Before and After (10 page)

A
blonde haired, cheerful, looking young girl popped her head around the door and said, “Grub OK for you?” but didn’t stay for an answer.

Mr
Carlton neither apologised nor made reference to the food, but merely stated that he was pleased to have company.

“Are
you here for long?” Archie enquired politely.

“Oh
no, back to Skiathos in a few days. It has a good deep harbour and ripe with rich tourists wanting to charter yachts. Do you know it at all?” Mr Carlton replied.

“No,
I don’t. The furthest I’ve ever been by boat was to Cannes on the Lady Sylvia,” Archie said, memories of seasickness and squally sleepless nights came flooding back to him, and he managed to suppress a shudder of dislike.

“Such
a shame. I think you’d like it. Your son certainly would,” Mr Carlton said, raising his eyes to Hal who looked pleased to be noticed amongst such elevated company as he perceived Mr Carlton to be.

“I
love Greece,” Hal said enthusiastically, managing to remove a gritty cabbage stalk by sleight of hand into his napkin.

“Do
you sail?”

“Oh
yes, that is when pa gives me a chance, but –“

“Then
you should come over,” Mr Carlton interrupted, looking at Hal, no doubt thinking of his own son, whom he hadn’t seen in decades.

“
What
a good idea!” I said jumping into the stilted conversation as if into an icy swimming pool. As in impetuous diving, sometimes you had to leap around a bit just to get the circulation going. The thought of Hal island hopping with Charles (I thought that was his first name at the moment, but I didn’t want to chance my arm by mentioning it) Carlton was mind boggling.
Fearfully
good experience for Hal,
I
thought.

Mr
Carlton pushed his plate away from him and ignoring the stale looking plate of cheese and limp celery, began to quiz Hal on his nautical experience.

By
common assent we all removed ourselves back into the stateroom with indecent haste, to get away from the sick-making tableau of food, where Mr Carlton plied Hal and Archie with cigars.

“Well
then Flora, have you decided to re-invest?” Mr Carlton said, looking fondly at me. Well, as fondly as I dare say an anaconda can. The Amble family were wandering around the room, and Mr Carlton had taken my arm in an impromptu promenade away from prying ears.

“What’s
my return at the moment?” I whispered to him.

“About
120%,” he said, looking pleased.

I
stood closer to him, pulling at his arm so that he was facing me. “Do you know? I think I’ll pass this time, but, if I were you I’d play your favourite game with Archie. Perhaps The Lady Sylvia could be the stakes? It seems that Archie isn’t overly fond of life on an ocean wave. He might even throw in his son for the summer, you never know,” I said in a low voice, gazing up at him.

He
tapped the side of his nose, unable to resist the running of his fingers over his scars as he did so. His cold blue eyes gazed down at me and I wondered, not for the first time if that’s what Veronica had seen as she had struggled for her life. Those dead fish, glacial eyes. I smiled at him.

“I
see. Well, I’ll take that as your withdrawal fee, shall I my dear?”

I
nodded and we strolled back to the Amble’s. They made a pretty picture at the end of the cabin, mother flanked by father and son.

The
conversation was stilted and I could see that the normal questions that Archie might have asked such a man as Charles Carlton were squashed before they even reached his lips. Somehow, through years of practice Mr Carlton emanated the ability to swerve personal queries. They were headed off before they arrived, and soon it was as if we had all been tutored firmly in the art of double bluff and counter strategy. It was curiously tiring, this form of talk. It never went anywhere and never reached a conclusion. It was like making love to an eager but very inexperienced lover. Endless foreplay and no orgasm.

“So,”
said Archie, struggling at sea for a lifeline that didn’t exist, “Your business interests are mostly overseas then?”

“It
would seem so. Is London still foggy? Someone told me that there hadn’t been a peasouper years now. Extraordinary.”

“Umm,
no. The clean air bill, you know.” Archie added vaguely.

Hal
was filling his time by gazing longingly at the door, hoping for the cheerful blonde Australian, who seemed very pretty and somehow
normal
, and eyeing a complicated looking play station in the corner of the room.

“I
try and keep up with things, but it’s tricky, you know. Only ever read The Times, and that’s quite hard to get sometimes. Still, I don’t suppose I miss very much.” Mr Carlton said, firmly clipping off any possible loose threads of conversation.

Sylvia
was struggling to think of anything to say and as if by luck she spied the backgammon board sitting on the table.

“Oh,
look, do you play Mr Carlton?” she said, desperately hoping that someone would relieve her of any more input into the conversation.

“Now
and again, what about yourself?” Mr Carlton enquired idly of the Ambles, as genially as he knew how.

Within
ten minutes Charles Carlton and Archie Amble were seated opposite one another, a bottle of brandy and two snifters by their sides.

Board
games are of course utterly mind-numbing, more so for the kibitzer or spectator than the player, but I was intrigued to see if Mr Carlton was going to lull Archie into a false sense of security by letting him win the first game. He didn’t. Most professionals do, but then of course Mr Carlton was a fine judge of character. He knew that Archie’s pride would be dented and that Archie would agree to more and more games till he won. I idled the time away by sipping the excellent brandy and watching Hal’s profile as he studied the game.

The
second game was about to start.

“I
don’t do the Jacoby rule, do you?” Mr Carlton asked.

“What?
Umm, no, no I don’t,” Archie blustered helplessly.

“Automatic
doubles old boy, shall we beaver? Always makes it more interesting I think.”

The
game continued with the inevitable loss by Archie. I smiled to myself. Now was the time for me to whisk Sylvia away. No man likes to lose in front of his wife and family.

“Let’s
be off Sylvia, once men start playing dice you could parade naked in front of them and be ignored. Let’s check up on Bella shall we? I’m sure that Hal is eager to look over this magnificent craft. Perhaps that pretty Australian girl could kindly give him the grand tour, Mr Carlton? No, no Hal, really, you stay with your father and Mr Carlton. Thank you so much for a pleasant evening, and perhaps you would be kind enough to give Archie my paperwork on the investment?” I said smiling at Mr Carlton and lightly kissing his scarred cheek again, wrapping myself against the cold night air with my stole.

“Wait
a moment, Flora. Let’s see how Archie does, shall we?” Sylvia interrupted.

With
as much good grace as I could muster I settled myself down again.
How
I hate having my plans foiled.

Twenty
minutes later I was bored, thirty minutes later I was horrified. It was a bit like being at a modern play at The Royal Court, you know the sort. One that had wooed the press with promises of outrage and controversy and just when you had congratulated yourself on braving the rain and fighting for a cab, ennui settled in and then – the unthinkable happened, the press were actually right – the play proved itself shocking.

Archie’s
losses were becoming monumental. Yes, yes, of course I wanted Archie to lose. A little. Not
everything
. Where would that leave
me
?

This
had
to stop.

But
how?

I
wildly considered my options. Stripping naked? As I had mentioned jokily to Sylvia earlier I knew this to be a non runner. How? Well, let’s just say I
knew
. Faking appendicitis?
How
I mourned the days when ladies could have an attack of the vapours and no questions asked. But wait. Archie won the next game. And the next. I started to breathe a little easier, and then I insisted that Sylvia and I leave.

I
wound my wrap over my shoulders and smiled fondly at Hal. Let Archie act as my money courier, I thought, as I guided his wife down the gangway and into a taxi. Let Archie lose his yacht and as much money as he dared risk. Let Archie be on the losing side for once in his white middle class man’s world. Let Archie play backgammon with one of the most wanted men in Europe. Usually in my job I try hard not to let emotions rule me, but I couldn’t deny the shiver of satisfaction that was rippling through my bones.

“Shall
we stop for a sinful bag of chips on the way back?” I said to Sylvia, “I don’t know about you, but I’m simply famished!”

Rule Number Ten

“
It
is
almost
trite
to
observe
that
things
are
not
always
what
they
seem
.
But
it
remains
the
case
that
much
that
is
important
is
invisible
to
the
eye
.
Well
,
most
eyes
.
Not
to
the
trained
eye
.”

The combination of cold salty air and hot salty chips are immeasurably satisfying. The chips were perfect. Crisp on the outside, meltingly soft interior and the exact shade of golden brown that I require. Obviously double fried. I drenched mine with malt vinegar and a liberal dose of salt. Sylvia, who I was sure had never eaten anything in the street before in her life, followed suit. We strolled back to Middle Fish Street dipping into our chips and licking our fingers. The night life of Brighton was suitably exotic to Sylvia’s innocent eyes. A group of leather queens who were jostling at the entrance of a club, paid homage to my delicious new coat.

“Nice
bit of shmutter, gorgeous,” a shaven headed sweetie called out.

I
thanked him and watched with amusement as Sylvia sidled closer to me in alarm.

“It’s
quite alright Sylvia, they’re gay.”

“
Are
they? How can you tell?”

Was
the woman serious? The tight buttocks, the clean hair over burdened with products, the heavy hand with the cologne and fake facial tans, the touch of the dandy around the collar was enough to tell one that these boys were Friends of Dorothy. I was seriously tempted to take Sylvia into the club, but I reminded myself that I had other fish to fry.

“I
find the liberal attitude here very refreshing, don’t you?” I asked, as I pointed out two men kissing each other goodnight at a taxi rank.

“Goodness,
Flora, I don’t think about those things,” Sylvia replied nervously, her mind skittering back to the curious time she’d had in Brighton at the hands of Lady Pat, rescued only by Candy and Ellie in the nick of time.

We
walked without speaking for a moment, finishing our chips. The town was busy, and the sound of sirens, traffic and different types of music could be heard coming from bars and clubs. A group of foreign students were dancing the samba in the street and one man laughingly caught at my arm obliging me to join him for a moment. I pulled away and re-joined Sylvia who was pressed against the wall trying hard not to look nervous.

“Honestly
Flora, you’re very –“

“
What? - Forward? Fast? Racy? Dangerous? Flirty? Shall I go on Sylvia, or is that the drift of your conversation? I think I’ve got it right, haven’t I?” I said smiling at her to show that I wasn’t at all offended.

Sylvia
gave a rueful shrug.

“I
sometimes wish that I, well, that I was more, well you know –“

“I
know. I know you do,” I said laying my hand on her arm. A tremor of pity and wonderment suffused my body. How had this woman survived in the world? Please don’t misunderstand me. There is nothing
wrong
with Sylvia. And I am not in any way suggesting that every waking breath has to be packed with life changing moments. I mean, we can’t all run with the bulls in Pamplona, can we? Or make love behind the high altar at St Marks in Venice. But my god, some of us can dream of doing so. Another shiver raced through my blood. Well, tonight may just well be your lucky night Sylvia my good woman, I thought as we turned into Middle Fish Street.

Soon
we were inside the club sitting at the bar watching Ellie move with a fluid grace as she dipped and weaved between the glasses and bottles of her domain.

“A
good evening, I hope?” she asked, raising her eyebrow at me.

“So
so. How did Bella get on?” I asked, accepting a brandy.

“Sleeping
like a baby after making the most delicious treats for breakfast. I’m just clearing up after a bar full of publishers. My god they can drink. Then I’ll join you if I may,” she smiled a tentative, yet confident smile at Sylvia, who responded by smiling back.

I
was pleased. Of course. But it really aggravated my headache. After all, I was the one meant to instigate things, I wanted to deliver Sylvia to Ellie on a platter, not have them continue some sort of unfinished business from last year.

Ellie
joined us and I took a begrudging back seat in the proceedings. Ellie was wooing Sylvia with the tale of how derelict this building had been when she and Candy had taken it over. With every tale of boarded over fireplaces, stripped floorboards, and cracked plaster cornices she drew her nearer. The horrors of the old kitchens drew a gasp of pleasure from Sylvia that I doubted Archie had heard for many a year. The re-wiring, re-plumbing not to mention the replacement sash windows were hooking Sylvia into a moment of female solidarity against the tyranny of male house owners who had allowed the decay in the first place. Sylvia started to tell Ellie about the renovations going on in her own home, and Ellie sighed and nodded in perfect concordance with her words.

“But
then you know all about it! It can be
so
disruptive that one sometimes feels like giving the whole thing up and going to a retreat, don’t you think?” Ellie asked, placing her hand over Sylvia’s.

“Oh
yes, I mean we’re very lucky that Flora managed to find John Taylor – he’s simply marvellous – but I know that Archie’s getting a bit fed up with it and it’s only been a couple of days –“

“Ah,
but Archie can always disappear to the office, can’t he? And the children, well, teenagers can find their own amusement. But you, you’re responsible for it all, aren’t you? I do hope Sylvia,” Ellie lowered her voice, whilst continuing to hold her hand, “I do hope that you’ll think of The Dolphin and myself as your retreat if things start to get on top of you?”

Ellie’s
fingers were lightly tracing the back of Sylvia’s hand as she spoke, caressing and stroking. Sylvia watched her hand being taken possession of with a detached gaze. There was a small and indistinct bat squeak of sexuality going on. I certainly heard it, but I wasn’t too sure about Sylvia. How wrong I was.

“What
charming hands you have, so pretty,” Ellie murmured softly.

Sylvia
blushed and started to pull away from Ellie, but was recaptured and she lay her hand once again into Ellie’s with the trust that small children have before they are disillusioned with adult behaviour. This time the hand that she had willingly given was enfolded between both of Ellie’s and was being fondled and squeezed. I glanced at Sylvia and was pleased to see that this time there was no mistaking the message behind the action. Sylvia was transfixed. Her cheeks were pink and her breathing shallow. I wondered yet again (for this was not the first time I had witnessed such mongoose and snake behaviour from Ellie) how the swaggering sexuality of a woman like Ellie could ensnare so quickly the sleeping sensuousness of a woman like Sylvia. But I should know by now that the woman is a true professional. She and Candy had been together for many years and this small conquest would be added to the many that were kindly discussed and dissected over coffee in the morning. I slid quietly from my bar stool and made my way upstairs. I allowed myself to glance over to them as I left the room and saw that Ellie was standing behind Sylvia with her mouth pressed to Sylvia’s neck. The last thing I saw was Sylvia’s head roll back with pleasure to allow Ellie further liberties.

I
hummed as I walked down the corridor to my room.
Most
satisfactory indeed. And with no work from me. Well, that was a first I suppose. Relinquishing control has always been a problem for me, but I decided to try and let it go. After all, it didn’t really matter that I hadn’t planned it, the result was the same.

I
checked my e-mail account on the thoughtfully provided laptop in my room, and was overwhelmed as usual by the volume of messages. Although, to be fair that’s my means of communication – there are very few people that know my mobile number. I checked my accounts on line and hugged the knowledge that overnight I had earned a small fortune by selling the diminutive memento that a late member of royalty had given me. On line auctions are simply marvellous things, aren’t they? All the excitement of buying and selling without the tedium of travel. I saw that the final bidder lived in Texas. I fancied that the idea of a letter and photograph, as well as the underwear itself hanging on the walls of an oil millionaire would have made the princess smile. Although you never really knew, humour perhaps not having been her strongest point. I surfed for a while and finally buckled down to the onerous task of my weekly sex problem page. Archie had searched for me on the net, and found me, then dismissed it as not possible. It was, of course. I always use my own name for any enterprise – it makes for far fewer complications – look at Charles Carlton and I rest my case. Besides, the sex problem page as I jokily call it to myself is a miasma of misery that always makes me feel better. One would have assumed (quite
wrongly
) that the human race had progressed from the Victorian smuttiness that permeated our whole sexual behaviour. But no. The same tired questions were still asked, the same amount of bewildered people still whined endlessly on, as if the quest of their personal sexual fulfilment somehow justified boring the arse off the rest of us. Someone has to tell them the truth. And that someone was myself. I realise that I can’t solve the world’s problems, but for the people who write in to [email protected] I can and I do.

I
poured myself a glass of water and sipped at it whilst scrolling through the new messages.

Dear
Flora,

I
love my husband very much and we have a lovely home and family. I always thought that we had a wonderful sex life, but recently I came home and found my husband in my underwear wearing a wig and make up. I was so shocked and distressed that he immediately promised that this was a one off and it would never happen again. But only last week I found him wearing my best dress and trying on a pair of high heels that he’s obviously ordered in as his feet are a size 10. I am devastated. Does this mean that he is gay? Or a transvestite? What shall I do? Please help me. I always read your advice and find it to be very wise. I shall follow what you say, so please answer me as quickly as you can.

Thank
you, best wishes, [email protected]

See
what I mean? Hardly earth shattering, is it? Although, I concede it may well be for her. I sipped my water and nibbled on a cherry brandy chocolate whilst I tapped in a reply.

Dear Sarah,

Well,
I think it all depends doesn’t it? Do you want a freak who looks like a drag queen sharing your house? Because that’s what will happen if you allow it. Some women in your position have very happy marriages and go shopping together with Darren/Doris for mascara and tights. (Not a happy retail trip to my mind, but then
chacun
a
son
goute
and all that French nonsense…) It doesn’t mean he’s gay – although, to be frank, it also doesn’t mean he’s got a huge amount of testosterone either – it just means he’s toying with the idea of allowing his feminine side out for a while. I’ve always noted that those men who are either transvestites, or transsexuals or whatever the hell we want to call them only seem to want to dress like women circa Hollywood 1950’s. Try putting them in an apron and getting them to wash the kitchen floor and then let’s see how much they want to be a woman shall we? If I were you I’d leave. You’d be better off single, because you can blackmail him with this knowledge, and we all know how guilty men behave – they dig into their wallets. Get a photo of him in your clothes, a new job, a new home, and a new man who won’t stretch your best camisole out of shape and enjoy life.

All
the best Flora Tate.

There were a lot of these sorts of letters. I won’t bore you with them – what? Oh, very well. One more then.

Dear
Flora,

I
took your advice about selling our dog. And I’m writing to you to tell you that you were wrong. Not only did it not solve anything but my wife has left me and gone to join a commune in Oregon where pets are not only encouraged, but compulsory. What qualifications do you have exactly for this sort of counselling? I am reporting your wildly inaccurate and possibly slanderous advice to the relevant officials.

Yours,
[email protected]

Ah
well, win some, lose some, that’s always been my philosophy.