Good at Games (20 page)

Next to Jaz in the passenger seat, Lucille opened the manila envelope the landlord had handed her as they were leaving.

Jaz, still feeling rotten, waited until she'd finished counting the money. Overcome with curiosity as Lucille silently pocketed it, he said, “Decent night?”

“Twenty-two pounds eighty-four pence.”

“In the hat? That's pretty good.”

“Twenty pounds for playing,” Lucille corrected him. “Two pounds eighty-four pence from passing the hat around.”

Jaz opened his mouth, then closed it again just in time. If he were to tell Lucille he'd put a tenner in, she'd only feel patronized.

Anyway, she'd had more than enough bad news for one evening, thanks to him.

“Look,” he tried again, “all I heard was
one song
…”

“My best song.” Lucille's tone was dogged. “And I told you, it doesn't matter. I trust you; that's why I asked for your opinion. I'd have really hated it,” she assured him, “if you'd lied.”

Jaz changed into second gear as they roared up Constitution Hill.

“You do have a terrific voice.”

“Thank you,” Lucille said gravely. “And you don't have to feel guilty.” She broke into a smile. “I'm a big girl, I can take it. I'm glad you told me the truth.”

She sounded convincing. If Jaz didn't know better, he might almost have believed her. And he
had
meant it when he'd said she had a terrific voice.

Oh well, there was nothing more he could do about it now. Lucille's nonexistent songwriting skills weren't his problem anyway. The world was full of aspiring singers destined for a lifetime of rejection and failure.

I'm getting soft in my old age
, Jaz told himself as he swung the Alfa onto Goldney Avenue.
Like she said, I did her a favor.

OK, now just forget it.

* * *

Two days later, Donna turned pale green behind her computer. Suzy and Rory were too busy sniping at each other to notice.

Rory normally didn't argue, but Suzy's unscheduled disappearances from the office were testing him to the limit. Suzy, in turn, was stressed up to the eyebrows by the situation Harry had landed her in and the endless lies she was being forced to tell.

“Come on,” she yelled, “it's not as if I'm skipping out to buy a new pair of shoes or something! Harry's in the hospital, and he wants me to be there with him when the photographers come down from London to take his picture.”

“You're losing us business,” Rory snapped back. “Our customers are complaining that every time they try to reach you, your phone's switched off.”

Suzy almost stamped her foot in frustration. Long hair flying, she grabbed her bag, yanked out her phone, and waved it under Rory's nose.

“It's not always off! It's
on
, OK? See? On! The only time it's off is when I'm in the hospital because when you're in the hospital you aren't
allowed
to have your cell phone switched on!”

“
Exactly
,” Rory hissed, picking up his briefcase and heading for the door.

“Ummm, sorry about this…” Donna murmured to no one in particular. Pushing back her chair as the spinning room began to tilt and gather speed, she tried to stand up.

“Sorry about what?” demanded Rory, exasperated. With one hand on the door handle, he turned and looked over his shoulder just as Donna's chair went toppling backward, closely followed by Donna herself, the keyboard from her computer and the two hundred sheets of legal paper she'd been about to load into the laser printer.

“Oh my God,” squealed Suzy, trampling all over the scattered sheets as she rushed to Donna's side.

To be fair, it wasn't easy to tell that Donna's complexion was pale green, what with the amount of heavy white foundation she wore. Her black-kohled eyes fluttered for a few seconds as Suzy cradled her head in her lap.

“Call an ambulance,” Suzy barked at Rory. “Tell them she's unconscious and burning up. It could be malaria.”

Last night she'd caught the end of a movie set in Africa, where the heroine had died of malaria.

“
What?
” said Rory in disbelief.

“I don't have malaria.” Donna, her eyes flickering open, murmured, “I just fainted.”

Thankful that she was conscious, Suzy gazed down at her and said, “Heavens, are you pregnant?”

“No, but I ache all over. I think it's the flu.”

Flu, yuck.
Holding her breath to keep the germs out and casually easing Donna's head from her lap, Suzy said, “You poor thing. Why didn't you tell us you were feeling rotten?”

Still pale and nauseated, Donna nevertheless managed a brief smile. “Couldn't get a word in edgewise.”

“See?” Suzy looked up at Rory. “It's all your fault.”

* * *

“Right, well, that's just brilliant,” Rory said when Donna had been dispatched home in a taxi. “How long's she going to be off, a fortnight?”

“You're all heart,” Suzy told him. Still on her knees, she was busy gathering together the scattered sheets of paper. “We'll have to get a temp in, that's all.” Recalling the last temp they'd employed, she added, “This time, preferably one who can read and write.”

Rory shuddered at the memory. He couldn't go through that again. Casually, he said, “What about Fee?”

Suzy shook back her tawny hair and looked up at him from under her bangs. “What about her?”

“She helped us out before, didn't she?” Rory forced his voice to stay sounding neutral. “Did a good job, if I remember.” I remember. Oh yes, I remember! “You could ask her, couldn't you?”

“Honestly, you've got some nerve,” Suzy protested. “Fee offered to help us out for a few hours when we were desperate.”

“We're even more desperate now,” argued Rory.

“You can't
do
that, though. You can't ask someone to help you out for a whole fortnight. It's like your neighbor calling you over to hold his ladder steady, then five minutes later asking you if you wouldn't mind redecorating his whole house for him. No,” Suzy said firmly. “Just because Fee's so good-natured, people are always taking advantage of her, and we're not going to do that. It's too much. We'll just have to hire a temp and keep our fingers crossed.”

* * *

The words
pot
,
kettle
, and
very black
indeed sprang to mind, Rory felt, recalling Suzy's remarks about other people taking advantage of Fee's good nature. Talk about shameless.

But he still couldn't believe he was about to do what he was about to do.

It was totally out of character, not like him at all, but since being seized by the plan, Rory hadn't allowed himself to think of that. Instead, leaving Suzy in the office, he had driven straight to Suzy's apartment and rung Suzy's doorbell. Firmly, several times.

Finally, he rang the bell for Fee's apartment, which was directly below Suzy's.

Fee answered the door wrapped in a green toweling robe and with her hands behind her back.

“I'm sorry. Did I get you out of bed?” Mystified, Rory realized that beneath the toweling robe, she was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, socks, Nike sneakers… What on earth was going on?

Fee, blushing slightly, said, “Of course not. Hi, is it Suzy you're looking for? I heard her doorbell being rung.”

“I'm desperate to find her.” Rory was amazed to discover how easy it was to lie when you had a real incentive. “I know her car isn't here, but I still had to try the apartment. You wouldn't happen to know where she is, by any chance?”

“No. Suzy left for work at the usual time.” Fee's green eyes widened. “Has something dreadful happened? It's not Harry, is it?”

“Nothing like that,” Rory said hastily. “Just an office crisis.” He paused. “Donna's gone down with the flu. We have to get someone in to replace her, and when I phoned DreamTemps all they could offer us was a sixteen-year-old with limited filing skills—and that's probably her nails. Suzy's got the contact number for another agency; that's why I'm so desperate to track her down… If we can't get somebody else by midday we'll have to settle for—Good grief, what happened to your
arms
?”

He broke off, staring in horror at Fee's forearms. While he'd been talking, she'd forgotten to keep them hidden behind her back, and now, with the sleeves of her robe falling away, he could clearly see giant white bandages concealing goodness knows what.

Some terrible injury? Or…?

Rory prayed she hadn't been out and gotten herself tattooed.

Going pinker still with embarrassment, Fee promptly tried to shrink her arms into her robe's sleeves, like snails prodded with a stick.

“Oh, it's nothing, really.”

Alarmed, Rory said, “Of course it's not nothing! What's going on?” Seizing Fee's right arm, he examined the unusual strip of bandage, then gazed at her in bewilderment. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“No, but I'm just about to.” Fee sighed, giving up the struggle to retain a shred of dignity. “Come on in. You can watch if you like.”

Still totally mystified, Rory followed her into the apartment.

“I put this on to try to hide my arms,” Fee explained, removing her robe. “When the doorbell rang, I thought you were the meter reader. Anyway, here goes.”

Peeling a corner of the first bandage away from her skin, she gritted her teeth, visibly braced herself…and pulled.

To Rory's utter amazement, there was no sign of blood underneath. Neither—
phew
—were there any tattoos.

“And again,” said Fee, screwing up her eyes for a second as she repeated the process on the other forearm.

Still no blood.

Rory, shaking his head, said, “I don't get this at all.”

“It's a girl thing.” Fee smiled slightly at his innocence. Rolling up the discarded white bandages, she said, “These are called waxing strips.”

“Waxing what?”

Rory had never read a women's magazine in his life. He hadn't the faintest idea what she was talking about.

“I have hairy forearms,” Fee explained. Honestly, this was worse than imparting the facts of life to a ten-year-old. “I don't like having hairy forearms, so I wax them. You spread hot wax on your arms, lay the strips on top, wait until the wax is set, then rip off the strips. It pulls the hairs out by their roots.”

Rory winced. This was all news to him.

“But…doesn't that hurt?”

“Not much,” said Fee. “Only about as much as childbirth.”

“Couldn't you just shave?”

“Stubbly forearms.” Fee wrinkled her nose. “Not attractive.”

“Oh, right, yes… I see…” Totally thrown by this waxing business—which just went to show how hopeless he was where women were concerned—Rory tried to remember what he was doing here.

“Poor Donna,” said Fee. “Flu, how awful. She'll be off for a couple of weeks.”

That was it, Rory thought with relief.

“Well, I'd better make a move.” Adjusting his glasses, he backed toward the door. “See if I can track down Suzy and the number of that agency.”

Fee, remembering how much she had enjoyed the work last time, said bravely, “I could always be your temp, if you think I'd be good enough.”

Yes yes yes!
thought Rory.

“No no no,” he protested aloud, shaking his head and giving her a look of gratitude mingled with regret. “Oh no, it's a wonderful offer, but I couldn't possibly let you do that. It's far too much of an imposition.”

“I'd like to help out,” Fee said eagerly. “I can juggle my voluntary work for a couple of weeks—”

“But this time you'd have to let us pay you.”

“OK.” Her eyes bright, Fee rubbed her tingling pink forearms and said, “When would you like me to start?”

“After lunch?” Rory was overjoyed. His plan had actually worked, and the buzz was even greater than if he'd just sold a house. For the next fortnight Fee would be there in the office. When he walked in each morning they'd smile at each other, say hello, take turns making the coffee, exchange—

“Well, well, speak of the devil.” Fee was peering out of the window. “Here's Suzy now.”

It could have been intensely embarrassing. Somehow Rory got through it. Suzy shot him a couple of deeply suspicious looks but, miraculously, didn't give him away.

“You've definitely got some nerve.” She shook her head at Rory and tut-tutted with disapproval as they left the house together ten minutes later. “Honestly, if I didn't know better, I'd think you fancied Fee.”

* * *

When they arrived back at the office, Martin was on the phone.

“That's great, seven o'clock at the Greyhound… Oh, don't worry about her. I'll just say I've got to work late.” He winked at Suzy, who rolled her eyes to heaven.

“Don't look at me like that.” Martin grinned at her as he hung up. “It's not as if I'm seeing another woman. Just a few of the guys getting together for a couple of drinks… Where's the harm in that?”

“I don't know,” said Suzy. “Why don't you ask Nancy?”

“D'oh!” Martin clapped his hand to his forehead. “You said it! You said the
N
word.”

“She's your wife.”

“She's my nag. Nagging Nancy.” He groaned theatrically. “Whose mission in life is to stop me from having even the
tiniest
bit of fun.”

Hugely tempted to give him a good slap and tell him to grow up, Suzy glanced at her watch. “Don't you have to be at Carlyle Road by midday?”

“She's got it! By George, she's got it,” Martin crowed. “The way you narrowed your eyes just then, and that do-as-you're-told expression… Suzy, it's perfect! You're going to make Harry a great nagging wife.”