Before and After (14 page)

“What?”

I realised that Bella had spoken my name several times.

“Flora,
I said, you umm, you won’t tell anyone about my tattoo will you?” Bella said anxiously.

“It
will remain a secret till my dying day,” I said.

It
might well remain a secret till her dying day too, if I didn’t get a move on with encouraging Fiachra.

Bella
gave me a near professional foot rub and I closed my eyes with contentment. I knew that Friday was going to be very taxing indeed, so I resolved to conserve my strength and rest as much as I could. I let my mind dwell on the type of marble that I would buy myself when I left the Ambles. Perhaps a fat black onyx threaded with gold would be nice.

Rule Number Fourteen

“
Not
all
events
are
predictable
—
the
shifting
of
the
earth
,
the
moving
of
passions
or
sorrows
.
And
all
are
interlinked
.
So
it
is
that
a
shoe
-
heel
can
snap
in
South
London
and
a
boot
maker
in
Bolton
becomes
a
millionaire
.”

I wracked my mind to remember if Archie was a broker or a banker? What’s the difference? Who cares? I wished yet
again
that I had access to the notes. Frankly anything to do with money makes me lose the will to live. Oh, yes, of course I like my own – who doesn’t? But grubbing about all day with other people’s money strikes me as a very unsatisfying occupation. And the jargon – percentages, rates, bonds, hedges, gilts,
really
. Too much,
much
too much. I keep my money in a delightful bank that I’m sure hasn’t seen a computer and never will do. They are courteous, charming, ruthlessly efficient and extend an overdraft of £100,000. What? Where is it? Where do you think? Switzerland of course. (They also send marvellous chocolate every Christmas which should be enough to have you all schlossing to open an account there.) I know that the saying goes that war torn Italy produced Michelangelo, Da Vinci and the Borgias and peaceful Switzerland only managed the cuckoo clock, but they really do make the most excellent money handlers.
So
discreet, they make me forget my own names sometimes. You also have a private box of course. I keep my grandmothers jewels there and various sentimental mementoes from my
interesting
childhood. I say ‘interesting’ as in the Chinese curse. But still, every time I go there I always allow for at least an hour or two to sit in a steel lined room with just a table and chair and my private safe.
Immense
pleasure. I decided that strictly speaking I should do some revision
sur
l’Internet
on Archie’s work as I would have to endure Friday night with him and his colleagues, but although the spirit was willing the flesh was very weak indeed. I consoled myself with the thought that if necessary I could mutter a few phrases and leave it at that. Besides, men like to show off horribly to women and I really couldn’t be expected to bother my pretty little head about all of that financial stuff, could I?

Instead
I called a few acquaintances to see if I could find out anything about Archie’s boss, Sir George.

The
first few calls were fruitless and then I hit gold. Anthony Rockminster, part time model, part time personal trainer to the stars and my personal Übergossip revealed all to me.

“Flora,
how lovely to hear from you. Are you in town for long?”

“Well,
that all depends really, but not for that much longer I hope. We must have lunch before I leave. Now then, do tell me all you know about Sir George and his wife Patricia.”

“Where
shall I start? Well, my dear, Patricia is a soak,
and
a thwarted lesbian. I know it’s ugly. But no other word for it, very unhappy, very rich and very keen to discover who it is that Sir George is seeing every week.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Oh
Anthony, please don’t be a tease, by the way what’s that awful noise in the background?”

“The
prime minister.”

“Poor
soul, what
is
he doing?”

“Sit
ups, and not very well. Only another hundred to go.”

“Anyway
do go on.”

“Well,
as I was saying, Sir George is immensely rich, immensely powerful and not unattractive in that sort of middle aged English way–

“Yes?”

“Can you not guess?”

“No!”

“Oh yes. He arrives
chez
moi
every Friday evening with a simply marvellous present, of course I have to get him dressed and out by nine as I need to get ready for the sashay down Old Compton Street by ten, but honestly Flora the gifts do make it worthwhile.”

“Like
what?”

“Oh,
Rolex watches, Cristovelli rings, a Ferrari, a Harley, Armani suits, you know, only the usual tat that us boys can’t live without.”

“No
cash then?”

“
Flora
!”

I
kissed Anthony down the phone and thoughtfully stared at the ceiling for a while. I might or might not reveal to Sir George that I knew Anthony, but it was very re-assuring to know that I had the choice. I picked up the photograph of Sylvia on her honeymoon and tucked it into my bag as I prepared to leave the Ambles for the hairdresser’s.

I
picked my way through the rubble and dust of downstairs, waving to the builders as I went. I popped my head around the kitchen door to see that Archie had left for work early. Oh. But it was Friday, and he always left early. I
must
find out where he goes. There was only Bella and Marmaduke in there, both of them looking sulky.

“What’s
the matter Bella?”

“
Fiachra’s gone to get some plaster or something, apparently they’ve found damp, and now they’re worried about something called subsidence,” Bella said despondently.

“Oh,
I see. And Maria?” I asked, looking peremptorily around the kitchen.

“In
her bed,” Bella said, moving her head sideways to indicate Maria’s room.

Good
grief, I thought crossly as I strode to the door, we can’t have everyone in bed. One is enough, surely? I opened Maria’s door without knocking and saw that she was huddled in her bed like a hibernating bear. Her room was simple with the exception of the flurry of religious pictures tacked onto the wall and a statuette, of – well, a
velvet
statuette of Jesus. Most unsanitary I would think seeing that velvet of all materials collects dust and bacteria like there’s no tomorrow.

“Well?”
I asked standing at the foot of her bed with my arms crossed.

“Miss
Flora, I, I do not feel so well today,” Maria whispered, drawing the sheets up to her chin and staring at me with large eyes. I’d never noticed before what a bovine face she had. Long lashes lapped at her big brown eyes, giving her an almost attractive look – if you like cows, of course.

“What’s
wrong with you Maria?”

“I,
I would like to see Father Absolom.”

“I
don’t think we need a
priest
in the house! I would be very happy to fetch you a doctor if you require one, but if you don’t I suggest you get up and start work. Goodbye.”

I
closed the door with no little force behind me and told Bella that she should take Marmaduke to the park and then come home and start making lunch.

“How
about a cheese and spinach pie? I would think it’s just the thing for someone who’s been driving around London all day in the appalling traffic.”

Bella
nodded enthusiastically and I stepped smartly outside and onto the pavement. I decided to walk to the hairdresser’s, eschewing the services of a black cab that drove slowly and hopefully past me. I thought about the vision of Maria huddled under her blankets and found myself frowning in annoyance. The standard of domestic service in this country had spiralled downwards, almost out of control. Of course, after the First World War it was hopeless really, all those tweenies deciding to go into factories to do their patriotic bit, leaving the mistress of the house unable even to boil an egg, let alone clean the pantry. And who can blame them? A lot more matey and fun I would imagine even in an armaments factory than being at the beck and call of some dragon of a lady of substance. So we lost the family tradition of service. And with the demise of the Tories it seems that all of the domestic staff now in London hail from Eastern Europe (the stalwart Filipinos have all deserted the greyness of England and work for huge amounts of dollars back in America). And say what you will about the Eastern block, they do produce a very odd sort of servant, I mean, for a start they are all either wildly overqualified (most of them were civil engineers, or opticians back home) or come from such a peasant background that they are still horribly in touch with their earthy roots and can’t seem to settle in the metropolis.

Maria
was just displaying that sort of serf stubbornness that made me side with Katherine the Great. How dare she loll around in bed just because she felt like it? Good grief, if I stayed in bed every time I felt like it I dread to think of the consequences! I was also concerned about Archie, I had found him the other night staring into a cup of cold tea, rocking gently backwards and forwards in his kitchen chair like one of those poor men that centuries ago had been diagnosed with melancholia and sentenced to bedlam. I could only hope that my plans for Friday would cheer him up immensely.

I
walked unheedingly past the people crowded on the streets of London. They were the usual ragtag collection of shoppers, commuters, housewives and bewildered tourists clutching maps and cameras. All very inappropriately dressed, of course. Surely I’m not the only person who thinks that running shoes, or
trainers
, should only be worn on the running track or tennis court? There was a young woman in front of me wearing such a pair of hideous rubber footwear, completing an otherwise almost acceptable wardrobe that as I passed her I couldn’t help but comment on it.

“Your
feet let down an otherwise attractive ensemble, my dear. Take my advice and go to Russell and Bromley, they have a sale on at the moment.” I said briskly as I sped past her.

She
stopped and stared at me, her mouth literally softly opening in surprise.

“
Wha – what did you say?”

I
halted and repeated myself watching as she brushed some badly highlighted blonde hair away from her face. Her eyes were heavily made up and her lipstick was a shade too bright for her age, but otherwise she was passingly attractive. She was weighed down with two carrier bags of groceries and had the look of a woman whom life has let down, more than once. Yes, if pushed I would describe her general look as
thwarted
, which is never very flattering, is it? I pointed at her feet and said, “You will always be the underclass and never be taken seriously if you continue to wear those.”

I
considered her as I spoke, and realised that it was going to be time for one of my R.A.O.K’s . The woman in question was struggling with a mixture of affronted incredulity and curiosity. I was sure that she’d never been stopped by a stranger before who commented on her choice of footwear. My Random Acts Of Kindness are often performed on young women, I find they generally have the most need for them, and then again they are usually
so
grateful. Also, if I am going to be strictly honest with you, they provide me with a much needed, and I think, well deserved sense of fun and fulfilment. “Now tell me, do you have the correct time?” I asked her, being careful to be gentle in my tone of voice, but making sure that I had eye contact with her.

The
woman glanced at her wrist, with the air of a subject caught on a hypnotist’s stage in the unwilling glare of a spotlight. (Which of course, she
was
, but didn’t know it.)

“Well,
I have a spare ten minutes, let me buy you something more suitable. Come along.” I smiled at her.

I
retraced my steps, leading by the arm and guided her into the Russell and Bromley shoe shop that we had just past.

“Size?”
I asked her.

“What?
Are you serious? I mean, I don’t think –“

“Best
not to think too much in my opinion and never look a gift horse in the mouth. Now then, I would judge you’re probably a six? Yes, I thought so. Now sit down and pop those terrible things off your feet.”

I
waved at a bored looking shop girl who was desultorily chatting to another colleague at the back of the shop. She came forward and hovered in front of us.

“Now
then, we need a pair of stout yet stylish black leather boots for trudging the hard
trottoirs
of London, a pair of dark brown suede high heels, oh yes, those with the square toe and the grosgrain ribbon bow on the front, a pair of black medium heeled courts, that pair of dark red snakeskin pointed-toed, that pair of pale pink evening shoes, the ones with the diamante buckle and a pair of high heeled black ankle boots. All in a size six. As quick as you like. I shall be paying in cash and I have ten minutes.”