Georgia And Henry

29

Georgia And Henry

    Those nongs at Henny Penny were worse than useless. Mind you, I thought they would be. Would it of hurt them to pull a few strings for me? Bloody Karen, Brian’s secretary, had the cheek to tell me off her own bat Brian wouldn’t like that. So I told her to tell him to re-read my contract, it’s none of their business what I do in my own time. And I rang Derry. If ya wanna know, he was very sympathetic. Also very pleased, ’cos ’member back at the stupid festival where I saw Andrew Mc-Too-Flaming-Up-Himself-To-Be-McIntyre for the first t— Never mind that. When we were having that silly Restoration dinner with the good meat. He said he thought he’d met so-called Luke in New Zealand, and now he’s remembered: it was Henry Beaumont, so he is him, the prick! Not that I was in any doubt about it after seeing that photo of him. And he said not to worry, of course he could find out where he was staying, leave it to him.

    So he’s done it. I never heard of the dump but he reckons it’s a very exclusive hotel, not owned by the Arabs (dunno what he’s on about, there), and his PA’s made an appointment for me to see the prick! Shit!

    “Um, thanks, Derry.”

    He sighs down the phone. “That’s perfectly all right, Georgia, darling. Haven’t got a fax there, have you?”

    “Nah—Rosie used to, but it was her computer that was running it. You could send me an email—or a text message.”

    “No, darling, one does not do that, one has some standards left,” he goes with another heavy sigh. “Er—well, in summary, currently free, two past marriages, four kids. The first wife was a nice Massachusetts girl from his own background, college sweethearts, far too young to marry: his oldest son’s twenty-five and the daughter’s your age. Another boy rather rapidly. They busted up in 1989, the next one had her hooks in him. New York tart of the worst kind, Sex And The City with that lovely girl they’ve ruined need not apply, this one came from a family that could most certainly afford to teach her better but possibly didn’t care. One more boy, about the day after the wedding: he’s in his teens, at a military academy.”

    “That’s a summary, is it?”

    “I just thought you might want to know,” he goes lamely. “The second marriage lasted three years: by that time she had her hooks into—”

    “Shut up about his bloody wives!”

    He does shut up, in fact he doesn’t say a thing.

    “I’m not interested in bloody Luke—Henry Beaumont—in that way!”

    “Of course you are, darling; one always is, it’s inevitable,” he says gloomily.

    “I’m NOT! Just gimme the details of this appointment!”

    He gives me the details and assures me Double Dee will send a limo for me.

    “Um, yeah, thanks, Derry. You didn’t have to go that far.” –Weakly.

    “Nonsense, my dear. I know you think taxis are an extravagance, but it’s not the sort of place one would rock up to on foot. Er—and Georgia, just be prepared. If he’s gone back to the Henry Beaumont persona, you may find he’s not the personality you thought he was.”

    “I had worked that one out for myself, but thanks anyway. Well, for all of it, Derry.”

    “Call on me any time, Georgia, I’m always here for you. Oh—hold on: what are you going to wear?”

    “Uh—dunno. Well, it may be officially summer but it’s not hot. That black Marilyn suit Rosie gimme? It’s smart.”

    “It’s smart and it gets in under the delicious bum—have you noticed how flattening all the modern suits are, darling? Or possibly it’s the modern bums,” he notes sourly. “No colours?”

    “Nah. White silk camellia in the buttonhole.”

    “I’ll get them to send over a little something for Roger to wear!” he says with a smile in his voice.

    “Um, yeah. Wasn’t thinking of taking him, really.”

    “Darling, Georgia Rose with her corgi is going to be a sight the tabloids will be unable to get enough of! Start as you mean to go on!”

    If you say so. So I thank him again and ring off.

    Okay, the limo’s come: no turning back now. Where’s he parked? The loading bay. Let’s hope it’s not one of the days Mrs Merrihew needs to get an antique sideboard in or out. The driver’s got a box for me, so I ask him in while I open it. Pearls—cripes. There’s a note on them. “Darling Georgia, please keep them. A mere trifle, Derry.” Not his writing, it’s word-processed, but I’ll take it as meant. And I will keep them, ’cos guess what? I don’t care any more. –There! They look good! What daft thing’s he sent for Roger? Oh: black patent lead with a matching collar!

    “Come on, fella! Hey, don’tcha look smart! Yeah, we’re going walkies!”

    “Yip, yip, yip!”

    Well, not entirely a lie: he can walk as far as the lift, and then from the lift to the— Yeah.

    This is it, and the concierge is holding the door for me, so me and Roger get out. Elegant old building, not flash at all, doesn’t even look like a hotel except for this very restrained brass plaque beside the door. Black and shiny with a big knob, and closed. Never seen that in a hotel before. The concierge opens it for me, so in we go. Roger’s behaving himself, gee, this isn’t a hotel that has C,A,T,S. It’s a bit like the Ritz’s tea place inside. Not flashy and modern, right?

    Dunno what to do but I swan up to the reception desk. Good afternoon, moddom, how may we help yoow to you, too, Mr Smoothie. “I’ve got an appointment with Mr Beaumont.”

    Looks up his computer—they have made that much concession to modern times, yeah. “And may I ask the name, moddom?”

    Blast, Derry didn’t say which name they’d used! Given it was Double Dee, I go: “Georgia Rose.”

    “Of course, Miss Rose. Welcome to Berry’s Hotel. Kenneth will take you up to Mr Beaumont’s suite.”

    No! Suite, already? Ya don’t need to underline it, mate, ’cos I could of guessed it for meself. This here must be Kenneth. Thought he was gonna be a page in a Buttons suit, but he’s another smoothie in a dark lounge suit. Not even hotel ties: his is pale blue and Reception Smoothie’s is Old School stripes. All right, I give up. The lift isn’t automatic, it’s got a lift guy! Why do I need Kenneth, in that ca—Oh, don’t ask.

    So the lift opens to a view of smooth oatmeal carpet, smooth oatmeal walls and the most ginormous mirror with a GIANT basket of real flowers in front of it on a small gilt table. All shades of pale lime and cream. Yeah, all right, Kenneth, I will follow you. Closed doors, none of them with numbers on them… He’s reached a door with a small label on it at last—well, brass curlicue thingo. The card inside it, believe me or me believe me not, is hand-written. “Suite 1. Mr H. Beaumont.” Okay, I get it: if ya get this far you’re entitled to know he’s here. Mate, if ya get this far you don’t need the label, so why— Forget it. He doesn’t knock, he just opens it and bows me in.

    ’Member that yucky hotel suite of Richard Gere’s in Pretty Woman? No way. More oatmeal, gilt and mirrors. Old-fashioned-looking beige silk lounge suite. At first I think it’s a sitting-room. Only it isn’t, see: it’s a reception room and that there antique desk set discreetly off to the left at an angle contains the outer guardian to the sanctum. Thin woman, about fifty’d be my guess, strawberry-blonde, horribly controlled hair, very short at the sides, smoothly bouffant on top, why’s she bother to tint it that shade if she’s only gonna do that to it? Narrow black suit, not very with-it, unbuttoned jacket, plain cream silk blouse. Not wrap-over or anything like it. Thin coral necklace, that’s nice.

    “Good afternoon, Miss Rose. I’m Andrea Brinkley; please call me Andrea. Mr Beaumont will be with you in a moment. Please sit down. May I get you anything?”

    American. Figures. All right, Andrea Thought-Of-Everything Brinkley: have ya thought of this? “Nothing for me, thanks, but would you mind getting Roger a drink of water?”

    I give her the blinding Lily Rose smile that I’ve practised so much I can do it in my sleep. Fillys from Henny Penny’s PR Department (she does spell it like that), she wised me up. Do it until your face aches, do it until it becomes automatic, and never, ever scowl at them, no matter how rude they get.

    She blinks, heh, heh! Georgia Leach one, Henry Beaumont smooth machine zilch.

    “Of course.” She doesn’t go herself, she presses a button on her desk and a young man comes in. The Jason Arbuthnot sort. “Derek, would you mind getting a bowl of water for Miss Rose’s corgi?”

    He gulps, heh, heh! This is getting good! “Yes, of course, Andrea,” he goes in this incredibly plummy accent, where did they find him? The playing fields of Eton? “Er—a bowl?”

    “One of the dessert dishes from the kitchen would do,” she says with a kind smile, not a trace of “Do I have to think of everything for myself?” Well, she’s good, I’ll give her that.

    However, I don’t mind rubbing it in, so I go: “Possibly pudding bowls to you, Derek; if I may call you Derek?”

    He brightens immensely, so he can’t be gay, in spite of that suit that’s so smooth it looks as if he was in it when they ironed it. “Yes, of course, Miss Rose! May I ask his name?”

    “Roger. Don’t ask me why: the old lady that got him for me reckoned that was his name. He is a pure-bred, he’s got a fancy kennel name, Roger of La-de-da, but they neuter them if you’re not going to breed from them, poor little souls.”

    “I know: seems mean, doesn’t it?” he beams. “I’ll be with you in two ticks!” Shoots out, beaming.

    I think I won that round. However, I don’t mind rubbing it in some more so I go: “That may sound odd to your ears, Andrea, depending how often you come over to Britain, but with that accent it’ll be natural to him. Two minutes, is what he means.”

    “Thank you. I am familiar with the phrase,” she goes, not managing not to sound dry! Heh, heh, heh!

    I feel so much better that I go nicely: “So, have you been working for Mr Beaumont long?”

    “Fifteen years, almost to the day. I started the week his youngest son was born, as a matter of fact.”

    Gee, Andrea Thought-Of-Everything Brinkley, was that supposed to be a hit at Georgia Leach? If so, ya very wide of the mark. “Really? That is a coincidence. That’d be Harry, would it, the one who’s at military school? Funny how these rich people breed like rabbits and then banish the result from their lives, isn’t it?”

    Oops, she’s gone very, very red! “That may be the practice in some families, Miss Rose, but I can assure you that Mr Beaumont sees a great deal of Harry!”

    Oh, yeah? “Right, only not last summer, I think. ’Cos all he saw a great deal of last summer was the inside of a dingy cottage down in Hampshire. Or am I thinking of the wrong Mr Beaumont?”

    Takes a deep breath, regains her cool. “Harry spent last summer with his mother in Italy. Do excuse me, won’t you?” Pretends to be very busy at her desk. Nyah, nah, na-na, nah!

    Oops, Derek’s put a bowl of water down for Roger and I let him off the lead and he bustles over to it, but instead of lapping it up sniffs at his ankles, and then goes: “Yip, yip, yip! Yip-yip! Yip-yip!” Blast, that’s his cat noise!

    “Shit, have you got cats?”

    “Mummy has!” he gasps, doing a sort of dance. “Good boy! Down! –Burmese!”

    Think they’re supposed not to shed or be smelly. A dog’s sense of smell is several thousand times stronger than ours, however. “Right. –Roger! Stop that! Sit!”

    “Yip, yip, yip! Yip-yip! Yip-yip!”

    “Sit! Bad boy!”

    “Yip-yip! Yip-yip!”

    “ROGER! STOP THAT! SIT!” I bellow and at that very precise moment the door to the inner sanctum opens and fucking not-Luke strolls out, with that bloody put-on prim look on his face.

    “Burmese,” he goes drily.

    “Yeah! He said! ROGER! Will you stop it! SIT!”

    “Derek,” he says very, very mildly, “remove yourself.”

    Gulping out an apology, Derek exits, stage left.

    Immediately bloody Roger goes over to the bowl and starts lapping like a lamb.

    “Possibly Double Dee should have warned us you were going to bring him, Georgia,” he says very, very mildly. –Andrea, by the way, is just sitting there looking stunned.

    “Look, since ya know it all, possibly you should of warned me your fucking slave’s Mummy breeds cats!”

    “Yip-yip! Yip-yip! Yip-yip!”

    “Stop that! Bad boy! Sit!” he goes.

    Bloody Roger sits and looks up at him adoringly, I’ll kill the stupid little sod! Pant, pant, waves his tail—I can only hope, though he is a short-hair, of course, I loathe long-hairs—that he’s shedding like billyo on the fucking oatmeal.

    “Come through, Georgia.”

    “Thank you so much, Henry,” I go evilly.

    You’d swear he hadn't noticed a thing. “Come on, Roger! Good boy!”

    I suppose I can hardly grab him and just run. So in we go. More oatmeal and beige silk, but the bunches of flowers in here are much nicer than the big one in the corridor. More informal. Softer looking. No artificial colours.

    “Lovely flowers,” I go feebly as we sit down, him in a big beige silk wing chair and me on a big beige silk sofa.

    “Yes; one of my indulgences.”

    Oh, yeah, one of the few, like the hotel and the slaves and the dark suit. Plus and the dark tie, the silk shirt and the gold and ebony cufflinks, yeah. Understated, it is. Screamingly rich, it is. R. Gere in Pretty Woman ain’t even in the same class. He doesn’t have to be good-looking, he looks so good, geddit? No, well, I never seen anything like it before, either.

    Bloody Roger’s fawning on him so he picks him up and the little sod licks his chin. Right, that underlines it, Henry Beaumont, as if it needed it!

    “Sorry,” he goes in that put-on meek voice.

    “You can drop that, for a start!”

    “Yeah. I really am sorry, Georgia; none of it was aimed at you. I just wanted to get away from my goddamned life for a bit. Surely you can understand that?”

    “Yeah, and I could of understood it if you’d of told me, too!” Shit, didn’t mean to shout.

    He rubs his chin. “Uh-huh. Meant to slide away quietly without it ever coming out.”

    “Gee, thanks, L—Henry. Dunno why I thought we were friends.”

    He’s gone red, I suppose that’s Georgia Leach one. Doesn't much count against the score he’s racked up, the prick, does it?

    “We were. I don’t think I said anything to you that wasn’t what I really thought.”

    “You who?”

    “What? Oh. Yeah,” he says, grimacing. “Me Henry, Georgia: I’ve never had anything in common with Luke. Though to some extent I can understand his point of view. But I believe in picking up the cards you’ve been dealt and doing your best to play them, not chucking them away and getting the Hell out, pretending you’ve never even seen the table.”

    “The table? Oh—like the card table. Yeah. Okay, so do I. Fair enough. Ya done that, all right, according to the biog Double Dee couriered over. How much you worth as of close of the NYSE? –Don’t answer that, I don’t wanna know.”

    “Several billion,” he says sourly.

    “I hope it chokes you.”

    “It just about has done, Georgia,” he goes sourly. “Yes, good boy, Roger: go to Georgia!” he says, putting Roger down. And loosening his tie and beginning to unbutton his shirt! WHAT?

    “Uh—yeah. Good boy,” I go dazedly, hoisting him onto the sofa. Bet that singlet never came from Marks & Sparks. No Calvin Kleins need apply, either, I shouldn’t think. Has he entirely lost— Oh.

    “Triple by-pass,” he goes, real sour. “Beginning of last year. The scar’s healed, really. The doctors claim this’ll be just a thin white line—it has shrunk a lot.”

    “No wonder you spent the whole summer in tee-shirts or that fucking caftan!”

    “Yeah. Well, I kept the operation quiet: my parents don’t know about it: they’re elderly, no sense in alarming them. But there were rumours on Wall Street, and I thought if it did get out, no-one’d believe that two brothers could have had the same operation at the same time.”

    “No. So where’s the real Luke?”

    “Tahiti, living off of the vast sum he blackmailed out of me when I asked if I could use his name,” he goes sourly.

    “You asked? You twit!”

    He shrugs. “Guess so.” And puts his singlet back on.

    “Goddit. That’s the difference between you and him, isn’t it?”

    He shrugs again. “In a nutshell.” He does the shirt up slowly.

    “You could still have told me,” I note grimly.

    “Yes. Oh, Jesus, don’t cry, Georgia!”

    “I’m NOT!” I sob, bawling all over poor Roger.

    “Yes, you are,” he says with a sigh, coming to sit by me. “Yes: good boy, Roger!” he goes as Roger licks his chin. He put his arm round me. “Come on, now: you’re upsetting Roger.”

    I bawl for quite a while. Eventually he gives me his hanky and says: “Blow.”

   ’Tisn’t silk, maybe it’s linen? It’s like blowing your nose on rose petals. White ones, of course. “Where do you buy your hankies?”

    “Huh? Oh—well, here, London. Burlington Arcade, I think. Well, Andrea found the shop.”

    “Right, people in your socio-economic bracket don’t shop.” Blow, sniffle, blow. “I think you’re a total prick,” I go, not looking  at him.

    Silence for a bit. Then he says: “Well, that’s one of the problems, since we’re getting physiological. I’m not immune, but I’m a real bad bet, Georgia, honey.”

    He’s never called me honey before, so now I’m bawling again, this is dumb! I’m not in even in love with him! How could I be, I’ve never given him a single— Well, no: I mean you always think if a bloke isn’t gay, what if, but apart from that! He’s not even handsome! And he’s short—well, taller than me, but everyone’s taller than me, I think Danny De Vito’s probably taller than me.

    “Don’t cry,” he says, sighing and hugging me hard into his side.

    “What’s the prognosis?”

    He gulps a bit, then he says: “Well, given the surgery, very good. But no guy that’s had one massive heart attack can guarantee anything.”

    “Don’t be a twit, presumably you lived through 9/11, since you’re here now, and how can anybody guarantee anything? I could be collected by a bus tomorrow!”

    “Collect—Oh. Well, yeah.” He hesitates and then he says in a low voice: “I had a meeting scheduled for the Pentagon that day: I was up in Canada: missed a connection from Calgary.”

    “Shit.”

    “Uh-huh. And six of our best guys from the New York office had a meeting in at the World Trade Center. They were early; as far as we can tell they were downstairs having coffee when it happened. They found one guy’s wedding ring.” He stops.

    So I go in a shaky voice: “And?’

    “That was it. You don’t have to tell me about the impermanence of human existence. But we have to give our own meaning to life by acting as if we weren’t gonna be collected by a bus tomorrow, don’t we?”

    “Yeah. So why don’t you?”

    He looks real wry. “Look, it’d be three good years, maybe. Five if we’re lucky? Then you end up a very rich widow?”

    I’m doing my best to pull away but he isn’t letting me. “You sod! I don’t want your fucking MONEY!”

    “So why’d you come, Georgia?” he goes, looking wry.

    “To have a piece of you, you up-yourself bastard! Playing stupid games with other people’s lives, who do you think you are?”

    “You weren’t that interested in whether or not I might be playing with your life when you thought I was Luke, though, were you?”

    “Don’t be stupid! I wouldn’t dream of taking up with a do-nothing whose idea of life was bumming round the world doing what he liked and not taking any responsibility for anything up to and including himself!”

    “Oh,” he says, real weak. “I never thought of that. I—uh—to tell you the truth I just thought you didn’t fancy me. –Don’t look at me like that, didn’t you know guys are like that? Basically simple-minded.”

    “You were never simple-minded in ya life, Lu— Henry Fucking Beaumont!”

    “Women never seem to believe that, but it’s true. Though we get accused of only having one thing on our minds often enough—they don’t seem to make the connection that the two go together.” He gives me this real dry look. “Like a horse and carriage?”

    So I up with my free arm to BASH—Ow! He’s caught my hand. “Ouch! You pig, that hurts! Let go!”

    “No. You’ll never hit me, Georgia, and you’ll never get the better of me mentally, either. That what you want?”

    Scowl. “Dunno.”

    He doesn’t let go my hand but he isn’t crushing it quite so bad. “To tell you the truth I had this idea it was Derry Dawlish you wanted, if you wanted any older guy. –Well?”

    “Um… Well, I like him. I really like his mind—it’s as clear and well-organised as yours. And he’s got about as many illusions as you. Mind you, he’s a much more devious personality—he’d never of told Luke he wanted to be him—ya must be mad, giving a type like that that sort of hold over you! And, um, I have to admit he does seem keen. Um, didja know he’s let the wife have the villa in the South of France and he’s bought a house down in Bellingford? Um, well, two, the first one didn't suit him, he’s bought another one.” Swallow.

    “Yo, boy,” he says, real neutral.

    “Um, yeah. He hasn’t said anything direct, but he’s hinted—and he’s sure looked a lot. He was thrilled to be able to do me a favour, too. But I dunno that I could hack sex with him. He’s so gross.”

    “Gee, is that a point in my favour, then, Georgia?”

     Scowl. “Depends whether ya want it to be or not, Lu—Henry!”

    He rubs his chin. Gee, he looks so much better with a close shave! “Uh—well, I ought to be real self-sacrificing and tell you you should have a younger guy.”

    “I don’t want them! They’re useless! I don’t wanna be their mother! And if ya wanna know, they never fall for the real me, they just see the looks, like bloody Max! And if they do see the real me they run like the wind!”

    “Like who, for instance?”

    “Never mind. More than one, since I lost weight. Every one that I’ve ever been me with, put it like that.”

    “Don’t know what they’re missing,” he drawls. “Well, I have learned—whether it was 9/11 or the heart attack, I’m not sure, maybe a bit of both—that you only got one life, and self-sacrifice doesn’t cut it. So, let’s see. Agree to stop saying ‘fucking’—I can’t stand that in a woman, call me old-fashioned, stereotyped and prejudiced, but there it is—and we’ll see how it goes, huh? Live together for a while, view to an engagement, huh? Now, listen: I won’t want to pull out of it, Georgia, honey. But I’m not gonna hold you to anything you might regret.”

    “Well, um, how long?”

    “Just living together? Six months? On the understanding that you can quit whenever you want.”

    I don’t think I will want to, since he is Henry and not no-ties Luke, and I don’t really want Derry—and I’m afraid that if I don’t say yes to his offer I might accept whatever Derry offers. Being as how I’ve had what Varley had to offer and it didn't appeal. And I’ve really had it up to here with the useless young types. And if ya wanna know, I’m really fed up with being a have-not.

    “Well, what are the terms? Can I go on with the acting?”

    “Sure.”

    “Look if this is one of those go-your-separate-ways rich people’s marriages you’ve got in mind, I don’t want a bar of it!”

    “No. I’ve had one of those, thanks. I’ve really scaled back my workload, and most of the time I can work from wherever I happen to be. If you’re working over here, that’s fine: I’ll use the London office. And—uh, well, whatever you what, really, Georgia. I do have responsibilities that I can’t dump, but as I say, the workload’s scaled back, these days. I’ll just fit in with your schedule.”

    Gulp!

    “So?”

    Blast, I’m gonna bawl again! “That—sounds—great!”

    “Then don't cry!” he says with a laugh, dumping Roger on the floor. “Come here.” He wipes my face and makes me blow my nose. “So?”

    Sniffle. “Yes. It sounds great, Lu—Henry. I’d like to give it a go.”

    “Good! Now can I kiss you?”

    Sniffle. “Yes.”

    So he does. Wow! I put my arms right round his neck and kiss him back like crazy.

    “Better?” he says coming up for air, grinning like mad.

    “You knew bloody well it is, you wanker!”

    “Uh-huh.” He kisses me again and kind of mumbles into my neck, ooh! “Ooh, Luke! –Blast! I’m never gonna get used to calling you Henry!”

    “You will,” he says mildly, slipping his hand inside my jacket. Jesus! Somehow my head’s gone right back and he’s biting my neck and he’s got my hand on his pants—

    “Better not,” he says, sitting up.

    “Would Andrea come in?”

    “No, but we don’t want to embarrass her, do we?” he says, grinning like mad.

    “I might not yell.”

    “I would!” he says with a laugh.

    Gee, that’s interesting, I’ll look forward to that, L—Henry! ’Cos mostly they just grunt and then flop, y’know? Max, he used to yell “Yes!”, that was interesting.

    “What the Hell is this? Hartnell?” he says, fingering the jacket’s lapel idly.

    “Eh?”

    “Haute couture? How old is this suit? Mom had one just like it, back in the Fifties. Well, I was born in 1957, but the family albums of the period are full of photos of her in it: Hartnell, see? Dad said they came over for some damned cousin’s wedding and she spent six months’ salary on the thing.”

    “Um, yeah, it is, it used to belong to old Miss Hammersley, um, the old lady—”

    “You told me. Next-door to Rosie’s and Rupy’s flat. Upper-class old dame.”

    “Yes, but if it’s a model suit, don’t they only sell it to one person?”

    “No!” he goes with a startled laugh. Takes a look at my mug. “Uh—no, honey, the point is to drive dozens of rich dames crazy to have it: that’s the only way they can possibly make money out of haute couture. Not that they do, these days: the prêt-à-porter makes money, and the spin-offs like the perfume and sunglasses bring in the really big bucks.”

    My jaw’s just about hit the floor.

    “My second, Connie—think Colin’s phrase for the type is ‘a gazetted bitch’—she was real into the haute couture,” he goes wryly.

    “Gotcha.”

    “And everything that goes along with it. Rigid dieting, massages, plus the masseur, tennis, plus the tennis pro— Well, gazetted bitch, huh? Rich New York family. She hardly ever sets eyes on Harry—that’s our boy, he’s fifteen; but she suddenly decided to play mother this year and asked him over to Italy for the vacation. Her third’s an Italian count.”

    “Shit.”

    “Yeah.” He kisses me again.

    “Hey, I could come over this evening—if it’s convenient.”

    “It’s very convenient,” he says in my ear, nibbling it a bit, ooh!

    “Um, Henry, that tends to drive me real crazy—only if it’s a guy I really fancy—ooh! So could ya maybe hold off, cos I think I might come if you— Yeah,” I go limply as he stops, grinning like mad.

    “Why are you sitting with your knees jammed tight together, Miss Rose?” he goes primly.

    “Shut up. It’s agony, if ya wanna know.”

    “Me, too!” he says with a laugh, getting up.—Oh, God, I’ll have to look away, a girl can only stand so much.—“Coffee?”

    “Is it real coffee?”

    “Uh-huh. Espresso. Andrea usually makes me an espresso, of an afternoon.”

    “Great, thanks.”

    “Anything to nibble?”

    “Nope, I gotta get into a pale lemon Lily Rose suit this Friday for a public appearance. To die for. ’Tisn’t a model, mind, but they based it on one they saw in an old Vogue. Don’t think it was lemon, but they got the cut from the Vogue.”

    “Mm-hm?”

    So I tell him all about it, why not? Shit, if we’re gonna live together for six months, view to making it permanent, he might as well get used to me rattling on about clothes. And I tell ya what, talking about clothes is the only thing I’ll miss about sharing the flat with Rupy, that’s for sure! Though I’ll miss ole Doris and Buster.

    “Hey, um, you are living here, are ya, Henry? Not just using it for an office?”

    “No, living here. They make us very comfortable and ensure absolute privacy. Doesn’t it appeal? We could take an apartment, if you’d prefer that? Andrea will see to hiring the servants and so forth, you wouldn’t have to do anything.”

    Andrea’s brought the coffee in; she nods and smiles nicely.

    Blast, now I’m looking like a spoilt brat. “Um, the thing is, I think it would be nice to have our own place, and not having Mr Smoothie in Reception staring every time ya went in or out.”

    “But there’d be a doorman in the apartment block,” he goes feebly.

    “Would there? Oh, like Security? Well, that’s okay. Can we think about it? Um, well, Molly was saying Euan’s flat, I mean apartment, it’s got a view of the river. That sounds nice; this place strikes me as a bit, um, claustrophobic.”

    “Sure we can think about it! Andrea, you could maybe find a selection of possibles, huh? No hurry, give yourself a week, say. Then we can look at them slowly, okay, Georgia? Pick one that really appeals.”

    “Um, yeah, that’d be nice. Um, well, it’d have to appeal to you, too.”

    “I’m easy!” he goes with a laugh.

    Right You think you are, Lu—Henry. But that guy downstairs is not that lovely Hispano guy from Pretty Woman, by no means. And I don’t think I can hack going in and out under his eye every bloody day. Added to which, who wants to live surrounded by cream and beige and the most old-fashioned sofas I ever seen outside of a museum? So I’ll keep ya to that, Henry Beaumont. And it’ll be a trial period, all right. ’Cos if you start treating me like a cute little doll it’ll be all she wrote.

    So we have the coffee—Andrea doesn’t stay for it, he does think she’s his slave, by Jeez! And he does have some work to do, so I’ll nip back to the flat and grab my stuff.

    “Hang on, honey.” Looks hard at the pearls. “Dare I ask where these came from?”

    “Derry. Earlier today. Okay, I’ll give them back.”

    “I will give them back,” he goes in a hard voice.

    I back off. “Ya won’t, see, ’cos this isn’t the fu—the ruddy 19th century! I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, so we better get that clear from the outset!”

    “That’s clear. But I was thinking of my battles, too. I wanted to make it very clear to the guy that he can go fuck himself, see?”

    “Thought you didn’t like that word? Well, yeah, I do see, but I am an independent entity, not your appendage. Geddit?”

    “Yeah. Sorry, Georgia.”

    I take a deep breath. “What you could is, you could send me back to the flat in a like, limo or a taxi, whatever you use—and send Derry a little note with his limo driver telling him ya done it. Okay?”

    Gee, he’s grinning all over his face. “Very much okay!”

    So we do that.

    Rupy’s home, muttering over his script. So I break the news.

    “Georgia, darling, this isn’t Pretty Woman!” he gasps in horror.

    “Too right it isn’t, think I wanna be his prop and support cum cute little dressed-up doll?”

    “Darling Julia was so good she made you think it’d be much more than that!” he retorts.

    “Then why you got your knickers in a knot, Rupy?”

    “Because this is real life and bloody Luke isn’t Richard Gere!” he shouts.

    “Henry. No, he isn’t. Actually I thought the Richard Gere character was a dweeb, and if he hadn't of been him I couldn’t of sat through it.”

    “Darling, people like that don’t live normal lives!” he gasps.

    “I know; you oughta see the hotel he’s in. The décor makes ya wanna spew, it’s so discreet. We’re moving out, gonna get a nice flat. He doesn’t mind—he’s had it with the way he’s always lived, why do ya think he spent all that time down at the village?”

    He just stutters, so I leave him to it and go and grab my stuff.

    “What about Derry?” he croaks, as I come back into the main room.

    “Oh—right.” I ring him.

    “Georgia, darling, how did it go?”

    “Really good, thanks, Derry, I owe you one. I’m gonna move in with him: sort of trial period, see how it goes. So ya better have your pearls back, it wouldn’t be fair to you to keep them. But they are beautiful, it was a lovely thought.”

    “Keep them, darling,” he says with a sigh.

    “No, he’d do his nut if I did that, I think.”

    “Darling Georgia, listen to me. Henry Beaumont may be everything you think he is, and more. But in life one never knows. You keep the pearls. Don’t let on to him: get yourself a safety-deposit box. And listen: has he mentioned a pre-nup?”

    “No, but I was gonna mention it in any case, because I am NOT after his money!”

    “Don’t shout. I realise that,” he says tiredly. “Just make sure he spells it out that you keep any presents.”

    “Okay, that seems reasonable. I s’pose his kids could always decide to fight me for the spoils.”

    “Quite. And I’m still here for you, Georgia peach,” he goes heavily.

    “Thanks. You’re really decent, Derry.”

    “Sometimes,” he says ruefully. “Oh—don’t leave the pearls with bloody Rupy Maynarde, for God’s sake, take them to the old dame downstairs.”

    “Okay, I’ll do that. Oh—and listen. If Luke—I mean Henry: if he’s sent you a silly message with the limo, ignore it. Sexual jealousy, okay?”

    “Flattering,” he goes drily. “He’s not being silly over the acting, I hope?”

    “Nah, ’course not! Would I move in with a joker that said I had to give it up? See ya, Derry, and thanks for everything!”

    “Bye-bye, Georgia peach,” he goes sadly.

    I hang up quick. “Think he really did think he was in there with a chance.”

    “Ugh! Too fat, darling!” Rupy goes, shuddering.

    “You said it. You gonna gimme a hand with this other case, or you gonna stay here and sulk?”

    “I’ll do both. First I’ll—”

    “Yeah, yeah.”

    So we go downstairs, and I stop the lift at the second floor and pop in to Doris’s.

    “She’s gone mad,” Rupy explains sourly.

    “A girl has to try her wings,” replies old Doris stolidly. “And this sort of chance isn’t one to pass up. I’ll look after these, ducks, don’t worry. And me and Buster’ll be here, any time you need us.”

    So I give her a hug and kiss, good old Doris. And a big hug for Buster, even though I know it’ll make Roger jealous. Yeah: “Yip, yip, yip!”

    And we’re off.

    … Much later. I think this was the right decision. Sex-wise, that is. I mean, crikey! The doctor told him that he’s made an excellent recovery and not to be afraid of exercise, did he? I’d say he’s taken him at his word. Not that he got all athletic—I did once have a boyfriend who was into strange positions, it was real tiresome, you got so tangled up you forgot to enjoy it. No, first he got me real excited—not that I wasn’t, anyway. Gee, it’s nice when they do it with their tongue without having to be asked. Then he got up there and did it real slow, until yours truly shrieked her head off and clawed his back and came like fury. Then he fucked real hard and yelled his head off—my God! I never heard anything like it!

    So quite some time later—we’re just lying back stonkered, my head’s on his shoulder, that’s real nice, and he’s got his other hand on a tit, that’s nice, too: cosy, y’know?—he says: “Gee, I think we might be sexually compatible after all, Georgia.”

    “And a half! I never had such a come in me life! How’dja know to do it like that?”

    “Nature dictates—”

    “Idiot!” I bash him on the thigh, he’s got nice legs: rather wiry, very well shaped. Actually he’s got very nice proportions. Apart from his prick, it’s rather large compared to the rest of him. But I’m not complaining. “No, ya done it nice and slow: how’d ya know to do it that way?”

    “Uh—mixture of experience and experiment? Well, you seemed to be enjoying it, so I thought ‘This seems to be good, better keep on with it.’”

    “Yeah.”

    “Very young guys can’t always control it, Georgia,” he says with a smile in his voice.

    “You can say that again! And gee, some of them don’t care, neither!”

    “Uh-huh. Well, life in the old dog yet.”

    “I’ll say. Do you always yell your head off like that?”

    “Only when I come,” he goes primly.

    He’s got me, I just about choke to death.

    “Mmm,” he murmurs, turning on his side and snuggling up. “Come here. Hold the old dog, huh?” Puts me hand on it.

    Shit, never knew a guy that wanted me to do that before! Like, afterwards? It’s all limp. So I hold it.

    “Nice,” he says with a smile in his voice.

    Actually, Henry Beaumont, it is. Real nice. All of it.