Babycakes (17 page)

“Oh,” she said in a startled chipmunk voice. “I saw the lights. I thought it best to ring first.”

He sought to reassure her. “You must be Miss Treves. I’m a friend of Simon’s, Michael Tolliver.”

“Oh … an American.”

He laughed nervously. “Right. We swapped apartments, in fact. Simon’s in San Francisco.”

She grunted. “I know all about the naughty lad.”

“He’s fine,” he said. “He asked me to give you his love and tell you he’s coming back right after Easter.”

This news provoked another grunt.

“He just sort of … fell in love with San Francisco.”

“That’s what he told you, did he?”

“Well … more or less. Look, I’m not very settled in, but … can I offer you a cup of coffee? Or tea?”

She thought for a moment, then nodded. “Don’t mind if I do.”

“Good.”

She led the way back to the living room and took a seat—her feet dangling just above the floor—in a low-slung chintz armchair. The slightly underscaled proportions of the chair seemed to suggest it had been provided specifically for her use.

Miss Treves brushed a fleck of dust off the armrest, then arranged her hands demurely in her lap. “Simon didn’t tell me you were coming,” she said. “Otherwise I might have tidied up a bit.”

“I don’t mind,” he replied. “It’s fine.”

She looked around the room disgustedly. “ ‘Tisn’t a bit. It’s perfectly vile.” She shook her head slowly. “And he’s supposed to be the gentleman.”

Her indignation made him feel much better. He had begun to wonder if he was being too prissy about the apartment, too American in his demands. This second opinion, considering its source, reinforced his earliest suspicions about Simon’s basic slovenliness.

He remembered the tea he had offered her. “Oh … excuse me. I’ll put the kettle on for us.” He spun around to make his exit, crashing ingloriously into a shadeless floor lamp. He steadied the wobbling pole with one hand, while Miss Treves tittered behind his back.

“Now there, love. You’ll get used to it.”

She meant her size, apparently. He turned and smiled at her to show that he was a Californian and knew his way around human differences. “What do you take in your tea?” he asked.

“Milk, please … and a tiny bit of sugar.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have sugar.”

“Yes you do. On the shelf to the right of the cooker. I keep it there for myself when I stop by.”

In the kitchen he ran hot water into the teakettle, removed a milk bottle from the refrigerator, and located Miss Treves’s private cache of sugar. Sugar
crystals,
actually, like the stuff he had shared with his first sex partner, the non-scene, non-camp bricklayer from Hampstead Heath.

When he returned to the living room, he handed Miss Treves her tea and sat down on the end of the sofa closest to her. “So … Simon tells me he ran away from you once in the British Museum.” It was a weak opener, but it was all he had.

She took a cautious sip of her tea. “He has a nasty habit of doing that, doesn’t he?”

He assumed that was a rhetorical question. “He says you were a wonderful nanny.”

She looked into her teacup, trying to hide her pleasure. “We made a sight, the two of us.”

He started to say “I can imagine,” but decided against it. “And now you’re a manicurist, huh?”

“That I am.” She nodded.

“Do you have a shop?”

“No. Just regular customers. I visit them in their homes. A select clientele.” She cast a reproving glance at his hands. “You could use a bit of help yourself, love.”

Embarrassed, he looked down at his jagged nails. “It’s a new bad habit, I’m afraid. I had flawless nails for thirty years.” He decided to change the subject. “How did you know that Simon had … left the royal yacht?”

She sighed. “Oh, love … The
Mirror
went daft over it. You didn’t read it? It was just a few days ago.”

“No … actually, I didn’t.”

“They made it sound as if he’d slapped the Queen.”

He made an effort to look duly concerned. “It was nothing like that,” he said. “He just got tired of the navy.”

“Balls,” said Miss Treves.

“Uh … what?” He wasn’t sure he had heard her correctly. “The navy is one thing, love. The
Britannia
is quite another. It’s a terrible disgrace.”

“How did the press find out about it?”

She growled indignantly. “Some bally woman on the telly.”

“In San Francisco?”

She nodded. “Then the
Mirror
did their own snooping about and found his address. Printed it, if you please.”

He thought about that for a moment. “Is Simon’s family … upset about it?”

Miss Treves chuckled. “You’re lookin’ at it, love.”

“Oh …”

“His mum and dad came to a tragic end when Simon was still at Cambridge.”

“Oh … I didn’t know that.”

Her hands fidgeted in her lap. “Simon doesn’t like to talk about it. A dreadful wreck.”

He nodded.

“Don’t mention it to him, will you? The poor lad has spent eight years getting over it.”

“Who wouldn’t?” said Michael. He had already begun to forgive Simon for the apartment and to regard this miniature nanny as a kind of guardian angel in tweeds. “He’s so lucky to have had you,” he added.

Her small pink rosebud of a mouth made a smile that was just for him. “Simon always has such lovely friends.”

A Good Match

M
ARY ANN HAD LEFT FOR THE PENINSULA TO DO A
human interest story on the closing of an auto plant, so Brian sought tangible ways to celebrate his first official day as a househusband at 28 Barbary Lane: He trimmed the ivy on all the windowsills. He scoured the crud off the grout in the shower stall, then organized the cleansers and sponges under the kitchen sink. Slithering under the bed, he went after dust balls with the single-minded frenzy of a terrier routing a gopher from its lair.

He was working for three now. Every sweep of the dust-cloth, every squirt of Fantastik, every mouse turd he banished from the pantry, made the house just that much safer for The Kid.

The Kid.

He capitalized it in his mind, paying superstitious homage to the seed which, even as he swabbed the toilet, could already be sprouting in Mary Ann’s womb. The Kid was everything now. That incredible, microscopic little bugger had turned his life around and given him a reason to get up in the morning. And that was nothing short of a miracle.

He took a break and made himself a ham sandwich, eating it in the little house on the roof while a rust-red tanker slid silently across the great blue expanse of the bay. Above the terra-cotta tile of the Art Institute, a rainbow-striped kite flickered in the wind.

There was so much to show a child in this city, so many commonplace glories to be seen again through the eyes of The Kid. The windmill in Golden Gate Park. Chinatown in the fog. The waves that come crashing over the seawall at Fort Point. In his mind’s eye, they were frolicking on a generic beach, he and this little piece of himself, this bright and lovable boy-or-girl who called him … what?

Daddy?

Dad?

Papa?

Papa wasn’t bad, really. It had a kindly, old-world ring to it—stern but loving. Was it too stern? He didn’t want to come off as autocratic. The Kid was
a person,
after all. The Kid must never fear him. Corporal punishment was out of the question.

He returned to the apartment, dropped his plate into the sink, then decided to scour the sink. As he worked, he could hear Mrs. Madrigal going about her gardening chores down below in the courtyard. She was humming a fractured version of “I Concentrate on You.”

He was dying to tell her about The Kid, but he squelched the urge. For reasons he couldn’t exactly pinpoint, he felt the news should come from Mary Ann. Besides, it would be more fun to wail until they had some indication that Mary Ann was pregnant.

He wanted to show Simon that there were no hard feelings, so he went downstairs and invited the lieutenant to go running with him. Later, as they huffed and puffed past deserted docks toward the Bay Bridge, he was impressed by Simon’s endurance. He told him as much.

“We’re a good match,” was the gracious reply.

“Not only that,” Brian continued, “but you seem to do O.K. in other departments too.”

“How’s that?”

Brian cast a brotherly leer at the lieutenant. “I saw her when she left this morning.”

“Ah.”

“Ah is right. Where did you find her?”

“Oh … a little
boite
called the Balboa Café. Do you know it?”

“Used to,” he replied. “It’s been a while. Was she good?”

“Mmm. Up to a point.”

Brian laughed.

“No pun intended, sir.”

“Right.”

“She was a little too … uh … shall we say enthusiastic?”

“Gotcha,” said Brian. “She bit your nipples.”

The lieutenant was clearly dumbfounded. “Well, yes … as a matter of fact, she did.”

“That’s big with her,” said Brian.

“You know her, I take it?”

“Used to. Before I was married. Jennifer Rabinowitz, right?”

“Right.”

“Quite a lady.”

“She’s made the rounds, then?”

Brian chuckled. “She’s the head shark in the Bermuda Triangle.”

“Sorry?”

“That’s what they call it,” he explained. “The neighborhood where the Balboa Café is.”

“I see.”

The lieutenant seemed a little nonplussed, so Brian tried to buck him up. “I mean … it’s not like she’s the town whore or anything. She doesn’t sack out with just everybody.”

“Gratifying,” said Simon.

They stopped running when they reached the bridge, then walked inland from the Embarcadero and sat at the base of the Villaincourt Fountain. A small Vietnamese child approached them, bearing a net bag. Brian waved him away.

“What was that about?” asked Simon.

“He wanted to sell us garlic.”

“Why garlic?”

“Beats me. They gel it in Gilroy and sell it on the streets here. Dozens of little Artful Dodgers hustling the white men who invaded their parents’ country. Poetic, huh?”

“I should say.”

“You’re a great running partner,” said Brian.

“Thank you, sir. So are you.”

He shook the lieutenant’s knee heartily. He liked this guy a lot, and not just because Jennifer Rabinowitz had made them equals. “You’re looking at one happy sonofabitch,” he said.

“Why is that?”

“Well … Mary Ann and I have decided to have a baby. I mean, she’s not pregnant yet, but we’re working on it.”

“That’s wonderful,” said Simon. “Yeah … it sure as hell is.”

They sat there in silence, lulled by the splash of the fountain.

“Don’t tell her I told you,” said Brian.

“Of course not.”

“I don’t want her to feel like there’s … you know … pressure on her.”

“I understand.”

“What will be, will be … you know?”

“Mmm.”

“By the way, you’re more than welcome to use the TV room whenever you feel like it.”

“Thank you. Uh … where is it?”

“On the roof. All the way up the stairs. Everybody in the house uses it.”

“Marvelous.”

“I’ll show you how to work the VCR. You might have some fun with that. I’ve got
Debbie Does Dallas.”

“Sorry?”

“It’s a porn movie.”

“Ah,”

“I haven’t played it very much … only when Mary Ann goes on assignment or something. Then I put that baby on and … wrestle with the ol’ cyclops.”

A slow smile spread across Simon’s face. “You mean bang the bishop?”

“You catch on fast.” Brian grinned.

Mirage

M
ICHAEL’S TEENAGE SOJOURN IN LONDON HAD
been spent with a family in Hampstead who housed him through a student program sponsored by the English-Speaking Union. Mr. and Mrs. Mainwaring had been childless, and they’d fussed over him as if he’d been their own, taking him to plays in the West End, plying him with shortbread at tea-time, stocking the pantry with his favorite brand of thick-cut English marmalade.