The Magic Cottage

She studied me for a second or two, then said, 'Okay.' Simple as that. No arguments, no further discussion. She'd either accepted what I'd told her, or accepted that I didn't want to delve further. That's what made Midge easy to live with.

I drained half of the bitter and Midge watched me. Tilted eyes, dark-haired, and delicate little pointed chin. Yeah, that's why sometimes I called her Pixie.

'So where do we go from here?' I asked, wiping the back of my hand across my lips. 'You know I'm worried about how much it's gonna cost to put the place right.'

'But you like the cottage, don't you?' She leaned across the table and her words were almost a conspiratorial whisper. And she was fixing me with that smile again. 'Don't you think the location is ideal? Imagine the work we'll do there. My paintings, your music. Mike, you'll do so much, I just know it. And maybe you'll finally get around to writing those children's stories for me to illustrate. We'll make a wonderful team!'

I mulled it over. Sometimes Midge escaped into a world of her own, on a plane far removed from choking cities and avaricious mortals, and she had the ability to draw others into it, too—that is, if she wanted them along. I had to remain the pragmatist most of the time, although it never ceased to amaze me how down-to-earth practical she could become when the occasion truly demanded.

'Look, I'll tell you what we'll do,' I said. 'We'll go back to the agent and lay our cards on the table. We'll point out all the faults, major and minor, and put in a lower bid to cover our costs. If Bickleshift goes for it, all well and good; if not—well, we'll have to face up to the facts of life.'

She could hardly argue with that, but I couldn't help disliking myself for putting anxiety behind her eyes.

So that was what we did. We finished our drinks and drove back to Cantrip, me with a grumbling stomach and Midge in a moody silence. When we passed Gramarye, her eyes locked onto the cottage and once more she craned her neck until it was out of sight.

It was well after lunchtime when we reached the village and we found Bickleshift wondering how to occupy the rest of his day. I explained our position, telling him we loved the cottage, were extremely keen to buy, but that there were certain nasty faults that needed attention, and these would burn a sizable hole in our finances. How about knocking off at least four thousand from the bidding price?

He sympathized. He understood perfectly. But he said no.

The ad had mentioned that Gramarye would require some renovation, and quite possibly the costs would be high. But he did not have the authority to accept our lower offer, nor, he had to admit, the professional inclination to do so. It was a 'desirable property' in an extremely 'desirable' part of the world, after all.

I could feel Midge's spirits slump, and mine also took a nose-dive. Although I had mixed feelings about the place, learning we couldn't afford it anyway left me more frustrated than I thought possible. I tried three thousand.

Bickleshift sat firm, explaining that the executors of Flora Chaldean's Will had set a minimum price, apart from which we were only the first in a line of others wishing to view the property. He was very friendly when he told us this, but estate agents aren't renowned for having generous natures.

Our problem was that not only would we have to live in Gramarye, but we'd have to work there too, so conditions had to be reasonable for both of us. Also, I'd wanted to build some kind of mini recording studio for myself; nothing fancy, you understand, but the bare essentials would require a certain amount of ready cash. It was no good, useless to try and kid ourselves. Nice idea, but impractical. Bye-bye our cozy love-nest in the country.

We left with lead-weight hearts and Bickleshift's promise to be in touch if there were any further developments. Midge was silent all the way back to Big Met., and I could say nothing to console her.

That night she wept in her sleep.

THREE SCORES

THERE'S AN OLD Chinese proverb I've just invented that goes: 'When luck is on your side, numbers don't come into it.'

The doorbell woke us around 8:30 next morning. That kind of hour is rarely even mentionable to me, so it was Midge who had to crawl out of bed to answer it. With one open eye, I noticed her face was still puffy and her eyelids red-rimmed from salty tears as she pulled on her nightshirt and left the bedroom. I groaned and pushed my head further into the pillow when she opened the front door of our apartment and I heard a familiar growly 'Good morning.' Val Harradine, her agent, had heralded in the dawn.

Their voices wandered off into the kitchen, Midge's barely audible and Big Val's grinding on like an asthmatic cement mixer. Actually, Val was okay, although a bit dykey of the bullish kind; what irritated me was the way she sometimes tried to force work onto Midge that Midge didn't want. When I learned of her mission that morning, I could have kissed her big head, moustache and all.

Midge came flying back into the bedroom and leapt onto the bed, her milky thighs straddling my tummy and her hands shaking my shoulder. I yelped and tried to shift her weight.

'You'll never guess!' she cried, pinning me there and laughing.

'C'mon, Midge, it's too early,' I protested.

'Valerie tried to reach me all day yesterday—'

'That's wonderful news. Will you get off me?'

'She couldn't, because we were out, weren't we? She couldn't phone last night because she was out herself.'

'This is fascin—'

'Listen! She had a meeting with the art buyer at Gross and Newby yesterday morning.'

'That's the agency you don't like.'

'I love 'em. They've got a huge presentation to make next week and the account's art director wants to use my style of illustration for posters. They want three, Mike, and they're willing to pay a heavy price.'

Now unlike book and magazine publishers, advertising agencies are astonishingly high payers where artwork is concerned—usually client's money, you see—so ?-signs flashed through my head and cleared the last dregs of sleep.

'Five hundred a piece,' said a gruff voice. I looked over to see Big Val's broad visage peering around the door, not a pleasant sight on an empty—if Midge-burdened—stomach. However, it wasn't unwelcome on that particular morning, and I did my best to be nice.

'Less your twenty percent,' I said.

'Naturally,' she replied without a smile.

I blew her a kiss anyway—it wouldn't have been decent in my naked state to make it physical. My hands rested on Midge's thighs and I asked suspiciously, 'When are they going to need 'em?'

'Monday,' she told me.

'Aah, Midge, you're gonna knock yourself out.'

'It'll be okay, I'll work through the weekend. If the campaign goes through, the agency will double-up on the price.'

'Three thousand?'

'Less my twenty percent,' out in Big Val.

'Naturally,' I said.

The idea of Midge producing three such illustrations worried me: she never skimped or cheated on her work, and she had a particularly fine-detail style. Even with the restrictive time limit I knew she would put everything she had into those paintings.

'Do you realize what it means, Mike?' Her eyes were wide and shining. 'We'll be able to afford the cottage, we'll be able to meet their price.'

'Not quite.' I reminded her of the figures involved. 'We'll still be a thousand short, even if you do eventually get the full amount for the posters.' If I imagined that would cast a cloud, I was wrong: my words didn't seem to have any effect on her at all.

'I just know everything's going to be all right. I knew the minute I woke up this morning.'