the television scratching his belly. Perhaps, when she’d bought him the cuff links, she’d been hoping to improve him. Her Uncle Mike, on the other hand—who was really her father—was a man whose wallet was always stuffed. Hadn’t he been round every week flashing his fivers and saying, here, Angie, get something nice for little Colette? He’d paid, but he hadn’t paid enough; he’d paid as an uncle, but not as a dad. I’ll sue the bastard, she thought. Then she remembered he was dead.
She went into the Crown and Cushion and got a pineapple juice, which she took into a corner. Every few minutes she checked her watch. Too early, she started back across the bridge.
Alison was sitting in the front room of the Harte and Garter with a cafetiere and two cups. She had her back to the door, and Colette paused for a moment, getting a view of her: she’s
Colette sat down. She crossed her legs. She fixed Alison with a cool stare. “You don’t mind what you say, do you? You could have really upset me, back there.”
“There was a risk.” Alison smiled.
“You think you’re a good judge of character.”
“More often than not.”
“And my mum. I mean, for all you know, I could have burst into tears. I could have collapsed.”
Not a real risk, Al thought. At some level, in some recess of themselves, people know what they know. But the client was determined to have her moment.
“Because what you were saying, really, is that she was having an affair with my uncle under my dad’s nose. Which isn’t nice, is it? And she let my dad think I was his.”
“I wouldn’t call it an affair. It was more of a fling.”
“So what does that make her? A slag.”
Alison put down her coffee cup. “They say don’t speak ill of the dead.” She laughed. “But why not? They speak ill of you.”
“Do they?” Colette thought of Renee. “What are they saying?”
“A joke. I was making a joke. I see you think I shouldn’t.”
She took from Colette the thimble-sized serving of milk she was fumbling with, flicked up the foil with her nail, and tipped the milk into Colette’s coffee.
“Black. I take it black.”
“Sorry.”
“Another thing you didn’t know.”
“Another.”
“This job you were talking about—” Colette broke off. She narrowed her eyes and looked speculatively at Al, as if she were a long way off.
Al said, “Don’t frown. You’ll stay like that one day. Just ask me what you need to ask.”
“Don’t you know?”
“You asked me not to read your mind.”
“You’re right. I did. Fair’s fair. But can you shut it off like that? Shut it off and then just turn it on when you want it?”
“It’s not like that. I don’t know how I can explain. It’s not like a tap.”
“Is it like a switch?”
“Not like a switch.”
“It’s like—I suppose—is it like somebody whispering to you?”
“Yes. More like that. But not exactly whispering. I mean, not in your ear.”
“Not in your ear.” Colette stirred her coffee round and round.
Al picked up a paper straw of brown sugar, pinched off the end, and dropped it into Colette’s cup. “You need the energy,” she explained. Colette, frowning, continued to stir.
“I have to get back soon,” Al said. “They’re building up in there.”
“So if it’s not a switch—”
“About the job. You could sleep on it.”
“And it’s not a tap—”
“You could ring me tomorrow.”
“And it’s not somebody whispering in your ear—”
“My number’s on the leaflet. Have you got my leaflet?”
“Does your spirit guide tell you things?”
“Don’t leave it too long.”
“You said he was called Morris. A little bouncing circus clown.”
“Yes.”
“Sounds a pain.”
“He can be.”
“Does he live with you? In your house? I mean, if you call it ‘live’?”
“You might as well,” Al said. She sounded tired. “You might as well call it ‘live’ as call it anything.” She pushed herself to her feet. “It’s going to be a long afternoon.”
“Where
“Wexham.”
“Is that far?”
“Just up into Bucks.”
“How do you get home, do you drive?”
“Train and then a taxi.”
“By the way, I think you must be right. About my family.”
Al looked down at her. “I sense you’re wavering. I mean, about my offer. It’s not like you to be indecisive. More like you to take the plunge.”
“I’m not quite sure what you’d want me to do. I’m used to job description.”
“We could work one up. If that’s what’s worrying you. Write your own, why not? You’ll soon see what needs to be done.” Alison was rummaging for something in her bag. “I may not be able to pay as much as your last job. But then, when you’ve looked at my books, you’ll be able to tell me what I can afford. And also, it’s a quality-of-life thing, isn’t it? I should think the schedule will be more relaxed than in your last job. You’d have more leisure.” Then she said, as if she were embarrassed, “You wouldn’t get rich out of me. I’m no good for lottery numbers or anything like that.”
“Can you hang on for a minute?” Colette said. “I need to know more.”
“They’ll be waiting.”
“Make them wait.”
“Yes, but not too long. Or Mrs. Etchells will catch them.” Al had found a tube of mints in her bag. She proffered it to Colette. “Keeps the mind alert,” she said. “What I need, you see, is someone to keep the diary straight and make sure I don’t double-book. Liaise with the management, wherever I’m on the platform. Book hotels. Do the accounts. It would be good to have someone to answer the phone. If I’m with a client, I can’t always break off.”
“You don’t have an answering machine?”
“The clients would rather hear a human voice. Anyway, I’m not very good with electrical things.”
“So how do you do your washing? In a tub?”
“No, the fact is—” Alison looked down. She looked harried. “I can see there’s a lot I’m going to have to explain to you,” she said.
The truth was, it emerged, that whatever message Alison left on her machine was liable to become corrupted. Other messages, quite different ones, would overlay it. Where did they come from? “There’s no simple answer to that,” Alison said. She checked her watch. “I meant to eat but I’ve been talking.”
“I’ll bring you a sandwich in, shall I?”
“I never eat when I’m reading. It’s not professional. Oh, well. Do me no harm to be hungry, will it? I’ll hardly
