and the silkiness of her thighs... It was just as well he had a team of faithful minions around him to see that the business side of things went the way it was supposed to, because he frankly was more or less incapable of keeping track of where the Hell the negotiations were at. He didn’t kid himself that Bernie Carpenter and several other senior execs hadn’t noticed he was pretty far gone, but too bloody bad. By the Friday it was very clear that Belinda and Michael Fitzherbert also thought he was pretty far gone: for one thing bloody Belinda had stopped producing desperately girlish fortyish expats for him and for another thing the egregious Sir M. had told him five times with a wistful look in his fishy blue eye that he was a bloody lucky man.

    Good old Bruce Verrell had also told him this several times, both during and since the Sunday at the stud, but Peter didn’t think he was imagining a very odd look in his eye as he said it. But under interrogation Lalla had revealed that she hadn’t told Pegeen the truth, not even a hint, maintaining this even when tickled unmercifully, so it couldn’t be that. Though he fancied he had also picked up some pretty odd looks from Pegeen. Uh—well, possibly the old girl hadn’t thought he had it in him? God knew.

    He got home around five-thirty on the Friday, allowed the little red-headed girl who had volunteered to do the maiding to take his briefcase, said something, he couldn’t have said what, to her polite if not entirely appropriate enquiry as to how his day had been, and ran upstairs with his heart hammering. And a terrific hard-on which he didn’t give a damn if the red-headed kid was filming, let alone had noticed.

    Lalla was sitting on her pink cabbagey sofa with her feet up, but disappointingly not in the black slip which had become his favourite, nor in the negligée which with nothing under it was second-favourite, nor in his white terry robe which had got permanently transferred to her bathroom and in which she was quite incredibly cuddly. She was wearing long, loose black georgette slacks and the sleeveless white silk crossover blouse that somehow Hettie Van Buren, who seemed to have adopted her in the intervals of her adoption by Pegeen, had managed to find for her in the bloody Canberra shops. Peter was very grateful, but not to the point of offering Gary Van Buren the top job in the New York offices of QS which, he had now had time to realise, was one of the things the Van Burens were angling for.

    At the sight of him she gasped, and hurled her magazine into the air. Flattering, really!

    “Darling, we’ve got hours before dinner, yet,” he said, coming forward smiling, and picking up the magazine. It was a French Vogue. “What’s this: research?” he added with a laugh in his voice.

    Lalla nodded seriously. “Yes. The French is awfully hard, but Hettie says it’s the house style. But I can understand most of the captions under the pictures, it’s all about jewellery and watches. It’s true what you told me about your watch,” she added pleasedly.

    Peter’s jaw sagged. She had needed to have his word verified by bloody Vogue? “Let’s see,” he said limply. He flicked through it… Good God Almighty, they were reissuing them! Any recession that Europe might have experienced post-Eighties was definitely over, then... “Hul-lo!” he said with a laugh. “Pretty! –Like these, darling?”

    “I just love the koalas!” she replied innocently, smiling.

    “Mm.” The thing was silly, really: pale pink diamonds set in gold. Silly but delicious. The other creatures were also pretty, but the twin koala brooch was really something quite different. “I’ll get Shane onto— No, hang on; I pay bloody Jean-Michel enough, he can get out of his pit and answer the phone even if it is the wee small hours in Paris.” He picked up the extension and dialled.

    “Peter—”

    “Just a moment, darling.—Oui, allô, c’est toi, Jean-Michel? –Neuf heures, tu dis? Tant mieux. Écoute—” He gave orders briskly.

    Lalla watched him numbly, not understanding what he was doing.

    “Darling, what the Hell’s the French word for koala bear?” he said suddenly.

    She jumped, and gasped. “Um—hang on!” She scrambled up and looked in the magazine. “Koala,” she said feebly.

    Peter laughed. “Figures! –Une broche en forme de koalas,” he said into the phone: “une paire de koalas, bras dessus, bras dessous. Bên—attends: c’est de Graff, à Londres. Tant pis: tu t’en débrouilleras, n’est-ce pas?” He made sure that Jean-Michel would get the brooch couriered out, asked by the by how things were going at the office, didn’t listen to the reply, and hung up, smiling. “Et voilà!” he said to Lalla. He came up to her and put his arms round her. “Mmm, soft,” he said into her hair. “The brooch should be here by Monday,” he said into her hair. “You can wear it to that thing of Belinda’s next Wednesday, okay?”

    “Ye— Um, what?” she gasped in horror, pulling away from him.

    “What’s up?”

    “Peter, that brooch was in French Vogue!”

    “Mm. Nicer than some of the overdone crap they—”

    “I’m sure it’s real diamonds, even if they are pink: are you mad?” she wailed.

    “Pink diamonds, yes. Sweet.”

    “Peter, it’ll cost a fortune!”

    “Rubbish,” he drawled.

    “I can’t wear something like that!”

    “Yes, you can,” he said, holding her firmly. “I want you to.”

    After a moment Lalla said in a weak voice: “All right, I will if you want me to.”

    “Mmm,” he said into her hair, pressing himself into her belly. “Good.”

    “Peter,” said Lalla in a very weak voice: “there’s people coming.”

    “Not quite!” he said with a sudden loud laugh.

    Lalla went very red as she realised what he meant. “Not that. I mean, um, for dinner.”

    “Oh, glory, who have you invited, sweetheart?” he said resignedly.

    “Some English people. But—”

    “Never mind, we’ll have time! Told Merle to expect guests?”

    “Yes, but—”

    “Good girl,” he said in a vague voice, covering her mouth with his and getting a hand inside the cross-over blouse. Ooh, yum!

    Lalla’s knees turned to water and her tummy went all swoopy and without really meaning to she went limp against his body and threw her head back. Peter bit her neck and she gasped and clutched his back.

    He said thickly against her neck: “Let me get into you.”

    “Yes— Only—”

    He had found the zipper at the back of the black trousers and pulled it down. “’Tis all right, isn’t it? Oh: not cramps, is it? Has your period started early, darling?” According to her it was due some time this week, so at last, thank Christ, they could do it without a bloody condom.

    “No—um—Peter—”

    “That’s all right, then,” he said in a vague voice, pulling the slacks down. He got a hand inside her knickers and probed. Lalla gasped and clutched at him convulsively.

    Peter kissed her hungrily. “You’re so wet!” he said into her ear. “Let me get in there right away?”

    “Yes—um—my clothes,” said Lalla faintly.

    “Take ’em off,” he said, releasing her, breathing heavily, and fumbling with his belt buckle, “and get onto the sofa.”

    Lalla stepped out of the black slacks, picked them up and put them neatly on a chair. She began to pull the blouse off over her head, her back turned to him. Suddenly he came up behind her and put his hands over her breasts, and pressed himself against her bottom: she could feel he had it out, but he still had his trousers on. “I love you,” he said in a funny voice into her neck through the blouse,

    “I love you, too,” said Lalla in strangled tones from within the blouse as her eyes filled with tears.

    “Come on,” said Peter hoarsely, pressing himself against her bum.

    “Yes—um—there!” gasped Lalla, hauling the blouse off, very flushed. He took one hand off one in order to take the blouse from her and throw it vaguely at the chair. Then he put the hand back and put his face into the cloud of silky hair. “This is so good,” he said thickly, squeezing them.

    “Mm!” she squeaked.

    “Get on the sofa. –No, leave the knickers on.”

    Lalla’s knees were shaking but she managed to get to the sofa. He was still fully dressed apart from his jacket, but it was sticking out of his pants. She tried not to stare but found her eyes were glued to it.

    “I’m bloody nearly coming,” said Peter through his teeth, hauling his trousers off.

    “Yes,” she said faintly.

    He tore his underpants off and, shaking like a leaf, came up to the sofa. “Hell, those knickers are so—” They were palest pink, like the diamond koalas. And so diaphanous that they managed to show every inch of the pubic hair, absurd bikini-line and all. His legs shook violently as he pulled them off her. Biting down hard on his lip, he got between her legs. “Let me,” he said through his teeth.

    “Yes,” said Lalla faintly. “I want you to.”

    Peter fell on top of her, covered her mouth with his, probed blindly for a moment, thinking damn, she wasn’t at quite the right angle— And then slid in.

    Lalla gasped and put her legs right up and clutched his back fiercely and said: “Oh!” and: “OH!” as he gave her one stroke, and then clenched furiously on him and shrieked. And Peter was lost, pounding into her, showering into her...

    About five centuries later he stirred and said: “I think we managed it.”

    “Yesh,” she said thickly.

    Peter panted for a while. “God,” he muttered.

    “Mm.”

    A couple of centuries after that he came to sufficiently to take his weight off her. But not to do much more: he just rolled against the back of the sofa and buried his face in her shoulder, still half on top of her. “I love you, Lalla,” he muttered into her hair.

    “Yes. Won’ful,” she said faintly.

    Peter took her hand: it was very hot and sticky. “Say you love me,” he muttered into her hair with his eyes tight shut.

    The hot little hand moved agitatedly in his. Finally she said in a tiny forced voice: “I love you.”

    Peter lay half on top of her and sighed deeply into her hair. After quite some time he admitted: “Bloody Kitty used to say it as a matter of course—it was meaningless. And Sylvia found out that if she said it when I was in her, it made me come. The bitch used to say it when she was fed up with me, to make me come and get it over with.”

    Lalla’s ears rang. After quite some time she managed to say: “That’s terrible."

    “Not really. Absurd, I suppose.”

    “No,” she said in a strangled voice, struggling to get her arms round him.

    There was an instant in which he debated whether he was going to let her; then he raised his torso and Lalla put both arms round him and hugged him to her strongly.

    “When you hug me against your tits like that,” said Peter into the hair, “I—uh— It’s damn’ silly.”

    “Mm?”

    “I want to bawl all over you, I don’t know why the Hell. Damn’ silly,” he said with a sigh. “Hug me.” He lay half on top of her and let her hug him.

    “You aren’t, are you?” she said after some time.

    “No.” He took a deep breath. “Feel at peace, actually."

    Lalla leaned her head against his and sighed deeply.

    They were both in a sort of languorous stupor, and Peter was just about awake enough to realise that the air conditioning in her room was off and that a part of the stupor was due to the Canberra afternoon humidity—but not enough to do anything about it—when there was a tap at the door.

    “Ooh!” she gasped, jumping and clutching him convulsively.

    “It’s all right,” he murmured, smiling. He kissed one pink nipple and yelled: “JUST A MINUTE!”

    “Peter!” hissed Lalla in agony.

    “Stay there,” he said, grinning. He got up and wandered into the bedroom. When he came back with his white terry robe on she was still on the sofa, but had her legs jammed tight together and an expression of excruciating agony on her face. He dropped the lacy negligée on top of her. Lalla clutched it to her bosom, looking horrified.

    “Yes?” he called loudly, perching on the sofa by her thighs.

    The little red-headed kid came in. “Shane asked me to ask you if it’s all right to use the car to pick them up.”

    “Er—whom?” replied Peter politely.

    “The, um, English guests,” she said with an agonised glance at Lalla.

    “Oh! Yes, of course, tell him to use the bloody— Wait a bit; is he here?"

    “Yes: he checked at the hotel and there were lots of messages, so he came round, only Merle said not to disturb you until— I mean,” she gasped, turning purple, “not to disturb you!”

    “Good for Merle, I most certainly wouldn’t have wanted to be disturbed until,” murmured Peter. Beside him he heard Lalla gulp. The little red-head also gulped, and gave him a look of sheer agony.

    Shoulders shaking slightly, Peter managed to say: “Well, tell him to take the car if he must, but can’t someone else do it? Someone whose job it might be?” he suggested delicately. “Ted, for instance?"

    “Um…” She looked agonisedly at Lalla.

    “It’s his granddaughter’s birthday tomorrow and he’s making her a dolls’ house and it isn’t quite finished, so I said—”

    “Enough, already,” he groaned, clutching his head.

    “The paint has to have time to—”

    “Yes, yes,” he groaned. “Fair enough: Ted has to have the rest of the day off after having had the exhausting experience of driving me into the downtown area once and then driving me to lunch. Oh, and driving back here to blackmail you into letting him take the rest of the day off, presumably.”

    “You did say you’d get a lift home.”

    “So I did. –Please tell Shane there is no need for him to deputise personally for Ted. In fact, please tell him to hire a limousine and driver immediately for tonight,” he said to the red-headed kid.

    “Yeah— Um—” Another agonised look at Lalla.

    “Did he say he’d better do it himself, Kathleen?” she said.

    “Yeah!” she squeaked, nodding.

    “Yes, well, I think he better had.”

    Kathleen was looking uneasily at Peter. He waved a limp hand. “Go, go, put a girdle round the earth in twenty minutes: thy fairy mistress has spoken,” he groaned.

    “Peter!” said Lalla indignantly. “Stop teasing! –Shane could collect them, Kathleen, but then he can go home, of course.”

    Beaming, Kathleen replied: “I’ll tell him! Thanks, Lalla!” And vanished before, presumably, Peter could countermand this order, or shout at her, or shout at the pair of them, or commit whichever terrible act of the various terrible possibilities she was apparently envisaging should please His Majesty’s Grace. God!

    “God,” he groaned.

    “You shouldn’t tease her. She never knows if you’re serious or not: most of the time you’re so cool and unemotional, she can’t believe it when you make a joke.”

    “Eh?” he croaked.

    “Yes. She never knows how to take you."

    “Good God,” he said feebly.

    “It’s your face,” she explained helpfully.

    Peter felt his face in fright.

    “Don’t!” she squeaked, laughing helplessly.

    Immediately he fell on her and began to tickle her unmercifully… And what with this, that and the other—the other appeared particularly to appeal—it wasn’t long before she writhed violently, shrieked like a banshee, and had another convulsive come for him. By his watch, which somehow or another he had forgotten to remove, or even to reverse, that was two in the space of an hour and forty minutes. Not bloody bad going.

    After that she just lay back spent, looking blankly up at him, panting.

    “I won’t ask you to do anything for me, because I haven’t got your stamina,” he said, grinning all over his face.

    Lalla just panted.

    “But I will just say, if you hadn’t just given me about the most Godalmighty shattering come of my entire existence, I might be tempted,” he said, grinning.

    “Flattering!” she gasped.

    “No. Just true.” He bent forward and gently kissed her breasts.

    “I love you so much, Peter!” said Lalla in a high, shaken voice.

    “That’s a bloody good thing, considering what you’ve just let me do with me tongue.”

    Lalla smiled shakily and he lay down beside her and put an arm over her torso. “Tell me if you get chilly, darling.”

    “Mm.”

    After a few moments he said into her ear: “It was lovely, darling, I loved it: I loved having you want me like that."

    “I thought...” said Lalla in the thread of a voice: “being… greedy.”

    “No! Never!”

    “Good,” she said, smiling, and closing her eyes.

    Peter kissed her eyelids very gently…

    It must have been about twenty minutes later that she opened her eyes with a gasp. “Peter—!”

    “Still here,” he said, smiling muzzily. “Darling, if you took this poor old man in your nice little hand, I might be able to—”

    “This is terrible!” she gasped, bolt upright,

    Peter looked sadly at it. “Not terrible, surely? Not considering what he’s been through, not to say into, this afternoon?"

    “Not that!” she gasped.

    “What?” he said, putting an arm round her and tweaking one.

    “Ooh! Um, the guests,” said Lalla, swallowing.

    “Mm? Oh—bugger.” He squinted at his watch. “Oh. Well, dare say little Whatsername will give us a shout if they arrive while we’re in the shower—or what about in the bath?”

    “Just LISTEN!” she shouted.

    Peter cowered. “I’m listening, I’m listening,” he whispered.

    Lalla took a deep breath. “Peter—”

    “Still here.”

    “Yeah. Um—listen."

    “I am listening,” he said mildly. “Darling, don’t you think a lovely cool bath—”

    “No! They’re coming!”

    “Not just yet,” he murmured. “And I wasn’t thinking of that, quite: just a nice little play, and save it up for tonight— What?” he said, looking at her in surprise.

    “Don’t be wild,” said Lalla with tears in her eyes.

    “I promise not to be wild,” said Peter mildly. “What is it?”

    “It’s your nephew,” said Lalla in a hollow voice. “He rang up.”

    “Oh, yes?”

    “You’re not listening! He wanted me to tell you that that— Don’t do that,” she said feebly.

    Peter stopped playing with her belly-button. “Tell me what?”

    “Um, that he’s wuh-walked out on his job.”

    “Which nephew was this?”

    “Um, he said he wasn’t a real nephew. Something like that. Um, Davey, that’s right.”

    “Lalla, you’re not telling me that bloody Davey Sale’s had the bloody gall to ring you and ask you to break the good news to me?”

    “Y— Um, bad news,” corrected Lalla in bewilderment.

    “Good: the people at QS have been bending my ear about him for the past year. Well, that’s typical of him, cowardly little shit. But thank you for passing on the message, sweetheart.”

    “NO!” shouted Lalla desperately. “You’re not LISTENING! He’s coming HERE!”

    “Oh? Oh, good God: these guests tonight: you don’t mean it’s bloody Davey?”

    “Yes: it’s him and his awful girlfriend, and—and I’m not sure whether I should have said it or not.”

    “If you mean asked bloody Davey Sale—what in God’s name he’s doing out here— Sorry: if you mean asked bloody Davey to dinner,” he said: “definitely not. No, no, it’s all right, sweetheart, what else could you do?"

    Lalla looked at him dubiously.

    “Don’t tell me that’s not the worst of it?"

    “N— Um—you’ve got me so muddled that I don’t know what I’ve told you, now!”

    He laughed and picked up her hand and put it on his member. “Oh, God, darling! That’s so nice!”

    “Peter, you’re not listening! I think he might be expecting to stay with us!”

    “Mm?”

    “He was at the airport, I mean he was at Sydney airport, with a girl—”

    “Par for the course,” he murmured.

    “But they thought their tickets would bring them here, or—I’m not sure! Only I bet they haven’t booked into a hotel!” she gasped.

    “They certainly won’t have if it is bloody Davey Sale, the boy’s middle name’s ‘Free Lunch’. Have you warned Mrs Whats— Sorry, sorry: Merle?”

    “Yes. Is it all right?” said Lalla incredulously.

    “Well, no, it’s a pest and a bore, and I can’t imagine why he’s come out here—I’d have thought, if he has chucked the job, that running very fast in the opposite direction from me would’ve been his next move—but don’t forget we’re off up-country next week. We’ll leave the little buggers behind, okay?”

    She nodded numbly. “Do you really want me to come, too?”

    “Yes, of course! Don’t tell me you haven’t fixed up about your leave yet?”

    Lalla saw he was looking rather sick. “Yes, I have. Only I thought you might change your mind.”

    “Balls. I never change my mind,” drawled Peter.

    She smiled uneasily and twisted the false engagement ring on her finger. “No. We’d better hurry up. It doesn’t take long to get to the airport, Shane’ll probably be back any minute.”

    Groaning, Peter said: “Can we at least shower together?”

    “Um, better not,” said Lalla uneasily. “Um, you’d better go first.”

    “Slave-driver,” he groaned, trailing off obediently to the bathroom.

    Thanks to this stern treatment they made it downstairs in respectable time after all and were sitting in the hideous white room on the monstrous bow-bedecked white sofa, sipping pre-dinner drinks very properly, when the front doorbell was heard. Lalla in her black georgette pants with the tight, stiffened georgette belt that emphasised her narrow waist, and the white cross-over blouse and the double string of pearls he’d bought her, plus the large baroque pearl earrings he’d also bought her, conscientiously furrowing her brow over the Vogue, and Peter, having given in to the ambience or possibly having been brainwashed by the bloody bird of paradise stalks, in black silk dinner pants, a white pleated dress shirt, a bright blue silk bowtie which Lalla had spotted in a large department store and betted him he’d be too chicken to wear, and a white tux. Well, it was the Tropics. Or the birds of paradise certainly thought so. He hadn’t admitted to anybody, least of all to his false fiancée, that he rather fancied himself in the outfit. He was reading Barnaby Rudge: he hadn’t totally given in.

    They heard Kathleen’s steps on the parquet, and then the sound of the door opening.

    Then a high, clear, grimly determined voice that Peter Sale would have recognised in the sorts of conditions that had been endured by Lear—with whom at this precise moment he felt considerable empathy—said: “Who are you?”

    “Kathleen,” the poor child quavered.

    “That’s the girl,” murmured Lalla.

    Peter took a deep breath and put Barnaby Rudge down. “Isn’t it, though. –No, just stay there, Lalla, don’t move.”

    Lalla laid the Vogue on her lap and didn’t move.

    “Candida, she must be the maid, you moron!” said bloody Davey Sale’s voice. “We are sort of expected,” he said nicely, turning on the charm in the way in which his uncle was only too well aware he could. And knew he could, the little sod.

    “That’s him!” hissed Lalla.

    Peter nodded grimly. And why the irresponsible little bastard hadn’t rung him—!

    “Is that all that their luggage, Shane?” squeaked Kathleen.

    “No!” gasped the yuppie’s voice. “There’s more!”

    “Where is he?” interrupted Candida’s voice angrily.

    “In there,” replied Kathleen limply.

    “Is she with him?” she demanded fiercely.

    “Yeah—um—Lalla? Yes, of course!” she gasped.

    There was the sound of footsteps crossing the parquet.

    Then the door opened and Peter’s thirteen-year-old daughter stood there, glaring at him accusingly.

    “I’m afraid,” said Peter coolly to Lalla, “that whoever rang from the airport didn’t tell you the whole truth, darling.” No further bodies appeared, so he bellowed: “DAVEY! GET IN HERE!”

    Davey appeared, looking sheepish. “Hullo, Uncle Peter. –I say, hullo!” he added to Lalla. “I’m Davey Sale. You must be Lalla, right? We spoke on the phone.”

    “Of course she is! Look at her!” said the pretty little fair girl with the cat-like face witheringly.

    Peter took a deep breath. “It’s lovely to see you, too. What are you doing here, may I ask?”

    The girl shouted: “I’ve come to see YOU! And who IS she?”

    Peter put his arm round the bewildered Lalla. “As you may have gathered from the appalling manners, Lalla, darling,” he said coolly. “this is my daughter, Candida. This is Lalla Holcroft,” he added coldly to his daughter, forcibly holding Lalla in her seat, “and if you haven’t heard she’s my fiancée, you may as well hear it now.”

    “Of course we heard! Some beast sent Mummy a fax, and that Fitzherbert cow rang Granny, and it’s all over School!” screamed his daughter.

    “A fax?” said Peter mildly to Davey, raising his eyebrows slightly.

    Davey stood on one leg. “Um, well, yes, all over the City, too, Uncle Peter. Just a photo out of some local rag, only, um, some wag had added a headline.” Peter was just opening his mouth to wither him when he elaborated miserably: “Or two.”

    Peter blinked.

    Davey cleared his throat. “No, well, thing is, think some ass at the High Commission started it this end, and then, um, some of the types at the FCO sort of, um, tried to cap it.”

    “‘For Sale’?” suggested his uncle sweetly. “‘Sale Price’? ‘Sold’?”

    “Y— Um, something like that,” he muttered miserably.

    “But Peter—!” hissed Lalla agitatedly.

    “Ssh,” he said, squeezing her. “Come along,” he said coldly to the pair of them: “if you two have come halfway round the world without a word of warning, you may as well make yourselves comfortable during the explanations.”

    Candida glared horribly, but came to sit in a solid white armchair near his end of the sofa, and Davey, looking sheepish, perched on the edge of another one nearer to Lalla’s end.

    “First,” said Peter grimly to his thirteen-year-old daughter, “does your mother know what the Devil you’re up to?”

    “YES!” she shouted furiously. “She paid for the tickets!”

    Peter’s long mouth tightened. “I see. The fact that it’s the middle of term would be irrelevant, I take it?”

    “Miss Mortimer’s a horrid old cow and I’m not going back,” stated Candida grimly.

    Davey cleared his throat. “Didn’t they tell you?”

    “Manifestly not,” said Peter coldly.

    “Oh. Um—sacked,” he said uncomfortably, with an uneasy glance at his cousin.

    “Keep out of this, Davey!” she snapped.

    “Sacked for what?” demanded her father grimly.

    Pouting, Candida replied: “Nothing. Mummy said she was writing to you, but I bet she just took off for Jamaica and forgot all about it!”

    “Decided to go with George and Virginia Sutten-Waddingham,” said Davey, clearing his throat. “Last minute sort of thing. Weather’s been beastly.”

    “Shut up, Davey. –What did they sack you for?” persisted Peter grimly.

    After the expectable “Nothing” and a certain amount of pouting Candida revealed that she’d set fire to the gym. Lalla gave a horrified gasp.

    “I’m not a pyromaniac, cretin,” said Peter Sale’s thirteen-year-old daughter witheringly in his very tones. “I did it to make them sack me.”

    “It worked,” agreed Davey mildly.

    Peter awarded him a hard look. “Shut up. –I don’t know what you imagined you were going to do out here, Candida, but you can bloody well go to the local school, or get straight on the next plane home and stay with your grandmother until we find another school for you. –And I don’t mean Maman,” he said grimly as she opened her mouth.

    “NO!” she shouted. “I’m NOT going to stay with Granny! I hate her!”

    “School here, then. –The schools are back, are they, Lalla?”

    “Um, I think so,” said Lalla, very flushed. The more so as, while Candida’s fair, spiky hair was much lighter than Peter’s brown, and her face was wide and cat-shaped, very unlike his regular-featured, oval face, her eyes were his well-shaped cold grey ones. And of course her voice was a little, light girl’s voice, but its intonations were exactly his.

    “Right,” he said grimly. “Lalla, darling, could you show Davey up to his room? I dare say he’d like a shower before dinner.”

    Thankfully Lalla got up and led Davey out.

    “If you’ve got anything more to say, you’d better get it over with,” said Peter coldly.

    Glaring and very red, Candida retorted: “I was going to say, who is she, because no-one at home’s ever heard of any Holcrofts, but honestly! She’s only got to open her mouth!”

    “Cretin,” replied Peter calmly.

    Candida looked extremely disconcerted.

    “She’s a New Zealander, you earless oik.”

    After a moment she managed to say sulkily: “There you are, then.”

    Peter leaned back on the sofa and crossed his legs. “She’s certainly nobody in your snobby little terms.”

    “Mummy was right, and you’re going to regret it!” she cried loudly.

    “Rubbish,” he drawled. “Haven’t you got more sense than to listen to the nonsense she dishes out? You used to. Or does it wear off with puberty?”

    Very red, Candida cried: “No! Don’t be horrible! She’s not suitable for you, Daddy!”

    Peter raised his eyebrows and drawled: “I suppose you’d claim that Monica was?”

    Angrily Candida snapped back: “At least Mummy’s from a decent family!”

    “Decent. Mm. The late Sutten sold his daughter for a mess of pottage and the late Waddingham bought a bride a quarter of his age.”

    “You know what I mean!” she shouted.

    “I most certainly do, and I’d take my dying oath that whatever other interests Lalla may turn out to have besides yours truly, they won’t include bloody bridge or bloody point-to-point, or one-upmanship with Mummy and Mummy’s bloody county neighbours.”

    “Do you mean Granny?” she said in a puzzled voice.

    Peter groaned. “Yes, you purblind infant, I do. –Incidentally, why in God’s name did you pick Davey to escort you? Or did Monica order him to?”

    “He threw in his job and Mummy said as he hadn’t anything better to do— Never mind all that! You can’t seriously want to marry her, Daddy! Ten to one she’s after your money and nothing else!”

    Peter laughed suddenly. “I can assure you she’s not that, bless her!”

    Candida had expected anger, not laughter. And certainly not to hear her father use a phrase like “bless her.” She swallowed, but managed to say: “Anyway, she’s a nobody. She’ll never fit into your world!”

    Peter got up. “I doubt very much you know what my ‘world’ is, Candida: you’ve never shown the slightest interest in it. I grant you your mother’s always discouraged you from doing so. –Come along, you’d better have a wash before dinner.” He went over to the door, not looking to see if she was coming.

    Sulkily Candida followed him out.

    “Oh,” said Lalla uncertainly, coming back into the sitting-room to find it occupied only by a scowling Candida Sale.

    Candida merely scowled at her.

    Lalla sat down on the sofa again, not saying anything because she couldn’t think of anything to say.

    After quite some time Candida demanded grimly: “How did you meet my father?”

    “Um—” Uncomfortably Lalla told her the story concocted for the benefit of Lady Fitzherbert. It wasn’t a very convincing story, in that it consisted, more or less, of their having bumped into each other at a party, but Candida didn’t seem to notice.

    “He said you’re a New Zealander.”

    “Yes.”

    “Who are your family?” she demanded.

    After a moment Lalla said faintly: “I never really thought people said that, before I started meeting, um, English people. I suppose I mean upper-class English people.”

    Candida just glared angrily.

    “No-one, I suppose you’d say,” said Lalla feebly.

    There was a short silence. Finally Candida said grimly: “What does your father do?”

    “Um, he’s retired. Um, well, he used to be in insurance. In the big office in town, he didn’t sell it. I suppose you’d say he was a clerk.”

    Candida took a deep breath. “Then what makes you imagine you could possibly have a single thing in common with my father?”

    “Um… I think we have got a few things in common,” said Lalla dubiously, thinking it over. “We both like reading… We usually think the same things are funny.”

    Candida took another deep breath. “What you mean is,” she said grimly, “you laugh when he makes one of his pathetic jokes!”

    “I suppose I do, usually.”

    Candida looked at her in a baffled, angry way.

    “I'm sorry,” said Lalla miserably.

    “SORRY!” she shouted. “What a bloody lie!”

    Lalla bit her lip and wished she could tell her the truth, but Peter had just ordered her not to. What could he be playing at? Was he deliberately trying to hurt his daughter? Or—or scare her, perhaps? But why? Well… punish her, maybe? But he must be able to see that setting fire to the gym had been, whatever Candida herself might claim, an attention-getting device? And that, however much of a hand her awful mother had had in the thing, Candida had come out here because she loved him? She looked at the bony, cat-like, cross little face and thought involuntarily, though she had no impulse towards liking for Candida Sale: “Poor little thing.”

    “Don’t think,” said Candida, her mouth turned down sourly, “that I’ll ever let you have him.”

    Lalla looked at her distressfully and was incapable of uttering.

    As the New Zealander appeared indifferent to her threatening tone, Candida took a deep breath and tried bribery. “The family will never accept you. My Great-Grandmother Sale will give you—” She paused. Old Lady Sale, on being shown a copy of the fax sent to Monica, had merely sniffed and said: “Distasteful. Though could anything be worse than that Sylvia creature? And he is a grown man, my dear: it isn’t really our business.” Angrily Candida had urged her to pay the woman off but at that point the old lady’s attendant had come into the room and firmly removed her. It was time for my Lady’s afternoon nap and Miss Candida should know better than to upset her. Angrily Candida had shouted that Great-Granny wasn’t gaga, she was sharper than any of them, and why did they all behave as if she was gaga? And she (Candida) wasn’t a baby!

    “Fifty thousand pounds to give him up,” she concluded grimly.

    Lalla’s jaw dropped.

    “Hah!” said Candida triumphantly. “I thought that’d make you see sense!”

    “No!” she gasped. “I—”

    She broke off, very red, as Peter came into the room carrying a tray on which reposed a bottle of Perrier and several tumblers.

    He handed Candida a glass. “No lime, Merle’s put it in the dinner.” And sat down beside Lalla.

    “Peter,” said Lalla in a very low voice, “aren’t you being awfully mean?”

    He put his arm round her shoulders. “Yes.”

    Lalla gulped, and was silent.

    The dinner turned out to be distinctly odd, but though under normal circumstances Lalla would have been worried because Peter wasn’t enjoying it, today she could only reflect that it was a blessing. It was giving him something else to think about and Candida something else to scoff at and complain about besides her or him.

    The starter was avocado. Not with the normal Australian prawns: Lalla had warned Merle about Peter’s feelings on the subject of seafood in summer. She looked at it numbly.

    “What is it?” asked Davey with simple interest.

    “Avocado, you moron!” snapped his cousin.

    “Yes. I meant the dish,” he said, looking at Lalla expectantly. “Has it got a name?”

    “Um, I don’t think so. Merle said,” said Lalla weakly, mentally thanking her lucky stars that Davey had at least waited until Kathleen had left the room, “that it’s got fresh pineapple, and, um, ricotta cheese, and um, pine nuts, and mint and some other herb, and, um—”

    “Mar’schino cherries,” discerned Davey through one.

    “Mm.” Well, they were some sort of preserved cherry that Lalla had never had before.

    “What’s this pool of stuff it’s sitting in?” he asked, poking it with his spoon.

    “Mango sauce,” said Peter languidly. “You’re in the Tropics. And the second herb is basil, if anyone was wondering.”

    “It’s not the Tropics, silly,” said Lalla weakly.

    “Peculiar,” decided Davey cheerfully, swallowing.

    “Quite.” Peter scooped up a small portion of ricotta and pineapple.

    “Don’t eat it if you don’t like it, Peter,” said Lalla feebly.

    “I’m damned hungry. And this is vegetarian: terribly good for me,” he said, straight-faced.

    “It’s disgusting,” declared Candida grimly, pushing her plate aside.

    “Rubbish. You’d lap it up at forty-seven times the price of what it cost Mrs Linarello to make if it was served up to you in one of those tatty dumps your mother frequents in London under the mistaken impression they’re nouvelle.” Peter ate a large spoonful of avocado. “Or even cuisine,” he said languidly.

    “Is avocado expensive in England?” ventured Lalla timidly.

    Peter ate another large mouthful of his. “Very expensive if you only eat it in restaurants. What did Merle pay for these, about a dollar-fifty each?”

    “Ninety cents: she got them on special.”

    Davey had been doing the arithmetic. “Eh?” he croaked.

    Peter eyed him drily. “Mm.”

    “I see,” he said limply. “Um, it’s really not bad, Candida. Fresh.”

    Candida just sniffed and hunched herself up crossly.

    When Kathleen came in to clear, Davey’s plate was scraped clean, Peter had left most of his mango sauce, all of his Maraschino cherries and his basil leaves, Lalla had only left her basil leaves—she had nearly gagged on her Maraschino cherries, expecting them to taste like the glacé ones, but had forced them down in order not to hurt Merle’s feelings—and Candida’s plate was untouched.

    “Don’t you like avocado?” asked Kathleen in concern.

    “Just take it away, Kathleen: if she’s determined to starve herself, let her,” said Peter firmly. “What’s Mrs Linarello got for us next?”

    “It’s an entrée,” explained Kathleen helpfully. “Kind of shish-kebabs.”

    “That sounds nice,” he said kindly.

    Kathleen exited, beaming.

    “‘Kind of shish-kebabs’? Honestly, Daddy!” snorted Candida.

    “You’re free to go to bed,” he noted.

    Candida hunched herself up crossly.

    Merle had gone all out with the kind of shish-kebabs. They were presented on large oval royal blue plates, the plates being almost covered with large sections of very bright, coarse green vegetable-matter. Davey poked at it with his fork. “What on earth?”

    “I think they’re pieces of banana leaves,” said Lalla shyly.

    “Banana leaves?” he croaked.

    “I said it was the Tropics,” noted his uncle imperturbably.

    “The house has got a sort of greenhouse,” said Lalla, swallowing hard. “Merle said why let the leaves go to waste. Um, she says the Canberra winters are too cold for bananas to grow outside.”

    Davey nodded, attacking his shish-kebabs eagerly. They consisted of pieces of pale but charred meat interspersed with pieces of banana, pieces of fresh though charred pineapple, pieces of charred onion, less than half-cooked, pieces of almost entirely uncooked, though charred, red capsicum, with the pointed end of each skewer, of which they all had two—the skewers all present and correct—being decorated with chunks of… “Prune,” he discovered, smiling.

    “Putrid,” said Candida tightly.

    “Pooh.” Davey examined the flower at the side of his banana leaf with interest. Not edible. Possibly hibiscus. “Exotic,” he pronounced happily.

    “Exactly.” Peter was watching Lalla out of the corner of his eye. Eventually he said in a low voice: “Darling, it’s chicken. The meat’s not off: I’d say she’s soaked it in coconut milk.”

    “Oh,” said Lalla, sagging. “I couldn’t think—”

    “Exactly!” said Candida with vicious satisfaction. She poked disdainfully at one of her skewers. “Mummy will die—positively die—when I tell her about this!”

    “Good,” said her father calmly. “Do you require me to remove your food from your skewers?”

    “No!” she said angrily, hunching herself up.

    He shrugged, and poured a local Chardonnay for Davey, Lalla and himself.

    Surprisingly, when the pork fillet in peanut, orange and lime sauce arrived Candida made no comment. Well, it was at least recognisable as pork. Unobtrusively Peter scraped most of the peanut sauce off his. The plate was adorned with slivers of red chilli but it was easy to ignore these.

    The pudding was orange. Er… layered. Possibly based on a Spanish cream? Peter gave in. “Darling, what is it? Is it a cream?” he said limply.

    “Um, we call it fluffy jelly, at home,” said Lalla. “It hasn’t got cream in it, Peter—honest.”

    It looked bloody like it had cream in it, and really, on top of the coconut sauce with the chicken kebabs and the peanut sauce with the pork—

    “You make the jelly, see, and then you whip you the eggs separately, and, um, I think Merle said the word is fold… Yes, you fold the whites into it. Then you put it in the fridge. She made it this morning.”

    “The yolks go into the jelly, first, do they? Never mind, darling, dish it up,” he said, smiling at her.

    The jelly was out of a packet: nothing in Nature could possibly have attained that shade. Or taste. Peter ate a very small portion, mainly fluff from the top layer.

    “I’m sorry,” said Lalla in a low voice. “She’d made it before I came downstairs, you see.”

    Peter shook his head, smiling a little, watching Davey lap up his third helping and Candida her second.

    They had coffee in the sitting-room. Lalla watched numbly as Peter let his thirteen-year-old daughter have a cup of the very black, strong coffee which Merle’s former husband had taught her to make and which was, she had by now realised, the only aspect of Merle’s cooking of which Peter truly approved.

    “Maman always lets her have it,” he murmured.

    Lalla jumped. “Oh! Um—yes.”

    Candida looked up from her cup, and glared. “What business is it of hers?”

    “That’ll do. I think you’d better go to bed,” he said without interest.

    “N— Um, don’t you want to, um, talk, Peter?” gulped Lalla.

    “No. I may have a word with Davey, here, but there is really nothing more Candida and I have to say to each other. –Is there?”

    “Yes,” his daughter retorted, glaring.

    “Well, say it tomorrow,” he said without interest. “Off you go—you, too, Davey; I suppose it can wait until tomorrow.”

    Davey had already given several wide yawns. He got up in some relief. “Right you are, Uncle Peter. Come on, Candida, he’s not going to run away, is he?”

    “Alternatively,” drawled Peter, looking down at his nose at her, “you could speak to your mother. I intend ringing her tonight.”

    Glaring, Candida got up and marched out.

    “That worked,” conceded Davey. “Er—well, goodnight, then. Goodnight, Lalla. Great to meet you. Uh—don’t take any notice of her, will you?”

    “Um, no,” said Lalla limply. “Goodnight, Davey.”

    “Breakfast,” said Peter in a bored tone, “will be available until nine-thirty. Those who lack consideration for Mrs Linarello in this matter will find themselves persona non grata.”

    “Right you are, Uncle Peter!” he said with his easy grin, going.

    Lalla looked limply at Peter.

    “Yes?”

    “Don’t raise your eyebrows at me! I think you’re awful!” she hissed.

    “Mm, I’d gathered that. Do I need to point out that it was never part of my plan to—ah—apprise Monica of the glad news? Let alone Candida.”

    “You might at least tell her the truth!” she hissed.

    “Might I? Well, I confess the thought did cross my mind—before she opened her spiteful, prejudiced little mouth. Now I’m more of a mind to see how far she’ll go.”

    “Peter,” said Lalla heavily, “she’s just a little girl. She loves you, can’t you see that? Of course she’s jealous; I’d hate me, too, in the circumstances.”

    “Mm. Would you behave so badly, though?”

    “Probably not,” admitted Lalla honestly. “But that might only be because I was scared of you.”

    “Thanks,” he drawled.

    “At least she’s got guts. But can’t you see that most of it’s your wife’s fault?”

    “Ex-wife,” said Peter expressionlessly.

    “Yes,” she said impatiently. “She’s pushed her into it: surely that sticks out a mile?”

    “No, I don’t think it does,” he said thoughtfully. “My guess would be, encouraged her once Candida got the idea into her head and she realised how bloody embarrassing and annoying it could be for me to have her turn up out of the blue.”

    Lalla glared. “None of that justifies you being so mean and horrible!”

    “Possibly not. But as I say, I’m giving her enough rope to hang herself.”

    “For Heaven’s sake, she’s only thirteen!”

    “Thirteen is old enough to know right from wrong, darling, and also to know when you’re behaving like a spoilt brat.”

    “Yes, but not to be able to stop yourself. Or want to. Don’t say she could if she wanted to, because she can’t: it’s hormones or something.”

    “The hormones are what’s prompting her to act it out, yes, I agree. But as to where all the unwarranted spite is coming from…”

    Lalla got up, sighing. “Probably it’s got something to do with you and her mother splitting up when she was only tiny, and hardly ever seeing you since. Don’t tell me about holidays with your Maman, because I know exactly what’ll have happened: you’ll have got her there and then spent all the time on the phone or in stupid breakfast meetings. And however badly she behaves, I don’t see that it can possibly justify you lying to the poor little cree—” She broke off hurriedly.

    “Poor little cree?” said Peter politely.

    Very red, Lalla bit her lip. “All right, I do think she’s a little creep, but at least I feel sorry for her! Heck, I thought my cousin Coralie’s Bernice had it pretty bad, only she does see her rotten father and his second family every other weekend.”

    He sighed. “Before she started at her school, Candida was supposed to see me every other weekend. Monica successfully circumvented most of the visits. But during the school holidays, if Monica hasn’t dragged her off to warmer climes without consulting me, she does sees m—”

    “Yeah, you and ya ruddy breakfast meetings!” said Lalla nastily. “I’m going to bed, I feel really drained.”

    Peter got up hurriedly. “Darling, I’m sorry. Look, I will tell her the truth, I promise. Only— Well, she’s been very rude, and I think she deserves to stew in her own juice for one night, mm?”

    “Peter,” said Lalla with tears in her eyes, “she’s only thirteen! How can you?”

    He bit his lip. “Very well, I’ll go up and speak to her. Uh—well, can I have a brandy, first?”

    “Mm,” said Lalla, watching him dubiously as he went over to the white cabinet which contained the drinks.

    “I will, I promise,” he said heavily.

    “All right, then,” she conceded, going out.

    Grimly Peter poured himself a very large Cognac.

    When he tapped softly at her door and went in, Candida was fast asleep, curled into a tight ball under an iris-patterned duvet which matched the frightful wallpaper and appalling curtains—the irises being something like six feet high. The air conditioning was going full blast. Peter turned it off, opened a window slightly, and tiptoed out.

    “She’s out for the count,” he reported, finding Lalla sitting up in bed with the Vogue. “I’ll speak to her tomorrow; okay?”

    “Yes. Only mind you do.”

    “Why is it,” he said heavily, sitting on the edge of the bed, “that you can never take my word for a thing?”

    “Can’t I? Well, I dunno. I suppose because you’re a big businessman,” she said vaguely.

    He eyed her wildly but she appeared sincere. “Take this, turn to the back, and see if you can find the time difference between here and Jamaica,” he said, handing her the telephone book from the office.

    “Jamaica?” said Lalla dubiously, as he began unlacing his shoes.

    “That’s apparently where Monica is.”

    “Oh.” Lalla looked in the book, frowning.

    “Any luck?” he said eventually, grabbing his dressing-gown.

    “No. Are you going to have another shower? I’ve never known a man, no, make that a human being, take so many showers,” she said detachedly.

    “Some ladies would prefer one to shower before joining them in their pink cabbagey Paradise,” he noted politely.

    “Paradise!” said Lalla, very startled.

    “Yes,” said Peter firmly, smiling at the blush: “Paradise. But I’ll join you in all my dirt if you’d rather.”

    “You can't possibly be dirty: you had a shower just before dinner and those clothes just came back from the cleaners this morning.”

    “And you’ve never known a man have his clothes dry-cleaned so much?” he suggested politely.

    “Yeah. Or should it be No? I never know. Anyway, you’re right,” she said yawning. “Ooh, ’scuse me. –I can’t find anything in this book, it’s all tiny wee print and funny little numbers… Could there be a place called Jandabup?”

    “Definitely not!” Peter gave in and got in beside her. “Give it here. These are the local postcodes, you cretin! …Ooh, Jamboree Heights, how positively Baden-Powell! …Golly: Kaltu— Help. Kaltukatjara. Hang on, hang on… How disappointing, no actual Kangaroo. Lots of names like Kangaroo Creek and Kangaroo Point, not very enterprising… Ooh! Kangy Angy!” He collapsed in splutters.

    “What? Where? …Yikes!” Lalla collapsed in splutters, too.

    Eventually Peter pulled himself together, found the area code for Jamaica, pointing out to Lalla that these were the international area codes, and worked out the putative time difference. Given that Lalla wasn’t sure if they were on EST (whatever that was), the which the book seemed to imply but did not state, and had no idea whether they were on Summer Time. It felt like two in the morning, their time, but it was just on ten-thirty, so, uh—well, it was possibly eight-thirty a.m. where Monica was. And he, personally, did not give a damn if it was actually seven-thirty. Lalla gave him such a distressed look that he sighed, picked up Barnaby Rudge and read it for half an hour.

    “If she didn’t tell you she was going, how come you’ve got her number?” asked Lalla cautiously as he looked in his diary.

    “Mm? Oh, well, Davey said she’s with damned George and Virginia Sutten-Waddingham, darling—relations.”

    “Do they always stay at the same place?”

    “Uh—oh. George has got a house there, sweetheart.”

    Lalla swallowed and watched silently as he dialled, forgetting her earlier worry about whether she ought to go away and leave him to it as it was a private conversation.

    Evidently Monica was still in bed but he made the person who answered the phone, Lalla thought dubiously it was a servant, put the call through anyway. She’d thought he might get cross and yell “JESUS!” at Monica, like he did when he was exasperated with her, but he didn’t: he was very, very cold. It was awful. Awful. Lalla was not in much doubt that Monica Sale had been pretty beastly to him during their marriage, though he hadn’t said all that much about her, but she now realised that he must have been terribly hurt by the divorce. Whether because he had really been in love with her, beastly though she was, or because of being rejected… Maybe both. Wounded pride was in there, too, no doubt, but she didn’t imagine that after eight years he’d have sounded that cold if it had only been that.

    There was quite a lot of screaming, at several different points, from her end, but he just held the receiver away from his ear and waited. If you were the person at the other end, would it sound like that was what he was doing? Lalla didn’t have much doubt that it would—yikes. After quite a long time he said very coldly indeed: “The girl will go to school, Monica, either here or at home, I don’t give a damn which, but if you don’t arrange a new school for her immediately, I shall sue for sole custody. I’ve very little doubt the court will find you an unfit mother.”

    The phone screamed horribly at him but he just held it away from his ear and waited.

    “Very well,” he said coldly. “She can start at the local school on Monday; I don’t care how crapulous it is. And if no decent place will take her at home, she can damn’ well go to the local grammar.”

    The phone screamed at him again but again he just waited. “I think that’s all,” he said coldly. “And I warn you, Monica, any attempt to repeat this sort of scenario, or to encourage Candida to do anything at all which entails travel either alone or with assorted cretinous relatives under twenty-five years of age, make that with anyone under twenty-five years of age, or to do anything dangerous or illegal or which involves cutting school, will result in your losing custody. I know you don’t give a damn about the kid, but I can promise you that in this instance loss of custody will also mean loss of face with your Goddamned bridge crowd.”

    She screamed something at him and, judging from the noise and his wince, hung up with a crash.

    Peter shrugged and put his receiver down quietly. “Sleepy, darling? Shall we have the light out?”

    “Y— No—Um, you didn’t tell her about us.”

    “On the contrary. Oh, you mean the truth?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “No, nor I did. It might have had something to do with the abuse she was screaming—aimed at both of us, naturally. ‘Gold-digger’ was the politest thing she called you. Though she is sure that you can satisfy my unreasonable sexual demands.” He looked at her blandly.

    Lalla swallowed. “What’s unreasonable about them?” she croaked.

    “I have to admit I’m not absolutely sure, but it’s got something to do with their occurring more than once a week and—er—at the very point when one has creamed one’s face and neck or wrapped one’s hair in a scarf to preserve the iron-lady set for the morrow’s bridge party, or— Well, God knows,” he said, shrugging. “Quite shattering, really, when one’s spent all of one’s adult life believing that one was normal, to discover that one isn’t, after all.”

    “She can’t have said that!” croaked Lalla.

    “All the time,” he drawled.

    Lalla looked at him uncertainly.

    “No, darling, I did not practise strange, unnatural rites. Actually, I don’t know any strange, unnatural rites: all the rites I know are very nice and natural.”

    “It’s not funny,” said Lalla weakly.

    “No, it’s damned silly. I assumed for the first year of our marriage that it was my fault that she didn’t enjoy sex. Then the suspicion began to creep in that perhaps it wasn’t me entirely. Well—uh—no complaints from other ladies in the past, you know? Then, after Candida came along and Monica decided one was enough so we didn’t need to do it any more, or not more than once a month if I’d been a very good boy—let her chuck away thousands on consumer crap,” he elaborated, shrugging, “it struck me forcibly that one of us was unnatural but it wasn’t me.”

    “Didn’t she— I mean, it might’ve been embarrassing but, um, you can go to a doctor or—or don’t they have counsellors?” she gulped.

    “My dear girl, there is nothing wrong with Monica!” he said in astonishment.

    “I see,” said Lalla weakly.

    Peter switched off his beside light. “Shall we have some strange and unnatural sex?”

    “Mm,” agreed Lalla, biting her lip. “Um, can you?”

    “You may well ask, after that little session,” he said drily. “No, well, I may need some encouragement,” he said on a plaintive note.

    “I see,” said Lalla in a weak voice, putting her magazine neatly on her bedside table.

    Peter leaned over her and switched her light off. Somehow this meant that he ended up sprawled on top of her. “Or not, of course!” he said with a laugh into her neck.

    “Mm,” agreed Lalla weakly. “Ooh! …Ooh, Peter!”

    …“One can only conclude,” concluded Peter quite some time later, “that the pair of us are thoroughly unnatural. Or thoroughly natural, possibly?”

    “What? Oh! Thoroughly natural!” said Lalla with a laugh.

    She woke up in the middle of the night to discover he was muttering in his sleep.

    “Peter,” she whispered, touching his arm.

    Peter muttered, and kicked restlessly.

    Lalla took firmer hold of his arm. “Peter!” she said, quite loudly, shaking his arm and peering at him. The room was pretty dark but she could see he was making faces.

    “Uh,” he said, stopping the faces and opening his eyes. “Dreaming,” he said.

    “Yes. It’s all right,” said Lalla.

    “Lalla,” he said, turning over and snuggling into her side. He seemed to have dropped right off again. Lalla closed her eyes and let herself drift off.

    When she woke up in the morning he was sitting up in bed hugging his knees.

    “Hullo,” he said in a sheepish voice.

    Lalla blinked at him and smiled. “Hullo. It’s Saturday,” she reminded him.

    “Yes. Um—did I by any chance make a damned nuisance of myself last night?”

    “No,” said Lalla blankly.

    “Not that,” he said with a little smile. “Uh—yelling in my sleep? Thrashing around?”

    “You weren’t yelling. Muttering, I suppose. And kicking a bit. Only I shook your arm and you sort of woke up, and stopped,” said Lalla, smiling at him.

    “I had a vague recollection of something of the sort. Sorry. Um—look, would you rather I slept back in the masculine horror?”

    “No, of course not! Not unless you want to?”

    “No,” he said, making a face.

    “I expect,” said Lalla sensibly, “it was the combination of having to talk to Monica with those coconut and peanut butter sauces last night.”

    He gulped. “Please! Even the mention of them— Well, yes, I suppose it was.”

    “You’re quite a nervy type, really, aren’t you?” she said detachedly.

    Peter eyed her uneasily. “Mm. Something like that.”

    “I don’t mind. I was glad I was there, really, because you seemed to be all right after I’d woken you up. You didn’t really disturb me: I mean, I just went back to sleep. It was nothing compared to that time I had Jason,” said Lalla thoughtfully.

    This was a completely new name to Peter: he blinked. “Jason?” he echoed cautiously.

    “Yes. He wasn’t mine, really, he was Georgia’s—one of my flatmates in Wellington. But she went to England so I said I’d take him. He always used to want out in the middle of the night, well, not the middle, at around five o’clock, and we had a flat with an upstairs, well, it was a townhouse, really, and I got quite used to stumbling downstairs at five o’clock and opening the front door for him and then going back to bed: I used to drop straight off to sleep again.”

    “Lalla,” said Peter in a faint, faraway voice, “please, please tell me that this Jason was a dog.”

    “No, he was a cat.”

    Peter fell all over the bed laughing himself silly. Lalla hadn’t intended this at all, but she was very pleased to see it. She beamed at him.

    “Darling,” he said, recovering himself and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, “has anyone ever told you that that smile of yours is nothing short of seraphic?”

    “No,” she said, pinkening.

    Peter was just reaching for her when there was a loud bang as the bedroom door was thrown back, and his daughter marched in, scowling.

    “I know your mother doesn’t recognise the existence of sex,” said Peter, tightening his grip on Lalla despite her attempt to pull away, “but when you’re in my house, please knock.”

    Ignoring that completely, Candida announced accusingly: “There’s no breakfast! Where are the servants?”

    “It’s Saturday,” said Peter in a very bored voice. “We’ve told Mrs Linarello that we’ll forage for ourselves in the weekends. She only comes in if we’re entertaining for lunch or dinner.”

    “That’s ridiculous! Who’s going to make my breakfast?” said Candida in a loud, whiny voice.

    “Your best move would be to get it yourself. Though if you’re very, very good Lalla might make you some of her special singed toast and pale fawn coffee,” he said kindly.

    Lalla bit her lip: poor Candida looked horribly disconcerted. “Um, I’m a rotten cook. Well, actually, I quite like singed toast.”

    “It’s carcinogenic,” said Candida in a nasty voice.

    “Yes, that’s what Peter says,” agreed Lalla simply. “Um, well, there might be some croissants in the fridge. You could warm them up.”

    “Really!” said Candida with a contemptuous toss of her spiky fair head.

    “And there’s sure to be lots of fruit, Merle always buys stacks. Only, um, I know,” said Lalla, avoiding his eye, “that not all English people like fruit for breakfast.”

    “In short,” said Peter in a rude voice: “push off. Forage for yourself. You’ve got yourself halfway round the world: surely you can feed yourself for one meal?”

    “No—um—I’ll get up,” said Lalla in a weak voice.

    “Rubbish. If any getting up is to be done, I’ll—” Peter had raised the bedclothes. He lowered them again, shaking slightly. “Go away,” he said faintly to his daughter.

    “You’re NOT FUNNY!” she shouted, very red. “All right, I’ll eat whatever I want!” She marched out, slamming the door.

    “For a moment, I overlooked the fact that though I wasn’t up, I was up,” Peter explained politely to his false fiancée.

    “That’s not funny, actually, Peter,” said Lalla, biting her lip.

    “Pooh! You’re trying not to laugh: you’re wearing that expression that means ‘Peter’s said something rude and funny and I won’t give in and laugh.’”

    She gulped, but said doggedly: “You embarrassed her, poor little thing. I’d better get up, just in case she decides to burn the kitchen down. After all, barging in on us didn’t really get your attention, did it?” She got out of bed while his jaw was still dropping.

    “Darling,” he said weakly, “if we give into her once—”

    “Rubbish, it’s her first morning here, after all. I remember that time I had to stay with Aunty Jan when I was fourteen: it was dreadful: I did everything wrong. She did everything differently from Mum, you see.” Lalla wrapped herself tightly into his terry-cloth robe. “I’ll just go to the toilet, first,” she said in a weak voice.

    “I was waiting for that!” he admitted.

    “Shut up. Just because you’ve got a bladder like a camel or something! It’s nothing to be proud of!” she said fiercely, vanishing into the bathroom.”

    Peter lay back against the pillows and laughed weakly.

Next chapter:

https://thelallaeffect.blogspot.com/2024/01/galahs-silly-and-otherwise.html