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Blanche in Love - Chapter 2

Hung-over from getting up too early, Suzy yawned and stretched.  She'd promised to email Deryck with his curb stones document by this morning, and it was nearly 6.30 already. 

      "MEPs are waiting for this briefing," she droned in a deadly imitation of her boss.  “The quality of political decision-making rests on the information they receive.  Poor briefings, Mrs Lysle, mean poor legislation.”

      “Curb stone heights impact on accessibility and ambulation issues,” read the first sentence.  She snorted, shook her head and hit delete.  Typical.  “People trip over high curb stones,” she typed briskly.

      On the other side of the room her cutting table was piled high with scarlet oven gloves waiting to be turned into prawn pincers. Each one had to be re-cut into a claw shape and have an elastic cuff with adjustable tapes added.  Then they all had to have glittery whiskers glued onto the backs.  But Deryck would blow a gasket if she didn’t get his paving stones sorted on time. 

      Nearly an hour later she sighed and checked the word count.  Fine.  Spell check done, formatting correct, close document, attach to email and send.  The tap dancing prawns would have to wait til the afternoon.

      She clicked on the little sewing machine icon which was about all that remained of her designing ambitions, and her messages scrolled down the screen.

      What would Blanche be doing now?  Unearthing a slim silver-mounted pistol from her undies drawer?  Tucking it into a black lace garter belt?  Nonsense, she told herself.  No-one wears stockings any more.  Not even international women of mystery.  These days, spies wear soft Italian leather holsters in their left armpits.

      She double-clicked and closed the folder.  Time to get the kids up and off to half-term circus school.  From the sounds of it, they were awake and so was Petya.  She went upstairs on auto-pilot, chivvying and coaxing the whole dinosaur edifice of domesticity into motion for another day. 

      Downstairs, she made coffee, supervised cereal consumption and nodded at Petya without even hearing what she was saying.  Yes, darling, yes, sweetie, of course Petya... don't forget the time, here's your coat, yes, I'll see you later, Mommy loves you, thank you Petya...

      "You haven't seen the Bulletin have you?" she asked Lyndon when he came down.  "I should have arrived yesterday but I can't find it anywhere."

      "You look like a sleepy squirrel," he said.  "What on earth time did you get up?"

      "Six.  Had to catch up on some work."

      "Give it up.  We don't need the money."  He looked at her lips more closely.  "Mmm," he said kissing her, "You taste of jam.  Nice!"

      "Is that it?" she said.  "You don't like me working?"

      "Not at all," he smiled.  "Just remember you don't have to exhaust yourself doing a job you don't enjoy, that's all.  We don't need the money."

      "So you...?"

      "I'd better get going," he said, "or I'll be late.  See you tonight, Hon.  Have a nice day."

      She watched him swing his coat off the banisters, pick his car keys up and disappear down the stairs to the basement garage.  The Lyndon Enigma.  Peering into the mirror in the downstairs cloakroom, she applied some lipstick, dragged a brush through her hair and walked down to the 50naire, as she did every morning, to pick dandelions for Hammy. 

      Not that she liked parks; horrible places, all mud, dank grass and soggy wooden benches and she hadn't for a second imagined that letting Lyndon buy Judy a hamster would condemn her to a daily trip to the dankest, muddiest, rustiest park she'd ever seen.  In the 50naire even the unused fountain looked dank and grubby.   

      It was too late now though.  She was ultimately responsible for Hammy's well-being and therefore duty bound to pick fresh dandelions for him.

      “Kids need pets,” said Lyndon when he produced a small caged rodent and a care manual.  Why didn't he foresee that Ricky would insist on reading it out loud to Judy who would take ever word as Gospel? 

      Including the vital information that hamsters must be fed fresh organic green leaves every day, not picked from the back yard where the gardener might have used fertiliser, and not from the roadside because of traffic pollution, and not bought from a pet shop in case they weren't perfectly fresh.

      “And it has to be rinsed and dried carefully so it doesn’t get bruised before the hamster sees it, Mom, because otherwise he might lose his appetite.”

      “We don't need to read the whole book, Ricky!"

      "Dandelion leaves are okay," he read relentlessly, "but why not grow a selection of tasty herbs in a window box?  Parsley, mint and basil for example, to feed to your new companion so that he doesn’t get bored with his diet?” read Ricky laboriously.

      “That's enough, Ricky!”

      “The hamster’s main meal of the day should be served in the late afternoon, when he unfolds his ears and emerges from his bed for a late afternoon stroll, or perhaps for some high-quality bonding time with you, his new friend.”

      “Ricky, I'm warning you!” 

      “He will appreciate a live maggot every other day and one gram of organic natural yoghurt or crème fraîche on alternating days.”

      “Give me that book!  Haven’t you got any homework?”

      “It’s gotta have hypo-allergenic bedding,” said Ricky, “which should be changed weekly and - hey Jude, you gotta put filtered rainwater in its drinker bottle.”

      “It’s a hamster!  Not a baby!" protested Suzy from the kitchen.  “It’s practically a rat!”

      “It’s a she, Mommy.  And she likes hamster cookies,” said Judy.  “Fruit of the forest flavour.  With bits.  And the hanging sticks, puffed rice flavour.  With bits.  But not the hanging sticks with the autumn maize garnish.  Because those bits are too big.  Because Hammy is a dwarf hamster.  But she likes the hamster cakes better than the buns.  The long square crispy ones with the toasty flakes on top.  And sunflower seeds.  She likes those.  She eats them in her bed.  But not the dark green pellets.  Hammy doesn’t like those - so can you pick them out of the hamster mix you bought please, Mommy?”

      “Rat, it’s a rat...” muttered Suzy, but she might have well saved her breath.

      “Listen, Mom.  Psychological deprivation.”

      According to the book, Judy had to guard against the danger of her hamster becoming neurotic through being deprived of quality play opportunities.

      “That means you gotta take him out of his cage, Jude and let him wee on the sofa!”

      “Give me that book, Ricky!” snapped Suzy.

      “You gotta give him “correct amounts of sensory stimulation”...  Like, buy him a second cage in case he gets bored with the first one, Jude!”

      “Right now!  Give!”

      Ricky tumbled over the back of the sofa and dodged behind an outsize rubber plant.

      “He will also enjoy a transparent perspex play-ball so that he can explore his environment in safety!” he yelled, still maniacally reading from the book.  “Yeah, so that Daddy doesn’t squish him to death on the carpet, Jude!” 

      “Poor little Hammy-wammy!  Don’t let Daddy squish her to death!  Mommy, please!”

      Judy had big brown eyes like her dad and really knew how to use them to good effect.  Suzy could never resist her.  She had a cute little heart-shaped face surrounded by nut-brown curls and whenever she wanted something she would come and stand right beside Suzy and tilt her face up with her pointed little chin resting on her thigh and say angelically “Mommy, please?  Mommy, I love you.  Please?”  Irresistible.

      Ricky wasn’t as consciously appealing but Suzy couldn’t resist him either.  Strong, and solid-looking like his father, he had a serious expression on his face most of the time although he had quite a dry sense of humour.

      But more often he was serious, and if he wanted something he would give her a level look as if to say “I can’t plead, Mom, I’m too old to put my chin on your thigh any more... please don’t make me beg, Mom, please just understand this is important, I really gotta have it...”  which made him in his own way, just as irresistible as Judy.  Perhaps even more so.

      So under the bemused eyes of the dog walkers in the 50naire, Suzy picked a selection of fresh-looking weeds and packed them into a plastic lunchbox which she then stuffed into her handbag.  Blanche, she told herself viciously, hates hamsters.  She shoots them on sight.  Pumps them full of lead.  And she uses a silencer so the neighbours can't hear them screaming in agony as Blanche twists their rotten little heads off.

      Back in the rue de Tongres she walked in and out of shops efficiently buying all the items on her list.  She and Lyndon had the perfect marriage.  Everyone knew that.  They understood each other perfectly.  They were still in love.  Everyone knew that too.  On the spur of the moment she turned on heel and went into the newsagent's.  Shoving past the people queuing for cigarettes, she picked up the latest edition of the Bulletin and rifled through the small ads at the back.  There you see, nothing.  Whatever fantasy she'd been living in, there was no truth in it at all.

      “American male (46) seeks female company for lunch in central Brussels.”

      Oh my God!  There it was, in black and white.  After a second's paralysis, she queued up at the cash desk, paid and took the magazine outside for a second look.  Incredible!  She ripped the advert out and posted the rest of the magazine through the narrow slot of a nearby rubbish bin.  The blood was singing in her ears and her was pulse racing.  Now she knew exactly what Lyndon was up to.

      Shoving the advert into her bag she rummaged for her phone.  Then she stepped backwards into a doorway where she wouldn't get run over by early-morning shoppers and flicked through her old text messages, read and deleting most of them.  Finally she clicked on the right one: "DU fancy lunch?" and there was another one: "lunch?" and after that several more on the same subject.

      She rolled her eyes.  Lyndon had left that piece of paper on the floor on purpose and had placed his advert in the Bulletin for the same reason.  Flicking through her messages, she realised that he'd been nagging for months.  This whole advert thing was simply more of the same. 

      Well, all right, she'd got the message.  Lyndon wanted someone to go to lunch with and wasn't taking no for an answer.  She grinned.  How typical.  Why couldn't he just spit it out?  Trust him to be so oblique!  But then he always did like playing chess, leaving clues, doing things in a tortuous way.

      On impulse she dialled his number and waited.  In the silver-grey street expensive cars gleamed like a row of pearls on a strip of black velvet as they waited for the lights to change.

      "Hiya Hon," he said.

      "Listen I was just wondering, would you like to meet up for lunch?" she said, squinting up at the white sky.

      Silence.

      "Lyn?"

      "I'm here, Hon.  I guess that would be a fine idea.  When were you thinking?"

      "Oh, I don't know.  When are you free?"

      "Not this week.  I don't have a single lunch date free.  You could say I'm all tied up.  If I'd have known earlier..."

      "Next week, then?"

      "Can we discuss it tonight, Hon?" 

      Dropping her phone back into her bag, she frowned.  Now what?  She didn't believe for one moment that in his perfectly tidy, well-organised study, the only piece of paper lying on the floor would be an advert unless he'd planned it that way.  No, she knew Lyndon.  He had gone out of his way to demonstrate that he would take someone else to lunch if she wouldn't come.  But now that she was offering to go to lunch, he didn't have time.

      Still, she thought, it was just as well because if she disappeared off to lunch today the Halloween party wouldn't get organised, Bella Dance would hate her forever, the kids would probably drown in salty Bulgarian sobs, and as for the office!  Lyndon had waited this long, so he could wait a week longer.  Just until school went back and work settled down a bit.  Then she'd deal with him.

      She glanced at her watch wondering if she might just be in time to catch Barbara.  Probably.  It wasn't late; only 9.15.  She shook her hair out, made a useless attempt to rub the mud off her fingers and crossed the road.  As she went into Bill and Ted’s, she gave herself a quick glance in the glittery ballroom mirrored facade.  She looked dreadful.  But then she had been up half the night typing.  She edged past the queues of people buying bread into the café at the back. 

      Barbara was tucked into her favourite morning coffee seat at the table in the far corner.  Surprised and pleased, she waved her ruby fingernails at Suzy, cleared a stack of expensive carrier bags onto the floor and signalled to the waiter for another cappuccino.

      “Hi,” panted Suzy, sitting down.

      “What a good thing you turned up.  Look what I got for Mikey.  A football strip.  You did say fancy dress for this Halloween bash, didn’t you?  Yes.  Well.  He might have freckles and bottle-bottom glasses but he’s coming as David Beckham; he's as deluded as his father!”  Barbara suddenly sat up straight and batted her eyelashes at the counter. 

      Suzy twisted round to see an extremely young and pretty boy advancing with their coffee.

      "Behave yourself!”

      "Molto grazi," said Barbara huskily, propping her chin on her hands and gazing into the waiter's dark eyes.  He blushed and retreated.

      “Cute arse,” said Barbara lustfully.

      "What would you do if Hank refused to take you out for lunch?" said Suzy playing with the sugar lumps.

      "Run up flags," said Barbara.  "Why?"

      "You wouldn't think he was up to something?"

      Barbara laughed out loud.  "Hank?  Up to something?  You mean another woman?  Not a hope!  Why?  Is Lyndon playing away?"

      "He says he's all tied up."

      "He's a dark horse..."

      "No, I don't mean that.  As if!" said Suzy, still playing with the sugar.  "But if he did... do you think it would be serious?  I mean should I do something?"

      "What?  Like follow him?  Find out what he's up to?  Hack into his computer?”

      “He's not meeting a computer for lunch...”

      “Oh well.  Hack into it anyway.  Just on principle.”

      “Yuk,” said Suzy stirring her coffee.  “I’ve put loads too much sugar in this, it’s revolting now.”

      “Order another one then.  What about trolling off to meet him in disguise?  Wearing a fright wig and coloured contacts!”  Barbara honked with laughter.  “Perhaps you could wear a veil!”

      Suzy didn't answer.  Her eyes slightly glazed, she fixed them on the distant sight of Blanche leaning casually in a doorway.  She was wearing a wasp-waisted jacket and a narrow pencil skirt; a shiny pill-box perched over one eye and a little scrap of gauze obscured most of her face except for a perfect bow of cherry lipstick.  The coat and the jacket gaped open displaying her perfect cleavage.

      Confident in her disguise as Parisian streetwalker, Blanche took a long slow draw on her Sobrani Black Russian and watched the beautiful man in the raincoat cross the street, drops of water sparkling on his shoulders as he ducked into the dim bar to meet...

      “Hello?  Calling Mars...!”

      Suzy blinked.  “Sorry.  What were you saying?”

      “You’ll have to tackle him about it.  You can’t afford to hang about, you know.  What if some young sex-pot is trying to seduce him?  He's a bloody handsome man you know.  Sexy as Hell.”

      “Mmm,” said Suzy nodding vaguely.  “What?  Oh, it wasn't Lyndon... I was only wondering...  But, you know... I’ve got to go.”

      “What!” said Barbara.  “Aren't you going to drink your coffee?  Where are you going?”

      Suzy stood up and started putting her coat on.  “Shopping.  Ring you later.”

      Barbara made as if to follow her but spotting the waiter coming back in their direction, subsided.  “Oh well, I might just stay here for a bit.  Have another coffee...  Don’t forget keep fit tonight!”

      Pulling her coat belt tight round her waist and wishing she was wearing sunglasses, Suzy walked decisively through the coffee shop, past the patisserie display and back out onto the rue de Tongres.  She crossed the road without a second glance and ducked back into the newsagent’s where she bought a block of violet notepaper with matching envelopes. 

      She then took a cab straight to the office where she sat down at her desk, smoothed out the advert and read it again.  If he wouldn't meet her for lunch, perhaps he'd meet someone else?  Someone who responded to his advert?  Someone whose carelessly-crossed legs revealed black stocking tops and a slash of creamy flesh. 

      Using a paper knife she slit the wrapper on the violet notepaper, pulled a sheet out and placed it on top of her mouse mat.  She wriggled her toes and closed her eyes.  La, la, la... she picked up a pen.  KISS, she told herself.  Keep It Simple Stupid.  Nothing personal, nothing incriminating, nothing serious... just a friendly reply.  She nodded, unscrewed the cap of her fountain pen and wrote in formal italics, “I’m not only curious, but have a tendency to work too hard.  I wonder if that’s also the case with you?”

      She hesitated again.  Miss X?  An admirer?  Rubbish.  She scrawled just one word.  "Blanche."

      Then she hesitated again.  Email address?  Phone number?  PO Box?  Dead drop?  The last two words conjured up a whole picture in her imagination.  There he was sitting insouciant in a smoke-filled café, picking up the newspaper lying beside him, and a few minutes later, leaving with it casually tucked under his arm.  She could smell coffee grounds and wine stains and see, through the smeary window, his beautiful long legs striding along the pavement towards the subway.  His feet crunched on the frost underfoot, his breath steamed in the autumn chill as she watched from behind the blacked-out lenses of a pair of photographic sunglasses supplied by central office.

      Hotmail, she decided with a little pout.  Mustn't get carried away.  With a quick glance over her shoulder, she brought the site up on her screen and created a new email address.  

      “Suzy, have you sorted the horse vax report?” asked the Grey Lizard in his dry leaf voice.  “We don’t want to be late with it.  Not this time.”

      His voice made Suzy jump.  “Well, I’m not actually working this week,” she reminded him.  “I’ve only come in to sort out my desk and check my email.”

      “One wouldn’t have noticed the difference,” he said in his deadly quiet voice.

      “Okay, I’ll chase it up,” she said brightly.  “It’s with Veronica.  I’ll get her push it through to trannies asap.”

      “Just don’t forget!” he said disagreeably, and rustled off again.  Then he poked his back round the door.  “Rather bright lipstick, by the way.”

      Suzy looked at his departing back.  Was she wearing lipstick?  She rummaged through her top drawer for a mirror but it had gone walkies, which meant she’d better check the biscuit supplies.  "That’s the worst of offices," she muttered.  "People don’t care whose biccies they nick."

      This pretending to be a spy business was getting out of hand.  Having finished sellotaping her Jaffa Cakes safely into their box and hiding them at the back of the filing cabinet, Suzy dropped the mauve writing paper and envelopes into the bin.  Time to pull herself together.

      Absent-mindedly eating a biscuit, she clicked through the screens, googled Lyndon, and came up with notes on a series of talks he’d given on cross-cultural communication.  Completely boring.  What else?  A bunch of links to universities where he’d designed intranet systems to increase synergies across research disciplines.  Completely meaningless.  Nothing at all. 

      She googled ACCA, just idle curiosity.  Just wondering what ACCA really did.  She licked the chocolate off her fingers.  The search came up completely blank.  Strange.  Did that mean it didn't exist?  At which moment she noticed a disc from Deryck in her top drawer.  She shoved it into the machine and read the note he'd left her. 

      “Sorry to dump this on you, but I’m sure you’ll be able to sort it out.  If you get stuck try the Schools Safety Assn w/site for bumf.  See ya, D.”

      Bloody Hell!  Suzy flipped through the document.  It was practically endless.  Well over 200 pages.  Nightmare.  The working title?  "Safety in the Pencil Case: a modern risk assessment of school equipment for primary ages."  Glue sniffing, craft knife blades, ink pen tattoos, the dangers of swallowing rubbers and of blades being removed from pencil sharpeners, not to mention the possibly-fatal results of a compass falling into the wrong juvenile hands.  She shook her head in disbelief.  The money people were paid to research and write this crap!  Incredible. 

      She hiked the disc out of the machine, dropped it into her bag and made her escape before the Grey Lizard could come rustling back with another complaint.

      Stepping out into the street, she glanced casually up the road.  There it was.  Nice Belgian post box with bugle on the front.  No reason why she shouldn't mail a letter.  No-one was watching.  No-one was following.  It would be safe.  She just had to slip her hand into her pocket... Who was that?

      An old woman shuffling past with an obese poodle.  Was she a watcher?  It was impossible to tell.  Blanche walked on.  Should she take a chance or play it safe?  To Hell with it.  If the Hotmail address were compromised, she only had to create a new one.  She shrugged slightly, turned on her heel and retraced her steps pulling the letter out of her pocket as she did so.  At the letterbox, she dropped the violet envelope into the slot as casually as if it were a phone bill.  Mission accomplished.

      Back at home, Suzy sniffed dubiously at Hammy's cage, picking out the green pellets and stuffing dandelions through the bars.  From his plastic nest, Judy’s absurdly over-fed hamster watched and waited, his evil eyes gleaming as he awaited the chance to bite her.

      “Don’t even think about it,” Suzy told him, “or I’ll shoot you.”

      Then Deryck rang.  “Where have you been?  I’ve been ringing all morning.  You are supposed to be working this week you know, even if you aren’t in the office.”

      “Sorry, Deryck.  I did go into the office actually - to pick up my mail and push the horse vax document through.  What’s the problem?”

      “The clients are jumping up and down for the paving stones...”

      “You had it first thing this morning," said Suzy hurrying upstairs to her sewing room and waking up her computer.  "I sent it to you before breakfast.”

      “But I can’t open it.  It’s come through in some weird format.  And the deadline for the horse vax has come forward to Friday.  You do know that, don’t you?  You have read your emails this morning, haven’t you?  You’re supposed...”

      “I’ll re-send, okay?”

      She put the phone down, and re-saved the paving stones document in rtf thinking that even he would be able to open that... and then the phone rang again.

      “Oh hello,” said Penelope.  “I do hope I’m not disturbing you?  I know you working girls...”

      “Penny.  What can do for you?”

      “Well, I just wondered... it’s about Klaudia’s party.  Is dear little Judy wearing jods?”

      “I’m not sure.  Can I get back to you?”

      Suzy put the phone down, clicked on sent emails just to check that Deryck’s email had actually gone, and then the phone went again.  It was her mother asking if she had any plans for Christmas.  Suzy obediently invited her and daddy to come for the whole two weeks, and then Caroline rang asking if mother had phoned and whether she had asked her for Christmas.  And by the time Suzy had invited her to come for the whole fortnight too, Barbara was on the phone.

      “Where did you run off to this morning?  What shopping?  Oh, all right!  I don’t know why you insist on working.  Lyndon must be earning a packet!  Sorry!  Tippy tip toes.  I’ll let you get on with it.”

      And then again.  “Mrs Lysle?  Yes, Bella Dance here.  You haven’t forgotten about the prawn pincers, have you?  I’m so sorry to nag, I know how busy you must be.  Yes, because level 2 tap are getting really good at the Yellow Submarine number, but they’ll have to practice with the gloves before the show.  Absolutely.  Samples would be super.”

      Turning the phones off and the answer-phone on, Suzy emailed the curb stones document out again in word, emailed the horse vax author with a contents list, wrote a note to remind herself to ring Klaudia’s mother, and got stuck into the scarlet oven gloves. 

      She was still busily snipping when Petya came in sobbing like a road drill and hoovered the hall until Suzy couldn’t stand the row any more.  So she went downstairs, turned the hoover off, sat Petya down at the kitchen table and made some coffee.

      “Come on.  Spit it out,” she said, emptying a packet of ginger nuts onto a plate.  “What’s he done now?”

      “Panti slipping!  I heff no Panti!  He goink back to Sofia!  But he don care, he's asleeping.”

      Poor Petya couldn’t see for misery.  “I kent go back alone...”  She broke into fresh sobs and buried her face in a drying up cloth. 

      Suzy winced, guiltily thinking that it would take ages to boil the mascara stains out, and that last time even boiling hadn’t done the trick which meant that Lyndon’s efficient mother had found black smears on her crystal champagne flutes when she was over from the States.

      “How ken I go beck to Sofia?  No job, no Panti, no nothink?”

      Suzy rescued the drying up cloth, and replaced it with a roll of kitchen towel.  “You don’t have to go back.  You can stay here as long as you like.”

      “A nenny!” sobbed Petya.

      “Well, why don’t you find some other job?”

      Petya shook her head.

      Suzy patted her shoulder.  “I’m sure... um, well I could probably help... with papers and you know...”

      Petya sniffed and sipped at her black coffee. 

Suzy ate a ginger nut.  “Got it, Petya!  Why don’t you have a word with Hank?  I’m sure he must know the people in the film department at the university.  Perhaps he can do something?”

      Petya sniffed and fiddled with a biscuit.

      Suzy glanced at her watch. “Look, I’m sorry but I’ve got to fetch the kids.  No, you stay here.  I’ll go.  You can’t go looking like that.  They’ll think I’ve been beating you up.”

      She hauled a couple of pizzas out of the freezer and then the phone rang again.

      It was Lyndon.  “Hi, Hon.  How you doing?”

      “Fine,” she said, giving Petya an encouraging smile.  “How are you?”

      “Great.  About this morning, I just wondered, seeing as you’re not working this week...”

      “I’m working at home because it’s half term.”

      “I just thought, actually, I could make time to meet for lunch.  Maybe a quick omelette?”

      “What, now?”

      “No... in twenty minutes, say?”

      “Oh!"  She bit her lip and glanced at Petya, who had just dropped her untouched biscuit on the table.  "Could be tricky.”

      “Don’t worry about it," said Lyndon.  "See you this evening."

      He rang off and she frowned.  She had just missed her chance to... what?  Make Lyndon happy?  Stop him playing games?  Have lunch with him?  Petya’s head hit the table like a stone.

      “Petya, are you all right?  Listen, I’ve got to go.  I’m going to be terribly late.  Can you just tip some salad into a bowl and heat these pizzas up?”

      Petya made a noise like a dying chicken. 

      “Good girl.”  Giving her a quick hug, Suzy left her wiping mascara off her cheeks with thin fingers and went off to collect Ricky and Judy from their circus workshop.

      “Lyndon, oh Lyndon...” she muttered to herself as she drove through the traffic.  “If you could just see me.  You know, with the best will in the world I really don’t have time for a lunchtime egg and beer fest today.”

      She jumbled through her bag for her GSM and phoned him back.  “Hi,” she said.  “No.  I just wanted to say I would like to... could we do tomorrow?  It’s just that...”

      “I know," he interrupted.  "You have the kids, the house, your work, the party... you’re busy and I should have thought about that before...”

      “Oh, don’t.  I’m being hassled at work by that creepy Grey Lizard too.  He hates me working flexi anyway, and as for working at home, he thinks that means lying on the sofa painting my nails.  I just know it was him put Deryck up to being so picky and the stupid prawn claws...”

      “Whoa there, Honey.  I'm going dizzy!"

      "Don't laugh."

      "It was only an idea.  I understand completely...”

      “I’ll have more time after Christmas.  Once the kids have gone back to school and we’ve got all the decorations down...”

      “You’ll be doing ice carvings with the Brownies and reclaiming the pavements for stick insects,” he said.  “Listen Honey, forget it.  It was stupid idea.”

      “Can we talk about it tonight?”

      “Sure.  See you later.”

      He rang off, and she toshed her phone back into her bag as she accelerated.  Ricky hated her being late.  He said it made the other kids give him pitying looks.

      She fought her way through the traffic and made it back to the house with Ricky and Judy gibbering on the back seat about diabolos and metre-high walking globes.  She herded them upstairs from the basement garage, realised that Petya hadn't moved a muscle, shoved the pizzas into the oven and set the timer.  Rapidly laying the table and tipping salad into a bowl she muttered, "I got a degree in fashion history and cutting in order to end up glittering oven gloves." 

      Because degree or not, she could see it was going to take most of the day to finish the claws, and it wouldn't be made any easier by two kids running in hyper-excited circles and Petya sitting in a blue mist at the kitchen table.

      “Mom!  Judy’s throwing peanuts at me!”

      “Behave, Judy.”

      “Mom, Judy’s tearing the Bulletin up!”

      “Be good, darling.”

      “Mommy, Ricky’s feeding his salad to Hammy!”

      “Don’t do that, Ricky-dear.  Judy, upstairs and wash your hands now.”

      While they were eating lunch, Suzy explained the Halloween banner to Petya; it would be hung right across the hall, between the banisters and the double doors into the dining room so as to welcome guests to the party.  Swallowing the last of her pizza, she poured herself a coffee and pointed at the carrier bag of materials she’d bought that morning.  “Look, there you are.  Everything.  Glue, felt, glitter, markers, stencils...”

      She retreated to her sewing room and miraculously the phone didn’t ring that afternoon.  Even the noises floating up from the kitchen were more contented giggling than squabbling over hairy spiders, so that by 4 o-clock Suzy had finished all the prawn pincers and piled them back into their cardboard box.

      Suddenly seized with desire to collect her brownie points in person rather than have them relayed by Petya, she decided to drop them over to Bella Dance herself.  Apart from anything else, the drive out to Tervuren would give her some peace and quiet and as it was half term, the traffic wouldn't be as bad as usual.

      She lugged the box of claws downstairs, shoved it onto the back seat of the car and launched into the gloom.  It was drizzling outside and the roads were covered in some sort of foam which was apparently supposed to un-stick the chestnut shells from the tarmac.  She accelerated down the avenue de Tervuren and made a mental note to check Blanche's Hotmail address.  A little tingle of excitement ran up her spine.  Not, of course, that she thought she'd get a reply.

      Blanche on the other hand, had no doubts.  The mere fact of her wanting a reply would ensure one.  No man ever turned her down.  No man ever failed to respond.   In fact, men had been fainting at the mere sight of her since her 16th birthday. 

      Suzy grinned and flexed her elegant long fingers.  Shadows and lights chased each other over her face as she crossed the Ring and headed through the woods.  How would she react to Lyndon's reply?  Her eyes sparkling, she carved through the traffic and arrived at Bella Dance's feeling breathless and slightly drunk.

      But the lights were off, the house was empty.  She chewed her lip.  How stupid.  She should have phoned first.  Now she'd have to come back tomorrow.  She stepped back from the front door and looked up and down the street.  Was there a neighbour who might help?  Or... what was this?  Bella Dance's garage.

      Walking so lightly that her feet were almost not touching the ground, Blanche trod over the gravel.  She didn't make a sound.  No curtain twitched.  At the garage doors, her x-ray vision scanned the lock and she realized with satisfaction that the side door was open.  Her breathing so shallow that no-one would ever hear it, Blanche slipped her gloves on and turned the handle.  The door opened and she slowly placed the cardboard box of bombs disguised as theatrical props into the dark gap.

      With one pointed toe she edged the box forward until the blackness swallowed it up.  "Doucement!" she breathed.  "One false move and the whole thing will go off..."

      As soon as there was room to do so, she eased the door closed, returned to her car and left the scene.  All her movements were unhurried, relaxed, and casual.  It wouldn't do to arouse desire.  Suspicion.  Her beautiful cruel hands caressed the wheel as she drove smoothly through the woods again, back into the centre of Brussels...

      The phone rang and Suzy shook her head.

      "Allo?  Oui?" she said, checking the mirror for police cars.

      "Bella Dance here..."

      "I've just left them in your garage," she said briskly.  "All finished and done.  Must dash!"

      She turned the phone off and put her foot down.  She'd wasted so much time messing about with the exploding claws that it was too late to go to Carrefour.  She'd have to do that tomorrow.  Still, she'd have time to do the other shopping on her list - the new watch battery for Lyndon, and Judy's favourite special sausages with tomato and basil that you could only buy from the specialist sausage shop. 

      And she'd have to skedaddle so as not to be late with the kids’ tea or Lyndon’s supper because she still had to pick Barbara up and take her to Poseidon for le stretching douce.

      Which turned out to be hysterical.  Barbara emerged from her front door dressed like a woman prepared for the guillotine, her hair neatly tied back, no jewellery, hardly any make-up and all in black. 

      Although, thought Suzy, doesn’t one wear white in a tumbril?  Nothing but a simple lawn shift and a noble expression?  Possibly a small leather-bound Bible...

      Marie Antoinette's neck was bare in the chill and lonely early-morning mist, her fragile shoulders carrying a weight which would soon be lifted from them forever, her brow clear...

      “Hiya.  Ready?” said Barbara, bouncing into the passenger seat beside Suzy.

      “Sure,” said Suzy putting the car into gear.  “Let’s get to it.”

      “You know I really do need to tone up,” said Barbara, pinching her rock-hard thighs.  “Look!  It’s disgusting...”

      Suzy smiled and concentrated on driving without allowing her imagination to take over and without fantasising about Lyndon's reply to her letter.  Once they got to the sports centre and found a parking place, Barbara got out of the car and stretched, her body twisting from one side to another like a cat’s.

      “I don’t see what you’ve got to worry about,” said Suzy.  “You look great.  In fact, you’ll be making them all wonder how you got that thin without coming to keep fit before.”

      “Not true, Suze, but thank you all the same.”  They paid and walked through into the aerobics studio.  “Oh my God!” muttered Barbara, checking in the doorway.  “What’s she doing?”

      It was Marta, putting her heels on the nape of her neck.

      “Just showing off,” drawled Suzy.

      Barbara flicked Suzy a mad look.  “But we won’t have to do anything like that, will we?”  she whispered.  “If they make me do that, I’ll snap.”

      Suzy rolled her eyes.  “Why don’t you exaggerate, for a change?”

      “Oh, my God!” breathed Barbara suddenly.  “Is that the teacher?  But he’s gorgeous!  I wonder if I could get nearer the front?”

      Suzy laughed.  She was glad to see Barbara on form, all scintillating and sparkly with transient lust, but there was no way she was going to expose her own comfortably rounded buttocks to the derision of the class, so she stayed at the back with the other slackers and watched in admiration as Barbara cork-screwed with the best of them.

      She told Lyndon about it when she got home which made him laugh. 

      “But you’re not allowed to say anything to her,” she warned him.

      “Nothing at all?  At any time?  Not even in supervised, tightly-controlled, social scenarios where my mute condition would cause intense speculation amongst our mutual friends?”

      “You idiot, you know I didn’t mean that!”

      She melted against him on the sofa where he was flipping between CNN and BBC World waiting for the film.

      "You know, I’ve still got some work to do,” she said, putting her head on his shoulder.

      “Not tonight, surely, Hon?” said Lyndon absent-mindedly putting his arm round her. 

      She curled her knees up, leaned into the side of his chest and tried not to yawn as the opening frames of Death on the Nile rolled across the screen and Lyndon patted her shoulder.

      "Another great mystery," he murmured.  

      She smiled and tilted her head up to look into his eyes and he looked down at her and smiled back.  Then he dropped a light kiss onto her mouth before turning back to the film. 

      Tomorrow, she promised herself, she'd get it together.  Tomorrow she'd stop thinking about getting a reply to her violet note, she'd catch up all her stupid documents, sort the kids, deal with Petya, arrange every single detail of the party and she'd spring clean the house, just for the pure pleasure of it.  But for tonight she would watch tv with Lyndon.

      She smiled, yawned, and was asleep before the first murder.