fell, but he had to work. Every call he made he told the client he had resigned and would be setting up in business on his own. If they would consider staying with him he would make a specialc harge for them, less than they had been paying, and they would be assured of top-quality service. Three said they would remain where they were but the fourth agreed to come with him, after telling him he looked pale and asking him if he was all right. At head office he ran into Ed, who told him Steph was pregnant, so they had decided to postpone the wedding until after the baby was born.
'Steph says she doesn't fancy looking fat on her wedding day. Her mum thinks people will say we only got married because she was pregnant. '
'I've resigned,' said Mix.
'So I heard.'
Ed's expression told him that what he'd heard was a differentversion of events. 'You telling management I'd let you down, which was an exaggeration to say the least, made it impossiblefor me to stay.'
'Oh, yes? What do you reckon you did then? Acted like a mate? Stood in for me when I was sick?'
'Why don't you fuck off?' said Mix.
That was the end of a beautiful friendship. He couldn't care less. He thought of driving up to the spa and having it out with Shoshana. But he ought to remember the spa was number thirteen, a fact which might be at the root of all his troubles. And when he thought about it, about that darkened room with the draperies and the figures, the wizard and the owl, and above all of Shoshana herself, dealing as it seemed to him in love and death, he realized he was afraid of her. Not that he put it like that even in that part of his mind which talked to itself, advising, warning, and resolving. There, he said he should be cautious. It was one thing her getting on the phone and spreading slanders about him; he was more wary of darker deeds, the kind of thing witches used to do-spells cast, demons raised. All rubbish of course, but he'd once thought ghosts rubbish and now he lived with one.
By Saturday he'd have more time, all the time in the world, and that was when he'd begin his real efforts to see Nerissa. Meanwhile he'd plan what his campaign was going to be.
A cosmetic company with a fast-expanding line in makeupfor black women had asked Nerissa to be their 'Face of 2004.'This year they had used a famous white model and Nerissawould be the first black woman for this sort of role. The money was mind-blowing, the work minimal. Visiting their Mayfair salon for preliminary tests, she wondered why she wasn't feeling a greater thrill. But she didn't wonder for long. She knew.
Darel Jones had made it plain he wanted her for a friend only, someone to protect perhaps, a mate, a standby to make upthe numbers at dinner. Her mother said a man and a womancan't be friends, they have to be lovers or nothing. Nerissaknew differently. Perhaps what her mother said had been truewhen she was young. It wasn't true now that women had careersand approached nearer to equality. She knew men who weren't gay but who had a woman friend with whom they had been at school or university and were close to for years without ever even exchanging a kiss. Was that how it was going to befor her and Darel?
Not if she could help it. Sometimes she felt positive, atother times like she did now, rather despondent, with nothing to distract her from the certainty that what she wanted morethan anything in the world, that he should fall in love with her,would never happen. The man Cellini hadn't shown himself outside her house since she had seen him on Saturday. Seeing him was the last thing she wanted but, on the other hand, if he showed up in his car and waited for her to appear, it would bean excuse for calling Darel.
She wandered about her house, newly cleaned and tidied by Lynette, and resolved to try and keep it that way. She oughtnot to be so messy, Mum was always saying so, saying she hadbeen brought up to be neat and this was the result of too muchmoney too soon. Darel's flat was a miracle of order. It wouldn't always be like that, she thought, picking up a tissue she had dropped on the bathroom floor, no doubt he had made its specially tidy for his guests, but he was obviously a well disciplinedman. In the unlikely event of his coming here-and with each day that passed it seemed to become less probable he would be put off her by all the cups and glasses that habitually stood around, the magazines dumped on the floor, and absurd combinations like a bottle of nail varnish in the fruitbowl. She was as bad as old Miss Chawcer, who, Aunty Olivesaid, kept a flashlight in the fridge and bread in a bag on the floor.
On Friday afternoon, Dad once more having the Akwaas'car, she had promised to drive her mother to St. Blaise House. Hazel said it would be polite for her to call on Miss Chawcer, ask how she was and if there was anything she could do. Miss Chawcer was so very old and frail, she had been ill and must really be quite helpless.
'Oh, Mum, don't ask me. He lives there. Can't Andrew do it?'
'Andrew will be in court in Cambridge. You needn't come in, Nerissa, just drop me.'
So Nerissa had said she would. She'd drop her mother and come back for her after an hour. After all, if she did see the man, or the man saw her and came out to speak to her, she could call Darel on her car-phone. She dressed carefully, mistress as she was of the smart-casual look, in new olive drab combat trousers, a low-cut top and satin jacket. But when she was ready she realized that the clothes designed to attract Darel would also be attractive to the man, so she took them all off and got back into her jeans and T-shirt. Besides, though this was inimical to everything she worked to attain and to everything those she worked for took as gospel, she believedmen never noticed what a woman wore, only that she 'lookedgood' or did not.
It would be just her luck when she had no time to spare to find the man waiting outside, but no one was there. Campden Hill Square lay deserted and silent, sizzling in the heat that continued into September. Her car had been standing in the sun and the driver's seat was almost hot enough to burn her. She picked up her mother from Acton and drove down to St. Blaise Avenue, dropping her off outside Miss Chawcer'shouse. There was no sign of the man, nor did she meet himdriving to Tesco in West Kensington, where she did her week's shopping, buying in addition to a quantity of sparkling water, a lot of salad stuff, and some fish, two bottles of a very good Pinot Grigio because she had noticed that this was what Darel drank.
The spell that disabled its victim's spinal column came by second-class post. Hecate had always been as mean as hell. Shoshana had expected some potion or powder, which would have meant she had to think up a way of administering it and virtually eliminated anyone she had no easy access to, but thiswas only incantations over a smoking mixture in a crucible. As far as Shoshana could see, the spell might as well have beensent by e-mail. On the other hand, it was miles long and Hecate was too cheeseparing to get herself a scanner.
'I may as well give it a go,' Shoshana said to the wizard andt he owl. Who better to try it out on than Mix Cellini?
Gwendolen had graduated from the sofa and was sitting in anarmchair, well into the last chapter of
She didn't quite ask her visitor what she was doing here. ' Imust get those keys back. I suppose your aunt had another one cut. Without asking me of course.'
'How are you?'
'Oh, I'm much better, my dear.' Gwendolen was softening. She put the book down with the letter from the cystic fibrosis charity to mark the place. 'What have you got there?' Seedlesswhite grapes, William pears, Ferrero- Rocher chocolates, and a bottle of Merlot. Gwendolen was less disapproving than usual. She never ate any fruit except stewed apples but she would enjoy the chocolates and the wine. 'I see you're more discerning than your aunt and her friend.'
Hazel didn't know what to say. She had realized she was going to find conversation difficult with this elderly lady whom once, long ago, her own father would have called a bluestocking.Hazel didn't read much and was aware she couldn't talk about books or any of the things that probably interested MissChawcer. She was struggling to comment on the weather, the improvement in Miss Chawcer's health, and the beauty of her house when the doorbell rang.
'Who on earth can that be?'
'Do you want to see anyone or shall I say to come back anothertime?'
'Just get rid of them,' said Gwendolen. 'Say what you like.'
It might be a letter from Stephen Reeves come by special delivery. Gwendolen hadn't yet heard from him and she was growing quite anxious. Suppose the letter had gone astray? Hazel went to the door. A man of about sixty,
