'Will Leonardo approve, Lovejoy?' she asked wistfully, gazing up at her hideous blob.
'I'm sure he would, will, er...' I gave up on tense. 'Does,' I concluded firmly. 'Look, love.
Will you seduce a bloke for me?'
'How dare you!' etc, etc.
Twenty minutes later we finished a cup of tea on her couch and she was agreeing yes, certainly. By then she'd dusted herself off and was arguing her fee.
'Get me anything of Leonardo's,' she decided. 'From his very own fingers.' She moaned at the thought of his fingers.
'Impossible,' I said sadly. It was going as I'd planned. 'The few Leonardo items in our rusty old kingdom all belong to famous people.'
Daintily she blotted a tear. 'I know that, Lovejoy.'
'Bernicka!' I cried, doing my aggrieved horror act. 'You can't mean ...'
'That you rescue my darling's precious creation from some undeserving owner? Of course I do!'
That's women and morality. Love is the Open sesame! that rolls aside all ethics. To some birds, love is no more than a code word; say it and you're in, physically replete and thankful it worked. To other women, it's the solemn pronouncement of serious lifelong commitment. To Bernicka, it was run-leap-splash into the hot spring of life, as long as she could convince herself that da Vinci was in there somewhere. I don't understand it.
I asked, fingers crossed, 'You can't seriously mean Lord Orpen's parchment drawing of Leonardo's horse?'
'Does he have a Leonardo drawing? Yes, him then.'
'That's unfair, Bernicka!' I cried angrily. 'I might get caught!'
'Do it, darling, or I won't seduce anybody for you.' She caught my hand and pulled me down. 'Please.'
What can you say? Broad daylight, the parlour doors wide open, curtains not drawn, we made rapturous agreement. I awoke an hour later. She'd gone back to slapping clay onto her sculpture. I finished her biscuits and tottered off to catch the bus, shouting a so-long into the garage. I'd reached town before I realized she hadn't even asked the seducee's name. I phoned from the Zodiac Tea Rooms, trying to speak quietly so the elderly ladies sipping their Earl Grey wouldn't eavesdrop.
'Wotcher, Bernicka. I called to say ta for, er, tea and that.' Then I told her the Yank at Mortimer's manor. 'That's the, ah, beneficiary. Understand? You've been there to read tea leaves, I think. Taylor Eggers, your psychic's husband.'
She paused a bit too long. I felt a twinge of worry as she asked, 'Exactly why am I doing this, Lovejoy?'
'While you're, ah, resting, you can ask him what the hell he and his missus are up to.
Ta, love. You're great. Darling? I just want you to know that I've never felt such deep emotion ...' I listened. 'Hello? Hello?'
She'd gone. Leonardo's contemporary Vascari once said the maestro's every action 'was divine'. Evidently my passion hadn't matched up. Still, I should care. I felt marvellous.
I'd received the ultimate gift from the lovely Bernicka, and my plan was one step nearer completion. I smiled weakly at the eavesdropping tea drinkers and made my way out amid the murderous traffic, where a bloke could feel safe.
Pets are a puzzle. Cats cause me anxiety because they eat birds; statistics say thirty million a year. Dogs have fangs, and eat cats. Horses are a big worry to me because they weigh ten tons. I fight unendingly against my garden birds' habits, because they scoff worms. Every dawn I feed the robin cheese, if I've got some, to wean him off various fauna. No hopes. He noshes what I give him then goes digging worms in my compost, dirty little devil.
So I was especially guarded climbing up the rickety steps of Cedric's wooden two-storey shack in the darkness that night. A snuffle sounded, very like distant thunder.
'Wotcher, Elk,' I called nervously. 'Get Cedric, okay?' Waiting, I couldn't help remembering Divina. She was one of these horsey lasses, very splendid in her pink jacket and jodhpurs. The trouble was the horse she bestrode. It was the size of Lambeth Palace. She used to do its skin with some sort of wire, hours at a time. Once, she made me – threatening celibacy if I didn't – come and see her polish the damned beast. It leaned against me, asphyxiating me by compression. While I gasped my last she exclaimed, 'Oh, Lovejoy! Animals really like you!' I was supposed to admire this monster for giving me a prolonged slobbering crush. See? The problem with pets is people.
A footfall sounded. 'That you, Lovejoy?'
'Wotcher, Cedric,' I said, then screeched as I heard a bolt slide, 'Don't open the bloody door!'
A chain settled to silence. I mopped my brow. Elk is a dog the size of, well, an elk, but with fangs not horns. It likes me. Elk's idea of a greeting is to place both its front paws on my shoulders and gaze into my eyes, its mouth open, fangs a-drool. Saying hello is an orgy, but resembles the prelude to a snack.
'Go down, Lovejoy.'
Relieved, I descended the swaying steps and he let me in. The workshop is beautiful.
Most folk would hate it: cold, badly lit except for a bank of intense lights at the workbench. Untidy as hell, but definitely the place to be.
Cedric entered, wheezing and shuffling. He's eighty-four, and the classiest manuscript forger in the Eastern Hundreds. You'll have seen those certificates of provenance on those splendid antiques at London auctions. Well, Cedric turns them out. Five a week, when he's really motoring. I like Cedric. Think of some old cartoon alchemist, floor-length robes, slippers, skull cap, specs on droopy wire, straggly beard, and you have Cedric Cobbold, Esquire, master forger.
'Evening, Lovejoy.' He grinned, gappy teeth, whiskers fluttering. A joke was on its way.
'I see,' he said, snuffling, 'they haven't hanged you yet!' He creaked and swayed. I helped him to a stool by the
