Paid and Loving Eyes

He’d be a natural on a horse. Maybe, I thought hopefully, I should introduce him to Almira, get her off my back, so to speak.

“Miss Jodie. I thank you for conducting Lovejoy hither.”

A faint bow, no handshake. Get thee gone, Jodie, was his message. She made a smiling withdrawal. Conducting hither? Christ Almighty.

“Please sit, Lovejoy. Drink?”

“Tea, please.” I’d been done out of my home-brew, not to mention Michelle. The world owed me.

A sudden screech made my blood run cold. I thought, oh, no. Not here, the one time in my life I’d made posh. But it was. Sandy, as always larger than life.

We were on a balcony above a swimming pool. The plunge was not one of your echoing glass-domed halls filled with floundering Olympic hopefuls. Beautiful: palms, small courtyards with exotic plants, rimmed with natural walks, genuine grass (indoors? How the hell?). And a few dozen glitterati, the men shapely look-I’m-stupendous, the women mouth-wateringly luscious. No more exotic plant, however, than Sandy.

“Coooeee! It’s me! Lovejoy!”

In a bikini, for God’s sake, and a floral see-through dressing-gown, off the shoulder, with high-heel sampan shoes in magenta-studded gold. I went red. I honestly can’t see the point of making yourself look a pillock, but it’s how he is. Everybody was tittering.

“Hiyer, Sandy.”

He came over, doing a sexy slink. I moved back a bit. His eyelashes raked the air of his advance. God, he looked a mess. Mascara, rouge, lipstick. And… I stared.

“You love my earrings, Lovejoy!” he crooned. It was a threat. With Sandy, everything’s a threat. “Aquatic motif! I’m a prince—well, princess— between two frogs!”

A live frog sat dismally in the bowl that dangled from each ear loop.

“Er, great.” I hesitated. You daren’t offend Sandy’s dress sense. He and Mel—you always offend Mel anyway, no matter how hard you try—are antique household furniture and Georgian-Regency antiquers of mighty opulence. They inhabit a converted school-house and barn not far off, and despite appearances are shrewd, aggressive dealers. “Do they hurt?”

“My earrings?” He tittered, gushed round to see everybody was paying close attention. “I’d love it if they did!”

Folk chuckled. Sandy shrilled a laugh.

“The frogs, I meant.”

He rounded on me, spitting malice. “More worried about reptiles than about me you hideous ape, Lovejoy! You spiteful, inane, inept failure you!”

To my dismay he burst into tears, teetered off at a lame sprint in his high heels. I called a sorry, Sandy, after him, but knew I was for it. He’d not forget that, or forgive. I sighed an apology to Troude.

“Sandy’s an old friend, sir. Not,” I added anxiously in case it got back to Sandy and landed me in still deeper trouble, “old as in aged. Old as in good.” Good as in…? I gave up. I’m hopeless explaining at the best of times. With all these sweet-lifers smiling at my discomfiture, I began to wish I’d stayed at home. At least there I’d have got ravished by Michelle, and earned my parcel.

“You really did mean the frogs, Lovejoy?” Troude was interested.

“Course. The poor buggers were…” I cleared my throat, rubbed the words from the air with a gesture. “The poor things were trapped. It must be horrible.”

He paused to allow three uniformed varlets to serve tea. Sterling silver, I saw. Other balcony tables had silver plate. Troude must be a high-flyer. You can’t count new silver, new gold, new anything. Only antiques matter. But society assays worth as wealth.

A peasant stayed to pour, grovelled in withdrawal. I eyed Troude. A man of multo wealth and much, much more. That explained Troude’s aura. Confidence? Authority? In that instant, Troude became my rival. Don’t misunderstand me: I don’t mean pistols-for-two-coffee-for-one, all that. But this man was the focus of the whole Nouvello Centre. Kicking order having been established, we sipped tea and admired the decor. My one advantage was that I could wait longer than he. Like Prendergast of the Drum and Fife, an antiques perpetrator has to put the screws in. Your screwee’s job is to wait, and hope to get out in one piece.

“This leisure complex cost a fortune, Lovejoy. You like it?”

“Sumptuous.”

“You hate it.” He sighed, not put out in the slightest. “It’s a curious feature of civilization that administrators escape blame. Future archaeologists will clear the rubble, and reconstruct, what you see about you. They will be appalled at its sheer bad taste, find my name on the foundation stone, and blame me for crassness.”

“You own it, eh? I’d rather have had the fields.” Which is saying something because I hate countryside. It’s superfluous. I can’t honestly see what’s wrong with concrete. The Nouvello was still a good argument for environmentalists, though, even to me.

He smiled, made that open-palmed gesture that isn’t quite apology. Italian?

“To the salotto buono, appearances are everything.”

The business oligarchy, the ancient blood line of the gentry. No, not Italian. That hint of sarcasm revealed more than it hid. It sailed close to contempt, but what for?

“Look, er, Mr Troude. I’m sorry I spoiled that scene. I didn’t mean to annoy Sandy. And I am sort of busy —”