pyjamas. She is of surprising daintiness for all that, graceful and always groomed, looks a stunner dolled up. Now, she was in some sort of boiler suit.
“He was never satisfied, Lovejoy.” She was sitting on the running board of her van. “Not that,” she added quickly at my look. “I was area champion two years running, trained with him every night. He left me for a woman shot-putter from Stourbridge, built like a sumo. How can I compete?”
Impossible. “He’s a nerk, love. Any bloke’d give his eye-teeth.” I didn’t run him down too much, because women are odd. I didn’t want her rounding on me in his defence. “Want the night off?” Mercy’s passion wagon was the last in the yard, waiting to go. I was the only driver without a van.
“No, Lovejoy. I’d better keep going.” She gave a wan smile in the yard’s lights, fluorescents of ghastly pallor. “Is it this hard for a man who gets rejected?”
“Dunno yet,” I said, to give her a smile. Didn’t work.
Ten months since, I hired her—nothing illicit; Mercy’s honest—to eavesdrop on some antiquarians at the London Antiques Fair. It was really disappointing. They were meeting to decide what antique books they’d bid a million dollars for (surprisingly only six: Shakespeare’s First Folio, 1623; the American Declaration of Independence, 1776; Audubon’s
Gazza came over, the big business. “Nothing for you, Lovejoy. Mercy, here’s your ticket. Pick up at the moorings by the Black Boy, code word Heaven. Forty minutes.”
“Thanks, Gazza.” She gave me an apologetic look. Her van was the newest and most luxuriously appointed of the lot.
I sulked, to get Gazza’s mood right, then left dejectedly, but not as dejectedly as all that because it was all working out just as I wanted. I flagged Mercy down at the intersection to cadge a lift. It’s not allowed—Gazza sacks you for less—but I’d once been especially kind to Mercy and it worked.
“Did Gazza say the Black Boy, love?”
“Yes, Fremmersham.”
“Give us a lift, love?” I climbed in quickly, not giving her a chance to refuse. “Console each other.”
“You too?” She gave me a glance, pulled away. A cracking driver, million times better than me. I find almost all women are. London bus drivers rattle you round like peas in a drum, unless they’re women. Birds drive smoother, and just as fast.
“Getting over it, Mercy,” I said, all brave. “Her family’s titled, rich, Oxford. You can imagine the reception I got.”
She squeezed my arm. “Poor Lovejoy. That the blonde, Jocasta, who has the racing-driver brother?”
I was startled. I’d been making up my heartfelt sadness, or so I’d thought. I couldn’t even remember a Jocasta. “Don’t, love,” I said, almost in tears. “It hurts too much. Let’s talk about something different. I might go on a Continental holiday soon. Play my cards right.”
“Where?” She glided through the gears. I wish I could do that. “I love the Continent, Lovejoy. Beautiful weather, lovely scenery. They take an interest in their food, real life, art.”
Honest surprise lit my countenance, I hoped. “Didn’t know you felt like that, love. France, I think.”
“Lucky you, Lovejoy.” She sighed, patiently allowed a cyclist to pedal over the level crossing before the barrier descended. Most drivers I know would have shot the amber and terrified the cyclist out of his pants. “I lived there so long.”
“You did?” More raised eyebrows. I should have gone on the stage. “Oh, aye. Weren’t you a courier or something…?”
“Bodyguard, actually. Didn’t you know, Lovejoy?” She smiled, gave a rather shy titter. “I know I don’t look like one. That was the trouble with Gay.” The cloud settled again. Gay’s her karate feller, but nobody jokes about
“Fancy!” I said, yanking the subject back where I wanted. “I’ve never met a bodyguard before. What did you actually do?”
“They hired me after I became pentathlon champion.”
“Didn’t it feel… odd?”
“Because I’m a woman, Lovejoy?” she demanded, stung.
“Eh? No. I hardly noticed that. I mean, being responsible for some politicians you’d never heard of.”
“Bankers, actually.” We reached the town bypass and pulled out coastwards. Fremmersham’s on an estuary some five miles out. I looked at her face in the dashboard glow. Pretty, composed. Barmy old Gay, that’s all. Swapping shapely Mercy, for a weightlifter. There’s nowt as daft as folk. “I spent my life at airports, shepherding stout men with briefcases.”
“Can’t imagine you doing that, Mercy.”
“They asked me to stay on. Mostly they’re Dutch girls, on account of their languages and because they look the part. I was lucky, on account of Dad.”
“Got you the job, eh? Influence counts in banking.”
She glared at me, touchy. “I got the job entirely on my own merits, Lovejoy! My languages. Just because my hobby’s sport doesn’t mean I have to be thick.”
“Right, right.” I lapse into a modern vernacular when I want to placate folk, trying to sound like I’m just from a disco and full of fast junk food. The rest of the journey was uneventful, because I made it so. We chatted about her
