A Banquet of Consequences (5 page)

Lynley eyed her. “You’re suggesting Barbara needs to find a man, aren’t you.”

“I am. She needs a love life. We all need a love life. Have you ever known the detective sergeant to have one? You don’t even need to answer. No. She hasn’t had one, and that’s why she keeps falling afoul of—”

“Dee, has it occurred to you that not every woman on the planet wants—or even needs—a man?”

Dorothea took a step backwards, her smooth brow creased. “Heavens, Detective Inspector, are you suggesting the detective sergeant is an asexual being? No? Then what? Not that she’s . . . That’s completely ridiculous. I don’t believe it. Because she and that professor, her neighbour, the man with the lovely little daughter . . .” She paused, looking thoughtful. “On the other hand, there
is
her hair. And the strange lack of interest in makeup. And her absolutely appalling dress sense. But still . . .”

“Have we gone down the rabbit hole?” Lynley asked. “Or is this merely an intriguing illustration of random thinking?”

Dorothea looked flustered, which was entirely unlike her, but she gathered herself together heroically. “No matter. All that’s to be decided,” she said obscurely. “But we’ll use her professor friend as an example.”

“Taymullah Azhar,” Lynley told her. “The daughter’s called Hadiyyah. They were Barbara’s neighbours. What are we using them as examples of?”

“What she needs,” she declared. “What she might have had had they not left the country.”

“Barbara and Azhar,” Lynley clarified, just to be sure he was on the right track. “What they might have had. Together.”

“Indeed.”

“Sex.”

“Yes. Sex, a relationship, a love affair, a romance. Had things gone that way, she’d be a different woman, you mark my words. And
being
a different woman is what she needs. And the way to get her there . . . ? The entire process of getting her there . . . ? I can be of help.”

Lynley felt his scepticism rise. “You know, of course, that Azhar and his daughter are in Pakistan now. As far as I know, they’re not coming back any time soon and Barbara certainly can’t go to them. So what exactly are you suggesting? Surely not sending Barbara on a blind date? Pray not that.”

“Oh please. Detective Sergeant Havers is
not
about to step out on a blind date. No. This situation you and I are looking at? It must be gone at a bit more obliquely.” She straightened her shoulders and threw her head back. “Detective Inspector, I’d like to offer to take the project in hand.”

“Towards what end?” Lynley enquired.

“To the obvious end,” she announced. “The end that delivers her to love, of course, in any particular form it takes.”

“And you actually think this will make a difference?” Lynley asked her.

She smiled a smile replete with knowledge. “Trust me,” she said.

BISHOPSGATE

LONDON

A
s soon as she alighted at Liverpool Street Station, Barbara Havers asked herself what on earth she’d been thinking in agreeing to any kind of jaunt with Dorothea Harriman. She and the departmental secretary had exactly one thing in common—the possession of two X chromosomes—and no amount of plumbing either the depths or the shallows of their personalities was going to change that immutable fact. Additionally, Dee had not clued Barbara in as to their destination. Just “We’ll start out at Liverpool Street Station, Detective Sergeant Havers. The rail station, I mean. We’ll meet and see what happens from there. I must pop by Wentworth Street first, though. Have you been . . . ?”

Barbara realised later that the innocence of that question should have told her a great deal, but at the moment she did not twig to anything other than Harriman’s offer of a mercy outing during their off hours. Since she was doing nothing on the particular day and time of the proposed outing—when was she doing
anything
at this point in her life? she asked herself—Barbara shrugged and said Wentworth Street was fine by her and no, she’d never been. She had no clue what they would encounter in that part of London aside from the distinct possibility of urban renewal run amok, and being
invited to engage in a Dorothea Harriman experience was a novelty anyway.

Barbara couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in Liverpool Street rail station, but as she emerged from the underground and wandered into the vast maw of the place, she did know it hadn’t been then what it currently was: an enormous shopping mall–cum–railway station with loudspeakers blaring announcements, people rushing by with valises, briefcases, and rucksacks; uniformed police pacing round and giving the eye to potential terrorists—male, female, youth, adult, or aged grandparent behind explosive zimmer frame—and adolescent girls with shopping bags the size of sandwich boards in one hand and smartphones in the other.

They’d agreed to meet at the flower vendor, which Dorothea had assured Barbara she would have no trouble finding, and this turned out to be the case. She sauntered up and interrupted the young woman in midflirt with an antique gentleman who was attempting to press an armload of tuberoses upon her.

Barbara joined them with the excuse for her tardiness that every Londoner who used the underground had long ago expected to hear when someone was late for an appointment: “Northern Line. There’s going to be a riot on the platform one day.”

“Not a problem,” Dorothea told her. She waved good-bye to the gentleman, linked her arm to Barbara’s, and said confidentially, “I’ve had a skinny latte, bought some new knickers, and practised turning down an indecent proposal from a seventy-year-old. Lord. Have you noticed how men
never
seem to take the fact of their ageing to heart while, as women, we’re continually bombarded with reminders that middle age is out there, waiting to claim us with crow’s-feet?”

Barbara hadn’t noticed. She’d never been the recipient of any sort of proposal, indecent or otherwise, and as for crow’s-feet, her attempts to avoid them had so far been limited to not looking into mirrors longer than it took to see if she had spinach between her teeth on the rare occasions when she actually ate spinach.

As they walked towards a glittering exit that loomed at the top of a set of escalators, Barbara cast an eye upon Harriman’s day-out-in-East-London ensemble of slim navy trousers tapering down to
slender ankles and ballerina shoes in tan and white. She’d topped the trousers with a red-and-white-striped tee-shirt, and she carried a tan and white handbag that matched the shoes. On her days off, Harriman managed to look as put together as she looked on her days on, Barbara thought.

In contrast, Barbara herself had taken directly to heart the word
“outing”
that Dorothea had used to describe what they would be doing, and she had dressed accordingly. She wore draw-string trousers and a tee-shirt with
Are you talking to yourself or just pretending that I’m listening?
emblazoned across it while on her feet she’d donned—in honour of the occasion—her new shoes. The fact that they were leopard-print high-top trainers made a certain statement, she’d reckoned back in Chalk Farm when she’d put them on. Now, however, she decided that they might be a wee bit . . . well,
out there
was probably the term of choice.

Right. Well. Too late to do anything about it, she decided. She followed Harriman onto the escalator. At the top, she decided a compliment was in order, and she told Dorothea that she looked—a word search was necessary—smashing. Harriman thanked her prettily and explained that Wentworth Street was responsible.

Barbara experienced an uh-oh moment. “I hope you’re not saying what I think you’re saying.”

“Which is what?” Dorothea asked.

“Which is that you intend to make me over. I went that route once, Dee. It didn’t take.”

“Heavens, no,” Dorothea said. “I wouldn’t presume. But I’ve a garden party to go to tomorrow afternoon and not a stitch to wear that everyone hasn’t seen two thousand times. This will take five minutes.”

“And after that?”

“I think it’s bric-a-brac day at Spitalfields Market. Are you interested in bric-a-brac, Detective Sergeant?”

“Do I look like someone who’s interested in bric-a-brac?” Barbara enquired. “Dee, what’s this about?”

“Nothing at all.” Dorothea had stepped off the escalator and was heading towards the towering doors. She stopped, though, when Barbara said her name more insistently.

“You’re not taking me in hand?” Barbara demanded. “You’re not following orders? Ardery says to you, ‘Do something with Sergeant Havers because she still isn’t quite right,’ and you go along with it?”

“You’re joking, of course. What on earth would I ‘do’ with you? Come along and stop being so difficult,” Dorothea said, and she once again took Barbara’s arm to make sure her directions were being followed.

They found themselves in Bishopsgate, where modern London of the City—in the form of looming glass tower blocks—was steadily creeping towards pre-Victorian London of Spitalfields. Here unrestrained capitalism was doing its best to destroy the history of the capital, and where there were not soaring buildings announcing themselves as multinational corporations, there were chain shops whose ownership by unknown multinational magnates fairly did the same.

The pavements were crowded. So was the street. But the congestion didn’t deter Dorothea, who kept her arm linked with Barbara’s and who carved an easy route through pedestrians, taxis, buses, and cars in order to cross over. Barbara expected her to pop inside one of the several shops they passed, but this did not happen. Instead, within five minutes, Harriman’s sure pacing had taken them in a crisscross pattern of narrowing thoroughfares and back into a London of another century.

A hotchpotch of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century buildings sprang up in unwashed brick splendour, comprising questionable housing and forlorn places of business. There were colourful sari shops, dubious-looking hair studios with Mediterranean names, textile outlets, pubs announcing themselves as the Angel and the Pig and Whistle, and the kind of cafés where coffee came in either white or black via a kettle and a jar of powder. Within one hundred yards an open-air market sprang up, filled with stalls that offered a staggering array of products: from pin-striped business suits to ladies’ crotchless underwear. There were also food vendors of every ilk, and accordingly the air was filled with the scents of curry, cumin, cooking oil, and cod.

Dorothea took everything in, sighed with evident pleasure, and said to Barbara, “I know you’ve always wondered. I don’t like to say because of what people might think.”

Barbara drew her eyebrows together. She hadn’t the first clue what Harriman meant.

“This is how I dress myself,” Dorothea went on, with a gesture towards the dizzying number of clothing stalls that formed a colourful river spilling down the street in front of them. “Twelve pounds for a frock, Detective Sergeant. Twenty pounds for a suit. Thirteen pounds for a pair of shoes. Wear it for a season, then toss it because it’s probably falling apart anyway.”

Barbara looked from the stalls to Dorothea. She shook her head. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “Not what you wear, Dee.”

Dorothea said, “Of course there’s the occasional consignment piece. Well, there has to be, hasn’t there? It’s wise to have something decent
and
timeless now and then. But the rest is this. Cheaply made and cheaply sold but”—and here she held up a finger—“it’s utterly astonishing what a very good steam iron applied before wearing, the willingness to change out buttons, and the right accessories can do for a girl.”

SPITALFIELDS

LONDON

Barbara hardly expected to enjoy herself with a crawl through what she quickly discovered was Petticoat Lane market. But Dorothea Harriman was having no interference from her in the quest for clothing. She repeated her need for a suitable frock for the following day’s garden party, and she added the fact that a Certain Young Banker was going to be present at this affair. She firmly intended to catch his eye, she announced.
If
the detective sergeant wished to stand by mutely and watch the proceedings, she could certainly do that. On the other hand, if the detective sergeant wanted to do some browsing, Dorothea was only too happy to recommend her favourite stall, where a Bangladeshi family of six supported themselves with knockoffs of garments worn by celebrities and the two or three sole fashionable members of the royal family. “I don’t know how they do it,” Dorothea explained, “but I reckon it’s with computer hacking. So if the right
person wears it to a film opening or to Ascot or to visit the White House, they’ve got it here on sale within five days. It’s brilliant. Will you browse or will you be difficult?”

“I’ll browse, I’ll browse,” Barbara told her. Dorothea’s expression telegraphed delight until Barbara added, “Over there,” and indicated the food stalls. At which point she sighed and said primly, “I refuse to believe you’re as hopeless as you wish me to think, Detective Sergeant Havers.”

“Think it,” Barbara told her. She took herself off to explore the edible offerings in Goulston Street, which were many, varied, and begging for purchase.

She was wandering along the pavement and digging into a second sumptuous offering from Tikka Express Indian Cuisine when she spied the display window of a shop that appeared to be directly up her alley. The place was called Death Kitty, the shop window exclusively given to tee-shirts. Sagging paper plate in hand, she went to inspect them. Alas, she thought as she approached. All of the tee-shirts were black and of a marginally obscene nature, which made them unsuitable for anything other than wearing to visit her mum whose current mental state would preclude her comprehension of the finer points of double entendre.

Damn, blast, and oh well, Barbara thought airily. She was about to walk off when she spied a colourful poster mounted in the shop window as well. It was announcing the publication of a book and the local appearance of its author.
Looking for Mr. Darcy: The Myth of Happily Ever After
was the first. Clare Abbott was the second. She would be reading and speaking at Bishopsgate Institute; women were encouraged to attend; men were dared to accompany them.

SPITALFIELDS

LONDON

Barbara made the decision to attend the reading at Bishopsgate Institute for two reasons, the first of which was a very late lunch with Dorothea at Spitalfields Market. There they tucked into specialty
crepes at a small café with artsy tables topped with stainless steel and chairs that looked like stretched-out colanders. Delicately unfolding her paper napkin, Dorothea blithely launched into the kind of conversation that Barbara had managed to avoid having with another human being for her entire adult life.

Dorothea speared a slice of chicken-and-asparagus crepe, and she said to Barbara, “Detective Sergeant, let me be blunt and ask you something: When was the last time you had a truly decent bonk? I mean a grabbing-the-bedposts-and-howling session orchestrated by a bloke who knows what he’s about. This does, of course, eliminate any male who went to boarding school, but you know what I mean.” She chewed for a moment as Barbara attempted to ignore her by studying the mother and child at the next table who were engaged in a battle of wills over a miniature lorry that the child wished to plough across his plate of food. When Barbara didn’t reply, Dorothea said, “Do not make me drag the truth from you,” and tapped Barbara severely on the hand.

Barbara turned back to her. “Never,” she said.

“Never as in you’ll never answer me or never as in . . . you know.”

“As in you know.”

“Are you . . . You aren’t saying you’re a virgin, are you? Of course you’re not.” She cocked her head and examined Barbara, and a horrified expression upon her face indicated that a dawning thought had struck her. She said, “You
are.
Oh my God. No wonder. How
stupid
of me. When Detective Inspector Lynley mentioned—”

“The
inspector
? Oh, that’s brilliant, Dee. You and DI Lynley are discussing my sex life?”

“No, no, no. I mean, he’s worried about you. With your friends being gone to Pakistan. We’re
all
worried about you. And anyway, don’t let’s get off the subject.”

“Dee, this is cringe-worthy. I reckon you know that because you’re not an idiot. So let’s cut to the chase. I have a busy life, so when it comes to sex, I just don’t have—”

“Do
not
say what you’re about to say because no one on earth is too busy for sex,” Dorothea said. “Good Lord, Detective Sergeant, how long does it take? Ten minutes? Twenty? Thirty if you want a
shower as well?” She looked thoughtful and added, “An hour, I suppose, if you require lengthy seduction. But the point is—”

“The point is changing the subject,” Barbara told her. “Let’s talk about films. Or the telly. Or books. Or celebrities. Or absolutely any member of the royal family, with or without prominent front teeth. You choose. I’m easy.”