Read Drinking Midnight Wine Online
Authors: Simon R. Green
Drinking Midnight Wine (12 page)
“One last word of advice,” said Carys. “You be careful around Gayle. She’s more than she appears. Hell; she’s more than anyone appears.”
“But you’re not going to tell me what,” said Toby. “I’m getting really tired of mysteries, Carys. It was only by accident that I followed Gayle through that magic door of hers last evening.”
“There are no accidents,” said Carys Galloway, the Waking Beauty. “Some things are just meant to be. Now get out of here, and let the rest of us drink in peace.”
Meanwhile, back in the real world, in Veritie, where she lived entirely by choice, Gayle was reluctantly getting out of her very comfortable bed. Thank the good Lord for snooze alarms. She could sleep through or ignore one alarm, but half a dozen in a row would have had Lazarus himself stomping out of his tomb to complain about the noise. Gayle stood naked before her full-length bedroom mirror and thought, not for the first time, that she looked pretty good, all things considered. Bit of a tummy, and the breasts weren’t everything they once were, but you could say that about a lot of things these days. The world turns, and we all get just that little bit older. She pulled on a white silk wrap-around, made a few halfhearted stabs at doing something with her hair, and then decided it was far too early for shit like that. She padded downstairs, stifling a yawn behind one elegant hand, and picked up the post and the morning papers from the welcome mat.
The post was the usual junk mail and a handful of bills. Didn’t these people have anything better to do than pester her for the few paltry sums she owed them? Wasn’t there a law against demanding money with menaces? She’d get round to them. Eventually. When she damned well felt like it. And as for the entirely unsolicited junk mail:
You may already have won a major prize
? How about:
You may already have felled irreplaceable rain forests,
just to make the paper this crap is printed on, dickhead? God help you if the South American Indians ever discover voodoo. Maybe she should send them a few useful instructional books on the subject. . . . They really liked the last one, on how to make explosives out of everyday kitchen products. She still got letters. Gayle sighed and dropped the lot into a nearby wastebasket.
You may already have won a major prize
? How about:
You may already have felled irreplaceable rain forests,
just to make the paper this crap is printed on, dickhead? God help you if the South American Indians ever discover voodoo. Maybe she should send them a few useful instructional books on the subject. . . . They really liked the last one, on how to make explosives out of everyday kitchen products. She still got letters. Gayle sighed and dropped the lot into a nearby wastebasket.
She took a quick look at the main headlines in the morning papers. Gayle took the
Times,
the
Guardian,
and the
Independent,
covering the main political positions. She had no use for tabloids. She wanted information, not gossip. If she really wanted to know who was sleeping with whom, she’d ask Carys Galloway. The headlines were surprisingly quiet for once. Most of them were still wittering on about the continuing weird weather, that might or might not be the result of disturbances on the sun’s surface. Gayle folded the
Independent
and tucked it under her arm, and laid the others on the side table for later. First things first. She went into the downstairs toilet, undid her wrap, and settled herself comfortably on the porcelain throne. (One good thing about not living with a man; you didn’t have to keep checking whether he’d left the seat up.) She opened the newspaper to the political pages, supported the weight of the paper on her thighs, and sighed contentedly as she felt the first stirrings in her bowels. Ah . . . Quality Time.
Times,
the
Guardian,
and the
Independent,
covering the main political positions. She had no use for tabloids. She wanted information, not gossip. If she really wanted to know who was sleeping with whom, she’d ask Carys Galloway. The headlines were surprisingly quiet for once. Most of them were still wittering on about the continuing weird weather, that might or might not be the result of disturbances on the sun’s surface. Gayle folded the
Independent
and tucked it under her arm, and laid the others on the side table for later. First things first. She went into the downstairs toilet, undid her wrap, and settled herself comfortably on the porcelain throne. (One good thing about not living with a man; you didn’t have to keep checking whether he’d left the seat up.) She opened the newspaper to the political pages, supported the weight of the paper on her thighs, and sighed contentedly as she felt the first stirrings in her bowels. Ah . . . Quality Time.
Afterwards, she considered breakfast. Normally all her meals were lengthy affairs. Gayle liked to cook and she liked to eat, and breakfast was, after all, one of the most important meals of the day. Everyone said that. Maybe sausage, bacon, and eggs—a cholesterol special. But the more she thought about it, the more she thought she’d better get dressed first. She wasn’t expecting anyone, but she had a strong feeling company was coming.
So, back to the bedroom. Gayle chose a long, dark green dress with a white leather belt; comfortable, but still presentable. Flat shoes, no tights. It was Saturday, after all. Slap on some basic makeup (heavy makeup was for women with no faces of their own), and then attack her hair with a hairbrush until it sulkily assumed some shape and sense. She looked in the mirror. She looked good. In fact, for this early on a Saturday morning, she looked damned good. Relaxed, informal, chic. Heartbreaker, even. She laughed, blew a kiss at the mirror, and went downstairs again, humming an old Jacobean protest song. Whoever was coming to see her, they’d better be worth it. By her own choice, Gayle didn’t get many visitors. If she needed to see someone, she paid them a visit, whether they wanted to see her or not. Humming quite loudly now, she floated around her kitchen putting together a hearty, organic, free-range breakfast. She laid the table for two, using the good crockery, and remembered to put the milk in the milk jug. She made a good strong pot of tea, and stirred it briskly with the end of a spoon. (Stir with a knife, stir in strife.) She stood back to take a look, and the doorbell rang, right on cue. Gayle went to answer the door. Whoever it was, they’d better have a really good reason for needing to see her.
Outside the front door, Toby was in serious danger of hyperventilating. His heart was hammering in his chest, his breathing was short and rapid, and the butterflies in his stomach were kicking the hell out of each other. He just hoped he wasn’t sweating as well. Toby always found meeting new people socially rather difficult. Especially if they were women. Really attractive women he’d only worked up the courage to talk to yesterday. It didn’t help that she was, apparently, a for-real magical creature of great significance to one and all, and that he and she were destined or fated or cursed to become involved with each other. Toby wasn’t at all sure how he felt about that. His life might not be much, but he liked to believe he was in charge of it. He’d stopped along the way to buy half a dozen long-stemmed roses, for a frankly extortionate price, and hoped they’d serve as a peace offering, at least to show that his heart was in the right place.
How much longer before she was going to answer the bell? It had taken him ages to work up the courage to press the bloody thing, and now she was taking forever to answer it. He debated whether to ring the bell again, but decided against it. It might make him seem impatient, even aggressive. Not a good first impression. There was always the chance she wasn’t in. Who said Carys had to be infallible? Toby was almost relieved at the thought that Gayle might be out. Then he wouldn’t have to go through with . . . this. But all he had to do was remember all those times he’d sat opposite her on the train . . . and the thought of meeting her again brought a daft, happy smile to his lips and a spring to his heart.
The door opened suddenly, and there she was, even more beautiful than ever. The more casual look suited her. And her mouth was every bit the perfect thing he’d thought it was. Unfortunately, her mouth wasn’t smiling at him. In fact, she was looking at him as though trying to figure out what he might be selling. Toby tried to say hi, but his breath was still trapped in his throat, so he thrust the roses at her, to speak for him. Gayle accepted the roses, carefully avoiding the thorns.
“Oh, how nice,” she said. “You killed some flowers for me.”
Her tone wasn’t exactly what he’d been hoping for. In fact, for a moment Toby was sure she was going to throw the roses back in his face, but she just sighed and stepped back, indicating for him to come in with a jerk of her head. Toby stepped quickly forward into the narrow hall, just in case she might change her mind. Gayle pushed the front door shut and then headed back into the house, leaving Toby to follow her. He looked quickly about him as he hurried to keep up, trying to get some sense of Gayle’s character from how she chose to live. The walls were decorated with pretty flowered wallpaper, the furnishings were basic but elegant and the carpeting had a cozy, worn-down look. An old-fashioned barometer hanging on the wall was stuck on CHANGEABLE. Toby tapped the glass with a knuckle, but the needle didn’t even quiver. Gayle went into the kitchen, and Toby hurried after her.
The kitchen was bright and airy, morning sunlight streaming through the open window. The walls were painted in pale pastel colors, and there were lots of polished wood surfaces. The fittings were elegant, some old enough to be classified as antiques. There were large posters on the walls, mostly of dolphins, swimming and frolicking in the open sea, and one very large poster from Greenpeace, with the word
peace
crossed out, and
war
written in above it in a large feminine hand. There were thick colored candles, hanging wind chimes, and pots and pans and crockery all neatly arranged on shelves. Toby was impressed. His kitchen usually looked as though a grenade had gone off in it.
peace
crossed out, and
war
written in above it in a large feminine hand. There were thick colored candles, hanging wind chimes, and pots and pans and crockery all neatly arranged on shelves. Toby was impressed. His kitchen usually looked as though a grenade had gone off in it.
Gayle ran some water in her gleaming, spotless sink and put the roses into it. Then she sat down at the breakfast table and gestured briskly for Toby to sit opposite her. There was a lot of food laid out, as though she’d known he was coming. It was good food, and smelled delicious, but Toby was so nervous and on edge by now that he couldn’t have eaten a forkful even if she’d put a gun to his head. It didn’t help that he still couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound trite or forced or just plain simpleminded, and Gayle was still looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to explain himself. For a long while they just sat and stared at each other.
She really was beautiful. Toby thought of telling her that, but decided she probably already knew. She wasn’t beautiful like a fashion model or a film star, with that artificial, high-gloss look, all the little imperfections carefully removed by computer. Gayle looked . . . utterly female. Womanly, lovely, warm. As if he could curl up with her and be safe and happy forever. As if she were the other half of his life and could finally make him complete. Sexy, but in a calm, unhurried way. Confident, as though she no longer felt she had to prove anything. In fact, for first thing on a Saturday morning, she looked pretty damned amazing. All of which made Toby feel even more scruffy. His leather jacket creaked loudly as he shifted in his seat, and for one horrible moment he thought he’d farted. He quickly took the jacket off and draped it over the back of his chair.
“You came to me from the magical world,” Gayle said suddenly. “When you passed through my door, you were translated back into reality. I felt it. How are you finding the magical world?”
“Confusing.”
“Understandable. I have always preferred to live in the real world as much as possible. Also I usually prefer to keep my own company, in my time off. How did you find me?”
“Carys Galloway told me where you live.” Toby felt a little easier now they were on neutral ground. “She said I was a focal point. That you and I were fated to be together.” Once he’d started talking he couldn’t stop, and he actually blushed as he heard himself say the bit about fate. It sounded appallingly arrogant. “Fated to meet, I mean. This morning. Here.”
“If the Waking Beauty sent you here, then there must be a purpose to this meeting.” Gayle frowned. “Damn it. I really didn’t need more complications just now. And focal points are always trouble. For everyone.”
Toby almost jumped out of his skin as something brushed against his leg. He looked down and found that a large tabby cat was rubbing itself against him with sensual thoroughness. He smiled and reached down to scratch its head, and it purred loudly, pushing up against his hand. Toby looked round the kitchen, and suddenly it seemed that the whole room was full of cats. There had to be at least a dozen of them, of varying types and colors, all of them looking rather . . . well, battered, really. Knocked about by life. Gayle smiled at them all.
“I collect strays. They turn up out of nowhere, the products of bad lives and worse luck, and I haven’t the heart to turn them away. They come and they go, but there are always more to replace those who leave. I seem to attract strays.” She looked at Toby, but he didn’t get the point. She sighed quietly. “What do you want from me, Toby?”
Love. Sex. Walking hand in hand for the rest of our days, under a perfect blue sky, with all the birds singing . . .
That was what Toby wanted to say, but he couldn’t, so he played for time by looking round the kitchen again. He couldn’t believe how clean it was. His kitchen always looked . . . lived-in. He noticed abruptly that there was a lacy black bra lying crumpled beside the sink where his flowers were, and he looked quickly away, obscurely embarrassed. Gayle sighed again, and poured him a cup of tea. It smelled sharp and clean, with a hint of herbs he didn’t recognize. He reached out to take the cup she handed him and there was a definite spark as their fingers touched. Toby saw Gayle’s eyes widen just a little, and knew she’d felt it, too. Neither of them said anything. Gayle busied herself with her cup. Toby sipped cautiously at the steaming tea. It was delicious; probably didn’t dare be anything else in a perfect kitchen like this. Toby studied the delicate china of the cup and saucer. It was decorated with an intricate design of owls made out of flowers.
“You seem vaguely familiar,” Gayle said finally. “Did we ever meet before last night?”
“We take the same train home from Bath every evening,” said Toby. “I’ve seen you lots of times.”
Gayle shook her head. “Sorry. Doesn’t ring any bells.” Toby felt disappointed and a little crushed, even though he’d always gone to great lengths to avoid being noticed as he watched her. He felt somehow that she should have known.
“So,” he said, for want of anything else to say. “What do you do, in Bath? What’s your job?”
“I work at a center for children with problems. It’s privately funded. It’s part refuge, part doctor’s office, part school. We get all kinds. Kids that are deaf or blind, handicapped, traumatized . . . survivors of sexual abuse. Some have AIDS, some ADS.”
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