Snips And Snails And Puppy Dogs

Part V. FAMILY LIFE

23

Snips And Snails And Puppy Dogs

    Jase Durrant was the senior placement consultant who usually dealt with RightSmart’s young male job applicants—or “candidates” as the small but thriving personnel placement agency called them. He had been allotted these applicants not out of sexism, but because Christie, the placement consultant who dealt with some of their odd little jobs as well as the constant stream of office temp jobs for, even in these non-sexist days, young women with good keyboard and data input skills, was young and female and they didn’t want any sort of emotional involvements with their staff, and because Drew, the placement consultant who dealt with the majority of their odd little jobs as well as the many office jobs for those with rather more advanced skills—accounting, that sort of thing—was young and gay and they didn’t want any sort of emotional involvements with their staff. Laurie, who was older and female, dealt with the never-ending streams of requests and applicants for cleaning, housekeeping, and cooking positions, and was usually snowed under.

    Jase was well into his thirties and had been in personnel placement for all his working life—though he’d only been with RightSmart for a couple of years—and he wasn’t usually at a loss. But today he looked limply at the young guy and the pretty lady who’d come with him and wanted to employ him and said, untruthfully: “I see. We can work that out for you, of course, Troy, but it’s a trifle unusual. I’d better just check with our CEO. Excuse me.” He picked up the phone and rang Gail’s extension. “Hi, it’s Jase,” he said cautiously.

    Since Gail’s reply was: “I know that, you twit,” he concluded she was alone. “I’d like to consult you, if I may,” he said cautiously.

    “If you may? Thought you were only interviewing a young bloke that wants a driving job?”

    “And his prospective employer,” said Jase in a neutral voice.

    “Together?”

    “Yes.”

    “Well, trot along, but for God’s sake get Marlene to get them a cup of coffee!”

    “Thank you, Gail. I’ll do that,” said Jase politely, hanging up.

    Gail Vickers rolled her eyes madly as she hung up. “Blimey,” she said to herself. By this time she knew that Jase was a hard worker and pretty capable—and he’d brought them in quite a few jobs: he had excellent contacts in the type of firms that needed urgent barcoding jobs done in immense warehouses, or had places in their immense warehouses for hefty blokes with forklift licences—that sort of thing: taking him on had expanded RightSmart’s client base quite a bit. But she also knew that he didn’t have a terrific amount of initiative and was reluctant to take the lead. She had wondered if, a little down the track, she might take him on as a partner in the business, but by now had pretty well shelved that idea. He and his pleasant wife were the New Age sort: sent their kids to Montessori schools, believed that “quality time” with said kids was more important than clawing your way up the career ladder. Gail couldn’t speak for herself, being both gay and devoid of the nesting instinct, but so far observation had suggested that most harried parents would do anything to get less so-called quality time with the bloody kids! The snarling ones encountered in the supermarkets on a Saturday morning hauling the offspring along, whether or not incarcerated unhygienically in the trays of their trolleys, would certainly seem to indicate as much.

    “Well?” she said, when he appeared.

    Jase shut her office door, looking cautious. “It’s an odd one.”

    “So I gathered. Or can’t you deal with a candidate with a ready-made employer in tow? Or vice versa.”

    “Yes! I mean, no, I mean of course I could usually. It’s a bit more than just a driving job, you see. According to this young bloke, the boss—he’d be her husband—he wants him to buy the car for him!”

    “What?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Are you sure he didn’t just mean hire a vehicle? Because we’ve done a few of those: we just cost in his ti—”

    “Yes! I know! Um, sorry, Gail,” he said sheepishly. “No, he actually wants this wet-behind-the-ears kid to buy him a car.”

    “Was a model mentioned?” said Gail faintly.

    Jase swallowed. “Yeah. After he’d told me the bare facts, she said: ‘The same as the hired one that he’s driving for us’.”

    “Uh… we are talking about the employer’s wife, are we?”

    “Not exactly: it’s her that’s taking him on.”

    Gail coughed suddenly. Jase Durrant, alas, was an innocent in many ways. Came of all this Montessori-ing: not sufficiently in touch with the real world. What sort of legacy was that to pass on to your kids? How the Hell were the poor little buggers going to cope in the cut-throat, competitive world of the 21st century?

    “Look, to be brutally indelicate, Jase, what precisely seems to be the relationship between this woman and the young bloke?”

    After a moment Jase went very red. “No! Nothing like that! I’m not that dumb, she’s a really decent woman!”

    “Glad to hear it. Well, what sort of model is he driving? Was it ever disclosed?”

    He gave her a pathetic look. “A BMW.”

    Gail choked. “What?”

    “Yes, that’s partly why I thought I’d better consult you.”

    “Yeah—I mean, ya done good, kid,” she croaked. “A Beamer? How old is this bloke?”

    “Um, he hasn’t filled in the form yet. Well, twenty-two, maybe?”

    “Who in Christ’s name is the woman’s hubby? Kerry Packer?”

    “No, her name’s Mrs Sale: she’s already on our books: she’s the client who’s taken on Sam Andrews and one of Laurie’s cleaners as gardener and housekeeper.”

    Gail was incapable of speech. She winced horribly.

    “What?” said Jase defensively.

    “Jase,” she said faintly: “don’t you ever read anything I circulate to you?”

    “Yes, of course I do.”

    She swallowed a sigh. He probably did, alone of their staff, yeah. Conscientious was his middle name. Unfortunately he didn’t make connections between what he read and anything else whatsoever that was going on in the universe outside work. Him and the rest of the ruddy population! She found she was getting rather hot under the collar, and took a deep breath.

    “Look,” she said carefully: “she is not Mrs Sale, whatever the database may or may not say. She is Lady Sale and the hubby is Sir Peter Sale, and he owns a bloody merchant bank and is head of the Quinn Sale group, which is bigger than Richard Bloody Branson’s empire! Or haven’t ya heard of him, either?”

    “Yes, of course I— That can’t be right, Gail, what on earth ’ud he be doing in Australia?”

    “Telling wet-behind-the-ears twenty-two-year-olds to buy BMWs for him at the drop of a hat because he’s so rich he’d never notice if the kid bought a fleet of the bloody things, whaddare ya, Jase?” shouted his driven employer.

    After moment Jase, who had gone very red, said: “Sorry.”

    “No, I am: shouldn’t’ve shouted,” replied Gail, making a face. “But it’s been all over the financial pages: ‘Sale Flurries QS Australasia’; ‘QSA for Sale?’—brill’, huh?” she noted sardonically—“um… Oh, yeah: ‘Sell-Out Sale for QSA?’,” she remembered.

    “Um, that’s the best one,” Jase conceded limply.

    “Something like that.”

    “So, um, where are they living?” he fumbled.

    Gail refrained from rolling her eyes and merely got the client database up. “Number 5 She-Oak Rise.” Looking wry, she told him the name of the suburb.

    Jase Durrant might not have been up with the international play of the multinationals, but he knew his own territory like the back of his hand. “Eh?”

    “Yes, well, a little bird told me that it’s a good-sized Federation place sitting in five acres, and was sold to them by Chris Hahn.” She paused. “Q.C.”

    “I see. –Oh, yeah! Drew placed those two candidates with Mrs Sale, initially! That’ll explain why he was babbling about a job polishing the panelling.”

    Sneakily Gail got the jobs database up and did a quick search on polishing AND panelling. “Right. Sir Peter Sale must have taste, blow me down with a feather. Well, would you like me to come and talk to them, Jase?”

    “Yes; thanks,” he said in relief. “Interview Room 1.”

    Yes, well, we did not all have initiative and leadership potential. Rather grimly, Gail gathered up notepad and pen and headed for Interview Room 1.

    Well, at least someone had a bit of initiative: Marlene, who was a Find, they’d never thought they’d get anyone as good as their previous receptionist, Mandy, had provided the client and candidate with not only coffee in the prettiest mugs they had, not that that was saying much, but also a plate of biscuits. Which the boy was duly eating. Gail’s bet would have been scarcely twenty, rather than twenty-two, but then, she was getting old: two new grey hairs this morning. Probably a dozen more by now, true.

    “Good morning, Mrs Sale; I’m Gail Vickers, RightSmart’s CEO,” she said nicely. “No, please don’t get up!” –Crikey Dick, a client, not to say the wife of a very rich man, feeling she had to stand up to greet her, Gail Vickers, a mere Sydneysider? In, to boot, a tired not-wool navy trouser suit and a very tired fawn skivvy that luckily the onlooker could not know had ’orrible ’oles under the arms. Not her fault: four respectable blouses were hanging damply in their cupboard-like apology for a laundry on a rope over the washing-machine where a wall-mounted drier ought to go, given Sydney’s usual winter rainfall, but the bank balance had dictated otherwise.

    Lady Sale, by contrast, was in a form-hugging pair of brown velvet stretch pants and a form-hugging thin-knit coral sweater of a sort Gail had never laid eyes on in any Sydney bew-teek, with a casual GENUINE BURBERRY slung over the back of her chair. Wot Gail had only wanted to possess all her life! Well, since sighting one in one of the Tatlers Mum used to borrow from the public library back in the Dark Ages. Though just why a small suburban library in an obscure Sydney suburb was buying Tatlers—even very out-of-date ones—must remain a mystery. They also had National Geographics, but then, they all did. Old men and twelve-year-old boys borrowed them for the dirty pickshas of African or South American indigenous women with bare breasts.

    “Um, I’ll get you a chair, Gail,” said Jase lamely, hurrying out.

    Lalla smiled at the tallish, fawn-haired, thin lady in the very ordinary trouser suit—she’d expected something in what Angie Gordon said was called “power dressing”: horrifyingly smart tailored suits, that was, jacket and skirt, not pants, which, she explained, was what Mom wore when she was on the warpath. But this lady looked nice. “How do you do? Thank you very much for the coffee and biscuits, Ms Vickers,” she said shyly. “It’s such a nasty day, isn’t it?”

    “Yeah: Sydney at its dreariest, I’m afraid, Mrs Sale.”

    “Mm. I was very glad of my raincoat.”

    Gail managed a limp smile at this one, but only just. Talk about your throwaway line!

    “Thanks, Jase,” she said as he hurried in with a chair that one of them should have thought of before they left her office. “So, tell me about this job you’d like us to manage for you.”

    Lalla looked uncertainly at Troy. “Well, um—sorry, Troy, I should’ve introduced you properly. This is Troy Adams, Ms Vickers. He’s been driving a hire car for us, but we don’t pay him, we pay the firm he works for, you see.”

    “Yes, that’s quite usual.”

    “I suppose so… But they’re a bit mean, if we need him to work late they don’t call it overtime.”

    “None of them do,” the boy put in.

    “No. So you’d like to employ him through us?” said Gail kindly.

    She nodded. The hair swung and gleamed under the lights of the small interview room. Gail swallowed a sigh: some were blessed with thick, rioting waves of light brown with golden lights in it and some were allotted mouse. Guess which was which? Oh, well. She’d hate to be the wife of a rich businessman, quite apart from the sex angle, but Lady Sale looked as if she was thriving on it.

    “Yes, only you see, my husband’s told him he can buy a car, because we haven’t got one here.”

    “Like the one I’m driving for them,” Troy added.

    “So Mr Durrant told me.”

    Lalla looked at her anxiously, wondering if she was going to understand. Because Mr Durrant obviously hadn’t. “Mm. But I don’t think it’s fair, because he’s only being paid for driving, and choosing a car’s more important, so I thought we ought to take him on first.”

    “That sounds sensible,” Gail approved.

    “Mm. Only how could we work out the money?”

    “Uh—oh. I see what you mean. You want to pay him at a higher rate when he sources the car for you?”

    “Yes.”

    Mm. It’d entail no more than ascertaining the name of the model, and she was in no doubt that any young male Aussie driving the thing would know it. The BMW dealer would leap upon him with open arms. But hers not to reason why. “I see. Well, let me work out a couple of rates.” She poised her pen. “May I ask what you’re getting now, Troy?”

    He coughed it like a lamb. Good: all grist to their mill, they always liked to know what the opposition were paying! “Look, we can pay you a fair amount above that, but that would put up our charge to you, Mrs Sale, naturally.”

    “Yes, of course! That’s okay!”

    Gail raised a mental eyebrow or fourteen. Usually the richer they came, the meaner they came: how they’d got that way and were staying that way. “Good. Well, what about this for your normal hourly rate?” She named a sum which was above what most of their drivers got, but not extravagantly so.

    “Um, yeah, thanks!” he gasped.

    “Are you sure, Troy? I think you’d better ask your dad before we sign anything,” said Lalla anxiously.

    “Heck, yeah, I’m sure, Lalla! But I’ll ask him now, if ya like! Hang on!” He outed with the mobile phone.

    At this point Gail Vickers was seized with an awful urge to laugh. She avoided Jase’s eye. Apparently the dad gave the thumbs up: the boy reported: “Yeah, Dad says that’s fine, Ms Vickers!”

    “Good. Now, for the time you spend buying the car…”

    “There’s the travelling as well,” said Lalla anxiously.

    “I’ll make sure we put that in the contract, Mrs Sale,” said Gail smoothly, getting her second wind. She decided to stick her neck out. “Well, double it?”

    “Yes,” said Lalla firmly. “That’s great. Um, could I ask you something that’s kind of, um, peripheral?”

    “Of course,” replied Gail nicely, mentally calculating how much their end charge to her would be and how much profit that’d— “Do.”

    “Show her the credit card Peter gave you, Troy,” she prompted.

    “Um, yeah!” he agreed, producing a—

    Gor, blimey! Gail nearly dropped it. She took a deep breath. “Look, I understand your preferring to remain incognito, Lady Sale, but perhaps we could drop the pretence for a moment?”

    At the other side of the little round table, Jase swallowed. Was she gonna lose them a client? He sagged in relief, as Lady Sale replied calmly: “Yes, if you like. I’m not really incognito, and Peter agreed to be Mr and Mrs in Australia, we don’t really approve of titles and he only gave in because the silly people at work thought it would offend the horrible British Establishment if he turned it down. But I am technically Lady Sale.”

    “Right. Now, I’m sure that Sir Peter’s Diners’ Club card will buy you a Beamer—that is what he wants, is it, Troy? –Yes. You needn’t worry about it being too dear.”

    “No, I mean we’re not worried,” said Lalla. “But can Troy use the card? I mean, it isn’t his.”

    “Oh! Look, I think the trouble might be that they won’t believe you didn’t steal the thing, Troy.”

    “Um, yeah, I can just see that,” Jase admitted.

    “Ooh, heck,” croaked Troy.

    “Maybe if I go with him?” faltered Lalla.

    “Yes; though I’m pretty sure they’d ask you for ID, Lady Sale,” Gail warned.

    “I’ve got my passport…” She fumbled in the handbag that Gail had been trying not to dribble over. You could have said it was tan leather. Hah, hah. Straight from the bloody Hermès boutique that she always shut her eyes going past because she couldn’t bear it any more. Why did the things have to be so tasteful? Most expensive gear was hideous! Well, it was in Sydney, anyway.

    “Oh—thank you,” she said feebly, taking Lady Sale’s passport and opening it. Her jaw sagged. “Uh—this dates back to before your marriage, does it?”

    “Yes. –Ooh, help! Do you mean it isn’t legal any more?”

    Gail honestly didn’t know. “I’m sorry, I’ve no idea.”

    “But ya musta used it when ya come over from the Cooks,” the boy objected.

    “Yes, I did. The man just smiled at me and said: “Welcome to Sydney, Muh—” Her voice faltered. “Miss Holcroft,” she finished lamely.

    “Shit!” choked Troy ecstatically. “Maybe you are here illegally!”

    Lalla looked helplessly at Ms Vickers. “What’ll we do?”

    Gail scratched her short, straight, mousey locks. “About the passport? I really think you and your husband had better see a lawyer about it.”

    “Yes,” said Lalla in a small voice. “So—so it won’t help if I come with you, Troy. I think Peter’ll have to buy it himself.”

    “Yeah,” he agreed glumly. “Um, maybe on a Saturday?”

    “That’s a good idea! Then Petey could come, too, he’d like that.”

    “Yeah. –Tell ya what: what if you tell ya mum-in-law, eh? Then she’ll make him stick to it!”

    To Gail’s huge entertainment Lady Sale beamed all over her face and said: “Of course she will! Oh, good! So, um, can you go ahead with the rest of it, Ms Vickers?”

    Gail pulled herself together. “Yes, of course. Jase will draw up the contracts for you.” She crossed out her estimate of the bloated rate for buying the car, tore off the sheet from the notepad, and got up. “Here you are, Jase: that’s Troy’s hourly rate. The database’ll work out the rate to the client, as usual.”

    “Yes, of course. Thanks, Gail.”

    Lalla scrambled up quickly. “Thank you so much, Ms Vickers! I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time.” She held out her hand.

    “No worries,” Gail replied limply in the vernacular, shaking. “That’s what I’m here for. Don’t hesitate to ring me if you have any further questions.” And with that she got herself out of the room in fairly good order.

    Most unfortunately they didn’t keep any booze on the premises. She tottered into her office, closed the door firmly, and rang her life-partner. “It’s me. Can you talk?”

    “Not just at the moment, I’m afraid,” Fee replied in the sort of voice that meant either a top boss or a ruddy client of her ruddy merchant bank was present.

    “Blow. Look, can you meet me for lunch?”

    “I’m afraid I’m lunching with a client at the Hyatt at one.”

    “Blimey. Well, look, can you meet me earlier?”

    “Twelve-thirty at the Hyatt would be possible,” replied Fee in refined tones.

    “Right. See ya.” Gail rang off. She’d take a taxi—driving in the Sydney traffic was impossible, anyway—and ruddy well get there at twelve and knock back a couple of stiff ones before Fee arrived!

    She did that. Once Fee’s elegant red-headed figure had sat itself down in the lobby bar and snared a waiter—how she did it Gail didn’t know, but it probably had something to do with the amount she spent on that fancy clobber that the bank deemed appropriate for a lady exec—without, please note, giving her a clothing allowance—she burst out with her report.

    Ending: “She’s the most naïve thing, Fee! It was ridiculous! There was I, expecting something sneering out of Vogue’s gossip column, and— Well!” She gave a weak laugh.

    “The word is,” said Fee—“Thank you,” she said, as the drinks arrived. Carefully she removed the bloody floating truncated straw they always provided for the frailer sex. “Cheers. –The word is, that Sale’s married some pretty little piece of fluff that he picked up in, believe me or believe me not, the Cooks.”

    “Eh? In the first place, she’s not a Cook Islander, though she’s got a lovely tan, and in the second place, she’s not a piece of fluff! Naïve, but far from dumb. As a matter of fact, I thought she was very sweet,” she added on a defiant note.

    Fee had to swallow: “sweet” was not a word often heard to pass Gail’s lips. “Got it. The Cook Islands bit was from some type that’s mates with someone at HGI: they’ve got a bloke over there at the moment. Think the piece of fluff comment was from someone who knows Bernie Carpenter from QSMME, though which of them said it first, I’ve no idea.”

    “Very clear,” said Gail drily. She sighed. “She’s a Kiwi, did I say? –Mm. I just hope she can cope with his ruddy lifestyle!”

    “Ye-ah…” Fee looked thoughtful. “Not only that. I bumped into Chris Hahn at that bloody wingding the other night. He’s met her. And,” she said significantly, “he also used the word ‘sweet’. In fact, he seemed very struck.”

    Gail swallowed hard—not G&T. “Shit.”

    “Puts it well.” She got up. “I’d better go to the bog before the ruddy client turns up.”

    “Right. Fancy anything particular for tea?”

    “Nope.”

    “Okay: fish and chips.”

    “If you must.” The elegant red-headed figure in its green wool suit that had cost the equivalent of Gail’s monthly income swayed away.

    Gail sighed. Unfortunately there was no way on earth that she, humble Gail Vickers, could warn Sir Peter Sale that one of Sydney’s most notorious womanisers was on the prowl and that his pretty wife looked like being the next victim. Bugger.

    Marie-Louise had found a much better armchair for the sitting-room, Alan had re-covered it in the approved green brocade, a shade or two lighter than the sofas but toning beautifully, an antique footstool had been spotted, purchased and re-covered to match, the curtains with the little spriggy green print on a white background had been installed, the window seat had been upholstered and covered in the same, three frilly cushions suggested by Robert had been rejected unanimously by Marie-Louise and Alan, and as the walls above the wainscoting had long since been painted white in a non-toxic substance approved by Marie-Louise, the room was almost habitable. Lacking, really, only the lovely sideboards from France, which were reported to be well in train. And Marie-Louise had ascertained from Mr Hahn—who had, though this hadn’t dawned on her, taken her call under the impression that the “Mrs Sale” who was ringing him was Lalla—that the chimneys had all been swept and inspected just a couple of years back, on his real estate agent’s advice. So they could light a fire in the fireplace any time they pleased.

    Nobody Lalla had met so far had an open fire, so she was at a loss to know who to ask about sourcing wood, and Miss Starkie had replied to her query on a dry note: “Back in the day Christopher used to pay a bloke to chop down a tree or two in the reserve over the back. If anybody asked, he was clearing scrub and making a firebreak, not that anybody ever did, nobody gave a damn about the environment back then. If the Internet fails you, try the local rag.”

    Lalla had been under the impression that this piece of unsolicited literature was full of ads for car sales yards, but she obediently tried it. Once she’d got past the giant ads for car sales yards, the two full pages of supermarket specials, a strange article on gardening which seemed to be all about English flowers, a heartrending article on “unchipped” cats being destroyed by the local council, another heartrending article on the local council’s refusal to let a woman plant a garden on her verge, another two-page spread of ads for a different supermarket chain, more car sales yards ads mixed with ads for chemist chains, a heartrending article about a big collection launched for a little boy from another part of the country altogether who had an incurable disease, a large ad for a musical which seemed to be on at the Opera House, though it definitely wasn’t an opera, next to some reviews, possibly copied from elsewhere, of various new pop music releases and another musical entirely, she found an obscure back section with very, very small ads presumably inserted by real people, not large shops. She nearly missed the crucial one, because it wasn’t headed “Firewood”, it was headed “Stumps”. But after that in lighter type it said: “logs, fire wood. Van” and a mobile phone number. It wasn’t at all clear whether “Van” referred to the provider’s vehicle, it might be his name. In which case it could be either a first name or a surname, help!

    She tried the number. After a long wait a woman’s voice gasped: “Yeah hi!” –No pause between the two words.

    “Um, hullo,” said Lalla shyly. “I’m sorry to bother you. Is that the right number for firewood?”

    “Eh? Aw! Yeah—hang on, will ya!”

    The phone ceased speaking but in the background Lalla could hear a child crying. She waited.

    “Sorry!” gasped the voice. “He’s eighteen months. I think he’s teething, it’s been driving me mad!”

    “I know: they can be awful at that age,” Lalla agreed sympathetically. “My little boy was terrible. But you do get through it.”

    “Yeah, only it just doesn’t feel like it!” the woman admitted with a weak laugh. “How old is he?”

    “Petey? He’s ten, now. So all we have to worry about, really, is falling out of trees, drowning himself when he goes yabbying with his little friend’s Pop, or getting run over by a truck on the way to school. Though at least it’s quite near and he doesn’t have to cross any main roads.”

    “That’s a plus,” she said—Lalla could hear she was smiling. “Firewood, was it?”

    “Um, yes, please.”

    “Right. Ya don’t want any manuka stumps, I s’pose?” she asked glumly.

    Lalla blinked. She’d always thought manuka was a New Zealand plant. “Um, I thought just logs, really.”

    “Yeah. Nobody does want them, these days. Well, there was one ole joker, but his wife said they spat sparks, they singed her rug, so she rung up and made Van take the rest back.”

    Well, at least that solved the problem of the mysterious word “Van”! “I see. I don’t think my husband would like that: he’s got Persian rugs—well, the big one isn’t near the fire but he got a new one last week that tones with it, to put in front of the fireplace.”

    “That sounds nice. I like an open fire. We’ve got a wood-burner, y’know? Well, it’s efficient, Van sussed them out and he reckons it’s miles more efficient than an open fire, but between you and me it’s ugly, y’know?”

    “Yes; some friends of mine in New Zealand have got one of those.”

    “That right? You’d need it there, eh? Um, well, he’s at work just now. But he could bring a load round this evening, if ya like.”

    “That’d be fine. But if he’s been at work all day, he’d better have his tea first,” said Lalla.

    “Um—yeah! Righto! Thanks!” she replied with a startled laugh. “Um, I better get your details.”

    Obediently Lalla said: “It’s Lalla Sale, and we’re at 5 She-Oak Rise.”

    “Aw! The big ole house? Me and Damian sometimes used to come up and look at it on our walks, it’s not that far from us! Only then the bawling and chucking things started up, and honestly, if you’ve hadda apologise three times in less than ten minutes for chucking his rattle into people’s gardens, ya give up, don’tcha? And one horrid old man told us we were a public nuisance, wouldja believe!”

    “Ooh, heck,” said Lalla sympathetically.

    “So what’s ya phone number, Mrs Sale?”

    “Hang on, I can never remember the stupid thing: I had to write it on a bit of tape and stick it to the back of it.” She turned the phone over, repeated it to herself, turned the phone back, and repeated it aloud.

    “Good-oh. Van’ll be up this evening. How much didja want?”

    “I—I don’t know,” faltered Lalla in dismay. “Enough for the winter, I suppose…”

    “Um, yeah,” said Damian’s mother weakly. “Well, um, say I tell him a big load, okay? Just ring us if ya need more.”

    It was one of the days Peter was in at work. He rang around five to say the meeting was dragging on and he’d be late home. Crossly Marie-Louise declared they wouldn’t wait for him, they’d have their dinner at the usual time! As it was a casserole, Lalla was sure it’d keep warm in the oven, and it was a bit mean to go ahead without him, but Marie-Louise had made it herself, so that was that. They had theirs. It was completely yummy, and if Petey’s Mémé thought that naturally the alcohol had boiled away when she added the wine to the pan to deglaze it, presumably it wouldn’t do him any harm. He thought it tasted funny, but he ate it and didn’t seem drunk afterwards. At first he refused to eat his carrots, pointing out that the casserole had carrots in it, but his Mémé settled that one. No carrots, no ice cream for pudding.

    They were just about to have the ice cream when there was a loud blast on a horn.

    “Oh! It’ll be Van!” gasped Lalla. “I forgot to say, I rang up while you were at the shops, Marie-Louise!” She got up and rushed out, to be confronted by the sight of a good-sized ute parked on the front sweep, its tray piled high with logs, a broad-shouldered, curly-headed man in a tired grey hoodie and very tired jeans standing beside it, and Peter just getting out of the hire car looking puzzled. –The new BMW had been ordered. It was on its way. Unquote.

    “That’ll be ya wood!” cried Troy loudly, having let his window down. “See ya!” With this he drove off.

    “This’ll be our wood,” said Peter weakly to his spouse.

    “Yes, he’s brought it!” she beamed. “Hullo, you must be Van,” she greeted the provider of the wood. “I’m Lalla Sale, I spoke to your wife on the phone.”

    “Yeah, that’s right. Said ya wanted a big load. Um, it’s cash, Mrs Sale, did Bella say?”

    “Bella! So that’s her name! Isn’t that pretty!” she beamed. “And your little boy’s Damian, isn’t he?”

    “Yeah. Bawling, was ’e? –Yeah. Kept us up half the night last night. Mum reckons a drop of brandy in ’is milk’d do the trick, but Bella won’t come at it.”

    “My Petey had some stuff the nurses recommended—they were my flatmates, you see—that you had to rub on his gums, only every time we tried he bit us.”

    “Yeah! I bet!” gasped Van, with a guffaw. “Invented by barmy scientists, eh?”

    “That’d be right. –It’s a lovely lot of wood, Van.”

    “Uh—yeah. Um, it’s cash, I’m afraid, Mrs Sale,” he repeated.

    “Call me Lalla, Van,” she replied. “Help, I dunno that I’ve got enough! Peter, have you got any Australian money?”

    “I have, darling, but where do you propose putting all this wood?”

    Marie-Louise and Petey had now surfaced, after a slight altercation over leaving the table without permission. “We peut it in the cellar, Peter! –Dans la cave!” she added, as he looked blank.

    “I thought that meant ‘cave’,’ said Lalla.

    “Non, non, mon chou, ça, c’est ‘caverne’!”

    “Ooh, heck. Then that book we had in French I that I never read because it was optional, Les caves du Vatican, it meant the Vatican cellars!” she discovered.

    At this Peter, alas, collapsed in splutters.

    “There could be caves: there’s catacombs and all sorts underneath Rome!” she said crossly.

    “Certainly, my dear Lalla, that is entirely logical!” Marie-Louise agreed, glaring at her son. “Peter! Stop laughing and give this man his money!”

    Feebly Peter hauled out his wallet. “How much?”

    “Um, well, it’s a full load, Mr Sale; um, your wife said she wanted a big load.” Uneasily he told him the price.

    Peter looked dubiously at his handful of notes. “Your cash machines only seem to dole out hundreds. Look, take these, and give us a hand to get the stuff into the cellar, and we’ll call it quits.”

    Van was seen to gulp, but he agreed: “Righto.”

    “He couldn’t come earlier, you see, Peter,” Lalla informed him cosily, “because he was at work all day. So of course I said he must have his tea first. –Have you?” she demanded.

    “Um, yes, thanks! Well, with Damian bawling all arvo the lasagna got a bit singed, but it wasn’t too bad.”

    “We had casserole,” put in Petey. “It wasn’t too bad, either. You’ve got a ute, eh?”

    “Yeah: useful on the job, ya see.”

    “For delivering wood?”

    “Yeah—no. Well, that as well. I’m a jobbing builder. –Hang on: here’s me card, Mr Sale,” he said, digging one out of his back pocket. “Working for a bloke as a sub-contractor at the moment: he’s got more work than ’e can handle. Nice to be some people, eh? Well, ya have to take what ya can get, these days. But actually I’m a cabinetmaker by trade. Did me apprenticeship an’ everythink. Only there’s no call for that sort of work, these days.”

    “But there is!” cried Lalla. “I think it’s a matter of knowing the right people, Van! Our decorator, he specialises in doing up old Federation houses like ours, he was saying just the other day that if only he could find a decent cabinetmaker, he could really get into mending and reproducing old furniture! See, I showed him a catalogue from a lovely French firm that does reproduction antiques: you’d swear they were the real thing, they’re just beautiful! But he can’t find anybody, he put an ad in the paper but all he got were kids that had done a bit of carpentry.”

    “That’s no good: not the same thing. Couldja maybe gimme his details, Mrs Sale?”

    “Call me Lalla, Van! Of course. Come on inside and I’ll get them for you—I’ve got them written down in my notebook. And I can lend you the catalogue if you like. Though of course Alan—that’s his name, Alan Travitsky—he doesn’t want Louis XV stuff for his houses!”

    “Heck, no, he wouldn’t: that’s all Rococo, eh?” Van agreed.

    “Exactly! But they do some late 19th-century pieces that you’ll like!” She led him indoors.

    Peter said limply to his son: “That leaves us and this huge truckload of wood, old man.”

    “Yeah. I’ll give you a hand, Peter! Come on!”

    Oddly enough, his Mémé did not veto this plan.

    “I’m wearing a good business suit,” said Peter feebly.

    “Take that silly shacket off. I get you a tricot!” She hurried inside.

    “Bugger,” said Peter. “Uh—don’t tell either of them I said that!” he gasped.

    “Whaddaya think I am?” his son replied sturdily in the vernacular. “Say I get in the ute, I could hand the logs down to you.”

    “Uh—well, look, make a start. Chuck the bloody things onto the drive.”

    “If we leave them there it’ll rain,” Petey warned.

    “How true. But given that I’ve greased Van’s palm, he may feel obligated to help us get the lot in.”

    “It’ll take a while,” he warned. With this he scrambled up into the back of the thing and, perforce, onto the wood. And started happily heaving logs—at least, the smaller ones, that he could lift—onto the expensive, carefully laid cream pavers.

    Peter sighed.

    It did take a while. And a phone call to Bella to explain Van’s absence. But at long, long last they all tottered into the kitchen and collapsed round the big table. At least, the blokes collapsed. Lalla had volunteered but Peter hadn’t let her help. Marie-Louise had merely directed things.

    “I make some ’ot chocolat,” she decided.

    Van gave Peter a desperate look.

    “Uh—yeah, do that, Maman, thanks. Meanwhile Van and I will have beer.”

    “I’ll get them,” said Lalla with a smile. “It’s Foster’s, Van, is that okay? We didn’t recognise any of the other brands.”

    “Uh—yeah. Great.”

    Over the beers Peter picked up the catalogue which Lalla was lending Van and flipped through it. “Jesus,” he muttered, looking at a giant Louis XV sofa upholstered in a magnificent shade of puce satin. “Thank God you didn’t let Travitsky talk you into this stuff, darling.”

    “He wouldn’t want to, silly. He’s got too much taste.”

    “It is beautiful work,” Van conceded, eying the woodwork. “S’pose they do gilding with genuine gold leaf, eh?”

    “Certainly!” Marie-Louise agreed. “Petey, mon chou, you fetch me the mugs that I bring from Paris, hein? The tall ones with blue flowers. –Merci, mon petit.”

    “See?” said Lalla as Peter reached the end of the catalogue. “That’s our sideboards!”

    “Aw, nice,” Van acknowledged. “Lovely inlay work, eh? But ya don’t want the sofa?”

    “No, we thought it’d be too much. And we’re having a different look in the other front room: lighter, more airy.”

    “It will be a breakfast room and morning room,” pronounced Marie-Louise firmly.

    “Right, you’d get the morning sun. Yeah, nice. Only ya gotta watch it with decent furniture in our climate, Mrs Sale. Specially if it’s from overseas. It gets too hot for it, ya see—well, say you were out all day, or on holiday, ya wouldn’t wanna leave the air-con on, eh? The joints dry out. And sometimes the veneer lifts.”

    “Ah, non!” she cried. “That’s very bad, Van!”

    “Yeah. And air-con’s no good for it anyway. Saw a nice dining set in a junk shop just the other day, coming apart. Pegged, it all was: lovely thing it musta been, once. Well, I said to Bella, look, if only we could buy it, I could do it up, but she wouldn’t have a bar of it. The bloke wanted far too much for it. And it woulda been too big for our place, anyway: six chairs and two carvers, and a big table with extensions, ya know?”

    “Of what wood?” asked Marie-Louise sharply.

    He blinked. “Uh—walnut, Mrs Sale. No mistaking it.”

    “And the period?”

    “Round 1850, I’d of said. Later on, most of the dining stuff was machined.”

    “Précisément! I think, Lalla, we ’ave a look at it, non?”

    “Yes, it sounds lovely! For our dining-room, do you think?”

    She did think, and demanded the name and address of the shop from Van.

    He didn’t know them. “Um, but I know where it is, I could take ya there,” he offered feebly.

    This was excellent, and she arranged briskly that on the morrow they would meet him in his lunch hour and he would take them there. Plus the decorator: Van would like to meet him.

    Petey then incautiously making a remark, she gasped, swooped upon him, and shepherded him inexorably off to bed.

    Peter was just going to offer the sufficiently shattered Van a whisky when his phone rang. John Faraday from London—pace Petey’s bedtime, early. Peter got up, excused himself, and took the call in the sitting-room.

    When he came back into the kitchen, Lalla and Van had their heads together over the catalogue and Van was saying eagerly: “I reckon I could do you a couple of little tables in this style, Lalla! Like, you wouldn’t want an ordinary coffee table, wouldja? But a couple of little side tables to match the sideboards; be nice, eh?”

    “Ooh, lovely, Van! –Oh, there you are, Peter! Was that John making a fuss about nothing again?”

    “Er—no, he’s got a tenant, at last.”

    “Oh, good,” she said indifferently. “Come on, Van, come and look at the sitting-room, see what you think!” She headed out eagerly. Van, who was a big man, shambled after her, rather like a large and somewhat bewildered sheepdog of the hairy variety following his owner, trusting but not wholly comprehending, into parts unknown.

    Peter sat down limply at the table. Bloody Hell. She was an adopter of lame dogs!—Talking of shambling sheepdogs.—Why had this never dawned before? But it was true, wasn’t it? Well, possibly you couldn’t count Miss Starkie, but she was  indicative, nonetheless.

    Well, take the two polishers. He’d got Lalla to agree that copies of their résumés be filed, so he’d taken a look at their employment histories. It was obvious that Sam had been out of work for the best part of the last ten years, ever since his little painting business had folded. There just hadn’t been enough work—the big boys had taken over. He was a bit older than he looked: in his mid-fifties, and no-one had wanted to employ a bloke of over forty-five when they could get a kid out of school for much less. RightSmart had only managed to find short-term work for him. He was pathetically grateful to have fulltime work and regularly brought Lalla little bunches of native flowers and foliage off the property. She of course would happily have fed him every day but Sam wasn’t up for that and only accepted her warm invitations to lunch once a week. Though he let her give him cups of tea or coffee and appeared to have told her his entire life story over them. Very sad: his first wife had died of leukaemia when she was only about thirty. No kids, the diagnosis had been made just after they were married and she hadn’t wanted to risk passing the tendency on. He’d married again, about eight years later, a woman a few years older than him. She’d had three miscarriages in succession and then the doc had put his foot down. They hadn’t been able to adopt: too old. In any case adoption was very, very difficult in Australia: look at (famous name which Peter hadn’t recognised). The woman had left the poor bastard after that: he still didn’t really know why. Lalla had reported with tears in her eyes that he’d said: “Just couldn’t take it no more. Living with me reminded her of it all, I suppose.”

    Well, that was definitely a lame dog, and he was manifestly such a decent fellow that Peter didn’t really mind how many stiles she helped him over.

    Then there was his fellow-polisher, Gina. Her problem was coping with feeding herself and her little girl and keeping a roof over their heads in the absence of Mr Culthorpe. She was naturally a cheery personality, but reportedly one day when Maman, necessarily with Troy, had been out in grim quest of a shop which sold decent salad vegetables, she’d burst into tears all over Lalla and told her the lot. Shot through when dear little Katie was born, the ungrateful, undeserving hound. Gina’s family had not approved of Mr Culthorpe and the Nonna had declared him no loss and put the evil eye on him in absentia, but that didn’t help, did it? Her mum and dad were supportive but there wasn’t much they could do to help, there wasn’t much spare cash and their house was bursting at the seams with Nonna and three younger brothers still at home. Of course no-one wanted a fulltime housekeeper with a little kiddie and no qualifications—she’d been nineteen when she’d had Katie—so like Sam, Gina had been eking out a desperate living between part-time and temporary jobs and the dole. The providers of which, it appeared, had no grasp of the fact that if you were broke you couldn’t afford to go job-hunting all over the city, but if you didn’t they took it away from you! And it was just wonderful having regular work!

    That made two.

    Then there was Troy: definitely. The boy had survived secondary school but hadn’t passed anything in his final year—nearly all Aussie kids stayed at school until they were eighteen, apparently. His mother demonstrably was the sort of person to whom it never occurred to pass on any of her own knowledge to her kids—witness her reaction to the mention of Archimedes: she’d condemned the way modern kids learned nothing at school but then hadn’t explained the reference to him! He’d apparently landed his job with the car-hire firm, after fifty-odd failed applications elsewhere, by dint of being neat and clean in appearance as well as a good driver with a clean licence. Not to say, willing to wear the prescribed uniform, which consisted of a dark navy peaked cap provided by the firm, plus a pale blue shirt and navy slacks purchased by the driver. He knew the geography of Sydney quite well but apart from that, virtually nothing. Well, he could play with the latest technological gadgets, like all his peers, but that was it. Would anyone in the whole world but Lalla have dreamed of taking him on fulltime?

    Three: yes.

    And the other day, after a lengthy phone conversation with an important Japanese contact conducted through an interpreter, though Peter knew the bloody man had excellent English, he’d come downstairs expecting to have a quiet lunch with his own wife, Maman having pushed off on some sort of cultural tour of the old buildings of Sydney, only to find she had her head together with an untidy-looking girl of about nineteen who turned out to be the decorator’s junior assistant. The girl had brought some sort of—well, not university calendar, no—some sort of prospectus from an institution which purported to teach “Art History” and “Architectural Styles”—at a price—and they were poring over it, Lalla giving her advice on whether it looked worthwhile. This “Janey” had of course stayed for lunch. At which they were joined by Pop Martin—call me Ceddie, Peter! Jesus: two at one blow?

    He tried again around afternoon teatime—Petey was booked to be picked up by Pop and given a lesson in woodwork with Dean at his place—but gee, there was little Addison Lemon. Her mother had rung— Yeah.

    As to whether this Van—what the Hell was the man’s surname?—as to whether he’d turn out to be a capable cabinetmaker, or even able to hold a chisel correctly—!

    Hoskins. Van Hoskins. The decorator had got it out of him—Lalla hadn’t bothered. Apparently the fellow was willing to take him on on a trial basis, after having seen some of his work. Bella Hoskins had invited Lalla to morning tea on the strength of it, burst into tears all over her, so what was new, and revealed that it was just the thing, he was a new man, only see, there was the mortgage: it was so risky! What if Mr Travitsky didn’t have enough work for him? Lalla had blithely assured her that she mustn’t worry, they could always employ him themselves, all of the bedrooms needed chests of drawers and wardrobes, and Peter had said the shelving in the library wasn't right, it’d need changing, and they definitely needed a sideboard to match the dining set! –The dining set, incidentally, was being bought through Mr Travitsky, and Van would restore it under his aegis. Travitsky would then make them pay through the nose, Peter had no doubt. However.

    “And if Alan won’t take him on permanently with a proper salary, I thought we’d help him to set up a website,” she said blithely. “There’s lots of other interior design firms in Australia that must have clients that admire old houses and would buy his work. And he does modern stuff as well, you know.”

    Peter just looked at her limply. Not mentioning lame dogs being helped over stiles. Or did he mean lame ducks? What did one do with them? Just adopt them? She was certainly doing that.

    “Anyway, Alan’s got at least one other client that’s interested in properly restored old things: Chris Hahn rang me up just the other day to ask us who was doing up the house, because he’s got his grandparents’ old dining chairs in storage—the dogs had chewed the legs of the table too much, he got rid of it, wasn’t that a pity? And he’s decided to give his flat a makeover: he can’t stand it, it’s all modern and he feels as if he’s living in the Star Ship Enterprise: he’s even got a horrible sort of plant trough behind his bedhead!”

    “What?” he said dazedly. “Er—never mind, sweetheart. He didn’t happen to mention where the Hell he disposed of his grandparents’ wardrobes, did he?”

    “No. He said everything was in terrible condition: the dogs—”

    “Yeah. Got it.” Why was bloody Hahn ringing her about it? He must know Sydney and all its ways like the back of his hand, not to mention, if Bernie’s gossip was correct, have scores of women only too ready to help and advise— Oh. Oh, shit!

    “Did he by any chance suggest a quiet little lunch? Or even coffee?”

    “Um, he did ask me to lunch. I think he’s lonely.”

    “Lalla,” shouted Peter, “he is NOT lonely! The man has scores of women all over the city! He’s a bloody wolf!”

    “Wolves can still be lonely. I expect he feels he has to sort of live up to his reputation with all those smart ladies,” she said thoughtfully.

    “Do NOT start feeling sorry for the man!”

    “But I do, his life is empty, really.”

    Peter wiped his hand across his face. Jesus! “Look, last week Bernie saw him at some bloody musical at the Opera House with floozy number one. The following day he saw him lunching at some frightful joint—one of the big downtown hotels—with floozy number two. Two days after that he was having a quiet dinner à deux with floozy number three, who happens to be married to someone else, at a nice little restaurant which is reputed to serve the best veal parmigiana in the city!”

    “Peter, that doesn’t prove anything. Does he have anything in common with any of them?”

    “Sex?” replied Peter wildly.

    “Besides that.”

    “Not as far as Bernie’s observations went, no, actually! This man is not lonely or to be pitied, Lalla! And if you lunch with him be warned: he’ll make a pass.”

    “I’m used to that: the horrid guests at Palmyra Polynesia did it all the time,” she replied with the utmost placidity.

    “What?”

    “Yes, of course. A lot of them were that sort. What’s that word of Janey’s, again? Oh, yes: entitled. They felt entitled because they were rich.”

    “Very well, lunch with Hahn and see what you get,” he sighed. “But for God’s sake bear in mind that the man is not one of your lame ducks, Lalla!”

    “What?” she asked with a puzzled smile.

    “He’s a predator, not a lame duck!” cried Peter, stalking out.

    Lalla rolled her eyes. “Quack, quack,” she said.

    The charming Mr Hahn had taken Lalla to a lovely little restaurant which was famed for its “Asian fusion” cuisine. Which as far as she could see, meant Chinese with rather a lot of chilli. As the weather was foul, they couldn’t sit out in its famed courtyard with its broad-leaved tropical plants—Lalla winced as a wind gust spattered rain on the big plate-glass windows—and what was possibly Asian fusion furniture. Well, there seemed to be a fair amount of bamboo involved. Chris Hahn had called it a “Bali garden” and pulled a knowing face, obviously expecting her to pick up the reference, it must be an Aussie thing.

    Mr Hahn had chosen some sort of grilled pork thingy with organic sweet and sour sauce, which turned out to be large ham steaks topped with fancy little twists of carrot and cucumber, thin slivers of yellow capsicum, and neat chunks of pineapple which looked to Lalla as if they’d come straight out of a Dole tin. The size of the ham steaks—there were two pieces, more than spanning the fair-sized, shallow bowl in which they sat amidst a huge pool of the organic sauce—presumably justified the “fusion” bit: it was the sort of large helping of meat which, she had now come to realise, Aussies expected in a restaurant.

    Lalla herself ordered a dish of chicken breast with green beans. They wouldn’t be in season in Sydney, but Australia was vast: perhaps they were from the Northern Territory. They certainly tasted beautifully fresh. But there was more of the sliced chicken than she’d expected. Presumably they grew them big in Australia. It was a delicious dish, light and very tasty, and sprinkled with lots of sesame seeds. Mercifully this time there weren’t floods of sauce, but just enough to make the beans sticky. Chris had said with a little smile that it was one of the chef’s simpler recipes. Lalla had silently thought good, maybe it wouldn’t take hours to arrive, then. She and Peter had had dinner at one awful place where you had to wait so long for your mains that they’d given up on the idea of pudding and just come home.

    “How’s the house?” he asked, crinkling up his eyes in what he presumably  imagined was a fascinating way. Actually it was pretty well guaranteed to give him wrinkles before very long.

    “Good, thanks. The sitting-room’s finished: we’re just waiting for the sideboards to arrive, and the cabinetmaker I recommended to Alan Travitsky is making us a couple of nice little side tables in the same style. And the other downstairs room at the front, that my mother-in-law says is a breakfast room, has got curtains, now: a lovely pale yellow with a pattern of small white blossoms, sort of sketched, y’know? With black or brown outlines. The table and chairs are coming from France, they look lovely: white wooden frames with natural cane backs—um, the old-fashioned sort of woven cane, Chris.”

    “Oh! Yes, I know that look. Sort of French Provincial, mm?” –More eye-crinkling: he obviously thought he was irresistible.

    “I suppose so. If something from the Boulevard Saint Germain can be called provincial.”

    Mr Hahn was seen to swallow—not Asian fusion ham steak, hah, hah!

    “And there’s gonna be a little sofa and a couple of armchairs to match,” she added.

    “I see. Well that sounds very pretty, Lalla.”

    “Yes. I am looking forward to seeing it all finished, but Marie-Louise, my mother-in-law, is just so extravagant about that sort of thing! I mean, to hear her going on about the price of aubergines at the supermarket you’d never think it, but when it comes to something big, she just buys whatever appeals!”

    “Mm,” the lawyer said wryly. “Never had to watch the pennies, eh?”

    “Not since her marriage, no. But the funny thing is, they had a very ordinary flat in Paris when they got married and she’s still living in it!”

    “Handy, is it?”

    “Well, I haven’t seen it yet, but it sounds as if it is. It’s just off the Grands Boulevards, do you know where that is?”

    “Yeah. Rive droite, within spitting distance of the Place de la République, if I remember rightly.”

    “I think that’s right. She said the Métro’s very convenient.”

    The mind boggled at the idea of a lady who could order a roomful of furniture from an emporium on the Boulevard Saint Germain taking the ruddy underground! “I see,” he said limply. “So, uh, how about the bedrooms?”

    “We haven’t been able to find any suitable wardrobes, and it’s starting to get to Peter,” said Lalla with a sigh. “Well, Alan’s on the job: I think he’s asked every dealer in the city to look out for something, but nothing’s turned up yet. We bought a simple little white chest of drawers for Petey’s room, and Van, the cabinetmaker, he came up one weekend and painted it for him, Marie-Louise had shown him a picture in a magazine and he wanted it like that. Well, it was American, with stripes on the outside bits and stars on the drawers,” she added with a smile, “but Van said he needed an Aussie look, so he’s done the drawers dark blue with the stars of the Aussie flag, and the in-between bits and the top red, and the sides white. It looks great, Petey’s thrilled with it. Van wouldn’t let us pay him, so Marie-Louise made him a cassoulet to take home with him.”

    Uh… cabinetmaker or not, how would the average Aussie household cope with that? He goggled at her.

    “His wife rang up and said it was delicious, and could she have the recipe,” said Lalla calmly, reading his mind with no difficulty whatsoever. “These green beans are super, Chris! Have one?”

    Limply Mr Hahn, Q.C., accepted a green bean from Lady Sale’s fork. Many ladies, in many restaurants, both in Australia and other parts of the world, had offered him bites from their plates, with varying degrees of innuendo, meaning looks straight into the eyes, etcetera, but her limpid gaze was completely calm and her smile was serene and—well, indifferent was the only word. Shit!

    It didn’t get better. They didn’t have dessert—he was watching his weight and Lalla admitted that it would be too much for her at lunchtime, so he suggested adjourning to the lobby bar in a nice boutique hotel for coffee and liqueurs. When they did so, she looked round the place and laughed.

    “This is where we got the idea for our green leather sofas! Only ours haven’t got the antiquing, Marie-Louise just about threw a fit at the sight of it.”

    “So you’ve been here before?” he said on a sour note that he hadn’t meant to be there.

    “Yes, we had to come to an awful cocktail party in what they called a private room, though it was quite big. Crammed with people. You could tell they were Australians, though,” she added with a twinkle in her eye.

    “Yes?” he croaked.

    “All the ladies had crests like cockatoos!” gasped Lalla, breaking down in giggles. “Fasc-in-a-tors!” she gasped in explanation, waving a hand helplessly at her own head.

    “Right. Goddit,” he admitted, grinning feebly. She was lovely, she was bright, she had a sense of humour, and really, she was quite an original, wasn’t she? What was wrong with him, for God’s sake? Well, not a billionaire like ruddy Sale. But that sort of thing hadn’t heretofore proved a deterrent. He wasn’t filthy rich but he was comfortably off, he lived well, he had a decent profession, he hadn't let himself run to seed as his fortieth approached, in fact he was damned fit and usually slaughtered his opponents at squash or badminton, he wasn’t bad looking and he’d kept his hair—that, his figure, and, he supposed, the old house were the only things he could thank Grandfather for. The old bastard had made his fortune in sheet steel manufacturing and then gambled most of it away by the time Dad got married. Addicted to the gee-gees. Went to the Cup every year. Chucked away megabucks on buying legs which never came in better than “trailing.”

    No, well, he’d thought he was doing okay until he met Lalla Sale.

    He did make the effort, after the coffees, to suggest she pop over to his flat to see if she could give him any ideas about redecorating, but Lalla replied calmly: “No, thanks, Chris. I may look like Jemima Puddle-Duck, but I’m very wary of foxy gentlemen with flats that are pop-overable to. Do you think you could ring for a taxi for me? I dunno how to do it on my silly phone.”

    Glumly Mr Hahn rang for a taxi for her. Shit.

    … “You said that?” croaked Peter at the end of the report.

    “Yes. I told you I could handle them.”

    “And he didn’t even point out that ‘pop-overable to’ is not English?” he croaked.

    “No,” she replied serenely.

    “The man’s a tit!”

    “Something like that,” agreed Lalla calmly. “I still feel rather sorry for him, though.”

    As a matter of fact Peter rather did, too. True, the fellow had been up against a fair bit: what with the face, the curls and the figure, today swathed in a violet wool thin-knit which possibly was a size smaller than Maman had thought it was. Ooh-er. Simple pearl bobbles in the neat little ears. From the jewel box. Uh-huh. He hadn’t bothered to point out that they were not cultured, they were real and had been worn by his grandmother on her wedding day. The coat had been on order, and arrived about a week ago. It swung out from the shoulders in a wide flare, which might not have been what they were wearing this season, though very possibly they would be next, but looked wonderful on her tall figure. Black, with its own scarf taking the place of a collar: one threw it casually over the shoulder: tu vois? The shoes were also black, the tights were filmy black, and the whole was brightened up by the sort of handbag which wealthy women killed for. Violet. Very plain.

    All that and the Lalla phenomenon as well? The poor sap hadn’t stood a chance!

    The sophisticated barrister would not, Peter was aware, be the only male in Sydney to fancy her. It was pretty obvious that Bernie Carpenter, for one, thought she was the cat’s whiskers. They'd had him to dinner three times, now, since he didn’t seem to mind dining en famille, and twice he’d turned up far too early with, Peter was in no doubt whatsoever, the intention of chatting her up. Lalla thought he was lonely. Peter didn’t bother to point out he was about as lonely as bloody Hahn.

    The weather had worsened, no suitable wardrobes had been located, they had furnished the “granny flat” for the Beatties after tremendous amounts of telephonic consultation, with the proviso that anything they didn’t like could be changed; the spriggy wallpaper, curtaining and duvet cover Maman had ordered for her room from, oddly, not France but Harrods, had arrived and been installed, Sam forestalling Van in the wallpapering stakes by a whisker; they’d all decided the second spare room could wait, as the other one, on the far side of the stairs from the master bedroom, was looking very nice, apart from the lack of, again, a wardrobe; and Peter had almost decided to bite on the bullet and bloody well order wardrobes from Harrods, too: they could not possibly be worse than the giant, floor-to-ceiling things with sliding panels that were the local norm. Covered in a white plasticised substance: ugh. And Petey had started dropping heavy hints about his dog and the house being nearly furnished, and Mum being happy in it and liking the furniture.

    Okay, they would definitely choose a dog when they came back from their trip to the UK for his mid-year break, but it wouldn’t be fair to it either to buy it and then leave it behind or to take it with them and have it end up in quarantine for weeks and weeks. Once this concept had been explained to him he fully agreed, though disappointed that Hamish and Katie wouldn’t be able to see his dog. Peter had forgotten who Katie was, and thought he meant Gina’s little girl, the which boo-boo rated a strong reproof.

    The week before they were due to take off, Peter had arranged for Lalla to meet him for lunch in town: just the two of them, for once. He was just on the point of packing up when there was an urgent phone call from Tokyo. Blast! However, John was now on deck, though distracted by thoughts of his furniture, which Peter had told him to have air-freighted, sitting in a big storage warehouse somewhere in the wilds of Sydney suburbia while he looked for a flat. So he got him to ring Lalla. No answer: she must have already left home and had forgotten to take her phone with her. “Keep trying,” mouthed Peter. John nodded, and retired to the outer office.

    Five minutes later they rang through from the lobby to say that Lady Sale was here. John rushed into the lift. “I’m so sorry, Lady Sale! Sir Peter’s taking an urgent call from Tokyo.”

    Lalla decided cheerfully that she’d better go to the restaurant by herself, and John put her thankfully into a taxi, unaware that she was biting her tongue not to tell him NOT to call her Lady Sale. Never mind if he was keeping up appearances for the receptionist’s benefit: the man was an Aussie, she was sure he didn’t give a damn!

    She looked blankly round the huge spaces of a swanky hotel lobby. Help. Why on earth had he booked them in here? Who could she ask where the restaurant was? Ten miles in the hinterland there was a giant reception desk, but there was a man all by himself in a sort of little, um, box, really, just to her right. Lalla approached the concierge shyly and asked if he could help her.

    “Of course, madam!”—Sizing up the handbag and shoes at a glance.—“What can I do for you?”

    “My husband’s booked us in for lunch here, but he’s gonna be late and I’m not sure where to go.”

    Ringing of bells and snapping of fingers ensued and another man hurried up and was told to show this lady to the main restaurant, Kym. This turned out to be the right move, the man on duty at the desk there had them on his list, and she was shown to a table. Phew! She collapsed gratefully onto the chair a waiter was holding for her.

    No-one had offered to take her coat, and Lalla, not realising they should have, unbuttoned it and sat back with a sigh. Twenty minutes later she gave in and ordered a drink. Ten minutes after that, scrabbling in her handbag, she realised that she must have left her phone behind. Blow. Did they have public phones in hotels in the digital age? Highly unlikely. Oh, well, he knew where he’d booked, and if he wasn’t here soon, she’d order something, she was starving.

    She was wondering where the waiter had got to when a pleased voice said: “Gidday, Lalla! On your tod? What’s up, has the bugger stood you up?”

    “Hi, Bernie!” she beamed. “Yes, he had an urgent phone call from Tokyo.”

    Naturally Bernie’s ears pricked up at this, but he merely said cheerfully: “Well, you’re on yer ownsome and I’m on me ownsome, shall we join forces?”

    “Yes, of course, Bernie!”

    Waving vigorously to the waiter, he sat down. Within two twos they were presented with giant menus. Yikes. Finally Lalla ordered the soup, it was pumpkin, presumably they couldn’t do much to ruin that, and a grilled fish dish: barramundi, it was a white-fleshed Australian fish and when she’d had it before it had been lovely, so fingers crossed. Bernie decided to join her in the barra’, it was reliable here, with the devilled oysters for a starter. Firmly he ordered a nice dry Western Australian white, ignoring the waiter’s attempts to foist something ten times the price and a fraction as good on him. Then he more or less got down to it: “seize the day” had always pretty much been Bernie Carpenter’s motto. Cosy and chummy, to start off with, he decided.

    The soup came with a very fancy swirl of cream in it, three floating blue flowers, and two floating bows of chive, but it was nothing to the way Angie could dress up a very cheap dish. …Tasteless, really. Had they left the salt out? Or watered it down too much? Oh, well.

    “How was it?” asked Bernie, smiling cosily.

    Resignedly Lalla realised he was doing the eye-crinkling bit that Chris Hahn had done. Oh, well. “I wouldn’t call it pumpkin, but it was warm. And floral.”

    “Yeah!” he agreed with a laugh. “Shoulda had the oysters.”

    “No, I hate them.”

    “Blow, I was gonna invite you to a cosy little tête-à-tête in me bachelor lair with oyster and champers,” he leered.

    “You and Chris Hahn both,” replied Lalla drily.

    Bernie jumped. “Oh,” he said feebly. “Tried it on, has ’e?”

    “Yes. Well, not the oysters and champagne. But definitely the bachelor lair.”

    “He would. Known for it,” he said casually, getting his second wind.

    “So I gathered. It was certainly…” Lalla sought for a word. “Practised,” she decided.

    He winced in spite of himself. “Yeah. That’s him.”

    The fish lived up to its reputation, thank God, and she seemed to really enjoy it, so, refilling her wine glass, he urged her to think about dessert.

    “Not for me, thanks, Bernie. I might have a coffee and maybe a liqueur. What’s a nice one?” she asked, smiling at him.

    Brightening, he waved for the wine list again. And got very close in consulting over it. She chose Cointreau, revealing that she’d had it before: she liked its orange taste and it wasn’t too sticky.

    Okay, good. He ordered it for her, coffees for them both, and a large Cognac for himself.

    Than he launched into the sad story of his broken marriage… It wasn’t sad, actually, he’d been dying to get rid, and when she’d decided she was off to pastures new he’d breathed a sigh of relief. But telling his version of it enabled him to look very sorry for himself and explain that since then there’d been no-one serious, they were all dim bimbos or gold-diggers on the make… Once she’d had a sip of coffee and a sip of Cointreau he put his hand over hers and said wistfully: “I hope Sale knows how bloody lucky he is, Lalla. I wouldn’t have stood you up for any number of bloody Japanese contracts!”

    At the far side of the restaurant Gail Vickers had been stuffing her face as a reward for coming to the rescue of her desperate life-partner, who had been forced to have drinks with a poisonous client of the bank’s who had managed to put his hand on her bottom as he bade her goodbye and rushed off to catch his plane to the Netherlands or some such furrin parts. It had been teeming all morning so when she’d got here she’d joined Fee in a stiff G&T in the lobby bar and then decided they’d lunch here: if Fee’s boss wasn’t using that table he had on permanent reserve they’d bloody well grab it.

    To which Fee had replied glumly: “No, I was supposed to use it with foul Matthys Hand-on-Bum but some nit got his flight time wrong. So it’s available.”

    Gail got up gleefully. “Come on: we won’t let on about that, we’ll charge it to the bank!”

    “They’ll audit it… No, no-one’ll correlate it with his flight time, and anyway, they’ve got that down wrong in their flaming system. Right, you’re on!”

    So they had gone into the restaurant, Gail’s head whirling with pictures of whole crays, fresh salmon, roast partridge, real French bubbly… She’d settled for the Balmain bugs to start with, they wouldn’t be as good as Doyle’s, in fact they wouldn’t be as good as anything at Doyle’s, but it was the principle of the thing… The partridge was on, so why not? Fee had the scallop starter, they could only ruin it by overcooking, and the salmon, they could only ruin it by— Yeah. And a side salad. Not the most expensive champagne on offer, even the nits in Accounts—she meant the ones who did the humble accounts of their own personnel, of course, not the money-crunchers—might notice that. Just a nice bottle of Bollinger.

    … Take it for all in all, it was quite a nice little meal. Tasty, y’know? Yes, Gail would have a coffee, and a liqueur, thanks. A liqueur brandy, that would be nice!

    “I won’t be able to get a taxi back, you know,” Fee noted, as they sipped.

    “Mm? Oh: yeah, it’s cats and dogs out there.”

    “No! Wake up! I will—not—be—able—”

    “Oh!” said Gail with a loud laugh. “Nor ya will. Not for hours and hours.”

    “Got it in fourteen. –Who are you peering at?” She peered in her turn.

    “Over there, near the window. Very fancy lady with a coat that probably cost the equivalent of my last year’s income hurled back over the back of her chair, to-die-for poured-into-it yellow garment, and my tan Hermès bag,” ended Gail evilly.

    “Uh—Sydney socialite, is she? Well, it’s a Hermès handbag or a clothes drier, Gail.”

    “Go on, rub it in. No, she’s not one of the ghastly local lot: I know her.”

    “Eh?” This time Fee really peered. “Well, I know the character that’s leering at her, that’s bloody Bernie Carpenter from QSMME. She doesn’t look as if she appreciates it much, does she?”

    “No, she bloody doesn’t,” said Gail grimly. “Excuse me.”

    Fee’s jaw sagged as she got up and made her way determinedly, if somewhat drunkenly, over to them.

    “Forgive my butting in, Mrs Sale,” said Gail on a grim note, as the poor woman was observed to try to pull her hand out from under the beefy Bernie character’s and he hung onto it. “But this person seems to be forcing his attentions on you.”

    “He is, a bit!” gasped Lalla, very flushed, as Bernie let go of her hand at last. “Hullo, Ms Vickers! I’m so glad to see you! –I dunno where they all get the idea that I’m fair game, that’s the second one that’s tried it on in just a few weeks. But I thought Bernie would be better behaved, because he calls himself a mate of my husband’s.”

    “That’s the worst sort,” said Gail drily. “Look, come and finish your drink at our table. I’ll allow we are gay,” she added with a horrible leer at the would-be swain, “but I can promise you we’re not into trying it on in restaurants. Or anywhere else.”

    “Of course you aren’t. Thank you very much, I will,” said Lalla, getting up. “Just thank your lucky stars I won’t tell Peter this time, Bernie.”

    “Look, for God’s sake! I only—”

    “Yes, we know you only,” said Lalla. She gathered up her bulky coat.

    Gail’s heart beat very fast. “Do let me carry your handbag, Mrs Sale,” she said, as she looked helplessly from it to her drink.

    “Thanks, that’d make it much easier,” replied Lalla with a smile.

    Trying not to breathe on it, Gail bore the sacred object tenderly back to their table… Really, it was like nothing so much as the Grail scene in Parsifal. One felt both privileged and humbled. Simultaneously. What a pity that the word “awesome” had been so overworked and debased by the foul Yanks, otherwise it would have just hit the spot.

    Having been introduced and having greeted “Mrs Sale” nicely, not letting on she knew who she was–-which she certainly did, not only because she’d heard the whole story of the visit to RightSmart, but because the bank was more than aware that Sir Peter Sale was in the country—bloody Fee then said sweetly: “Do tell me, Mrs Sale: is that a Hermès Birkin?”

    To Gail’s great glee the reply to that was: “Um, what? –Sorry.”

    Since Fee was now occupied in swallowing, serve her right, Gail said nicely: “I think she means this smart handbag of yours.”

    “Yikes, do you mean it’s one of those ones that have got a name?” Lalla gasped. “Peter bought it for me, he said it looked nice and restrained.”

    “So it does,” said Gail sweetly, trying not to actually sneer at her life-partner. “I’ve been admiring it.”

    Two minutes after that it was first names all round, they were chatting happily, and the discomforted would-be suitor was taking himself off. One could only hope that in fact there weren’t any taxis.

    As it turned out, after another round of liqueurs, there were indeed no taxis, but the transport problem was solved, though in a rather roundabout manner, by Fee’s ringing QSA for Lalla, Lalla’s then speaking to one, John, who reported that Peter was now on the phone to Hong Kong, and getting him to ring her, Lalla’s, driver. When he arrived they were sitting in the lobby bar and had all been to the loo and were looking almost respectable, if rather flushed. Then they all three, the coat, which Fee had practically slobbered over as she helped her into it, serve her right, and the sacred object were loaded into the Beamer—still the hire car, was it, Troy? No doubt they did take a while to get here from Germany, mm—and Gail was driven back in style to RightSmart. Fee decided she’d come in, too, as she had, of course, accompanied the foul Dutchman to Kingsford Smith after lunch and had been unable to get a taxi back— Lalla dissolved in giggles.

    … “Um, sorry, I suppose,” said Gail as they staggered into her office and collapsed there.

    “Don’t be silly, I’d have done the same. You’re right: she is sweet. And not dumb.”

    “Right.”

    Fee began to shake slightly. “And you got to handle the—”

   “I did NOT have an ulterior MOTIVE!” she shouted.

    Fee collapsed in helpless sniggers.

    Two minutes later Marlene appeared with mugs of very black, i.e. both strong and milkless, instant, and more or less stood over them while they drank them, but never mind, it wasn’t every day you got to be a knight errant and handle the object of your desire, was it?

    … Did they really need a drier?

    Lalla didn’t tell Peter the full details of the lunch with Bernie, she just mentioned that he’d turned up, so they’d had lunch together, and then she’d seen Gail Vickers from RightSmart and her friend there and joined up with them for coffee and liqueurs. Plus a description of Fee’s lovely green wool suit. Well, she was no good at describing clothes and colours and stuff, but she said “sort of mottled” and he seemed to get it.

    Later, however, when he suggested having Bernie over for dinner again before they took off for the UK, she didn’t feel she wanted to see him, really, so she said: “Actually, Peter, he got a bit silly that time you couldn’t make it for lunch and he turned up. He’s quite nice, and he’s good with Petey, but, um, I suppose he is a bit the Chris Hahn type, really.” She looked at him uneasily: was he gonna be cross?

    But he only said: “Uh-huh. Okay, sweetheart, we won’t ask him again, unless it’s with a larger group. At least you haven’t made him into another lame dog to be helped over stiles.”

    “I thought you said it was lame ducks?” said Lalla blankly.

    “Both, I think. The lame dogs definitely need helping hands in order to, not necessarily in this order—”

    They were in the sitting-room, and Lalla was curled up on the window seat, so at this point she cried: “I wish I’d let Alan’s Robert give us those cushions after all, ’cos I’d be bashing you with one right now, Peter Sale!”

    Grinning, Peter resumed: “Not necessarily in this order: to acquire permanent jobs, find an employer who will appreciate their skill set, and receive afterschool care at less than a moment’s notice. Not that I object to funny little Addison, I think she’s adorable: the other day she told me solemnly that her cousin’s doll had had to go to the dolls’ hospital, but it wasn’t a serious operation, she just got a new wig!”

    Lalla smiled in spite of herself. “Yes, she is very cute. And of course I don’t mind having her, I don’t think she’s a lame dog at all.”

    “Not her,” he sighed: “the mother.”

    “Pooh! You don’t know what it’s like!”

    Possibly not, but he was beginning to.

    “And what on earth is a lame duck, when it’s at home?” she then demanded with unutterable depths of scorn in her tone.

    “I can’t precisely define it but I have visions of it sitting there damply, quite possibly bobbing gently up and down, as, for example, it spends five hours of its working day waiting to see if one of us might require the car, or three hours, minimum, over a lunch in which it was not specifically invited to partake while it tells one the best way to carve objets d’art out of pieces of Casuarina or, I’m easy as to the genus, Eucalyptus, sourced from our property without specific permiss—”

    “Shut up!” she cried.

    “Or, indeed,” he continued thoughtfully, ignoring her, “arrives at morning teatime ostensibly with samples of fabric for unsolicited curtains for the library and billiards room, stays for a lunch which was intended for those who actually live on the premises, and imparts its whole life story complete with that of several unsavoury characters variously known as ‘Tigger’, ‘Sunbeam’, ‘Bronson’ and ‘Little Mo’ over a rather pleasant Chardonnay of which I, for one, was counting on having more than a glassful!”

    “Gee, ya can tell you went to a flash Pommy private school: dig the grammar,” she sneered.

    Peter’s jaw dropped.

    “And that proves you weren’t listening at all, you stuck-up thing, ’cos Tigger and Little Mo aren’t ‘persons’, they’re Janey’s cats, and Sunbeam was her little yellow Vee-Dub that that horrible Bronson she was flatting with nicked!” she cried. “And he cleaned out the poor girl’s bank account, he nicked her card as well, and I know she shouldn’t of written the PIN number on a Post-it Note and stuck it to her computer, but we can’t all be geniuses with stupid numbers!”

    He must have missed that bit in the general outpouring of garbage; Peter swallowed. “Sorry, darling. How much did the swine get away with?”

    “Um, well, actually she only had eight dollars in i— It’s the principle of the thing!” she cried as he choked.

    “Yes,” said Peter weakly, blowing his nose. “Oh, dear. Did she ever get the car back?”

    “Oh, sure!” Lalla replied with huge irony. “The Aussie cops are gonna spend months on end and multi-megabucks hunting all over the country for one clapped-out yellow Vee-Dub with a door that doesn’t work that only belongs to an ordinary member of the public who can’t afford to replace it!”

    “Oh, Lor’. Er, Lalla, darling, of course I feel sorry for the girl, but you have just more or less defined the notion of lame duck.”

    “Have I, just? Well, she’s gonna be the definition of lame dog, instead, see, ’cos know all that stupid money you went and put in that silly bank account for me? I’m gonna spend some of it on some lovely art and architecture courses for her, and a proper English online course on interior design! So how’s that for a blimmin’ stile? Lame dogs!” On this scornful note she got up, picked up a magazine that apparently she’d been sitting on, more or less, and chucked it at him. And marched out.

    Peter’s “flash Pommy private school” had included cricket in its curriculum: he fielded the magazine without effort. Architecture Australia. A wincingly modern thing, all glass, surely entirely unsuited to the climate, on the cover. He reached to put it on— Oh. No coffee table. The famous Van was said to be sourcing wood for the promised, or perhaps threatened, side tables.

    “Oh, dear!” he said with a weak laugh to the ambient air. “Lalla, my darling, if them there aren’t lame dogs, I don’t know what would be!”

Next chapter:

https://thelallaeffect.blogspot.com/2024/01/back-in-uk.html