Ruth Rendell - Adam And Eve And Pinch Me

“I don’t want you taking those papers in there this morning, my deah, and that’s that. I want them for Corinne. She’s stopped taking a Sunday paper and I’m sure your own daughter’s got more right than the woman next door.”

“And for another,” said Laf, “you want to keep up this row you’re having, though God knows why you do, with a poor girl who’s daft as a brush and doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going.”

“I like ‘girl,’ I really do. Minty Knox is a mere nine years younger than I am, as you surely should know. As for ‘daft,’ she knows how to borrow a person’s clothes and accuse her of keeping a dirty home. And I’ll tell you something else, she’s enough sense to wear a money belt under her clothes. I saw it when she tried my dress on, a bag on a belt round her waist.”

“Well, good luck to her. It’s a pity more women don’t in a neighborhood like this. There wouldn’t be so many handbags snatched and muggings and all. As soon as I’ve got my things on, I’m going to take that page you want for Corinne out of the paper and pop the rest round to Minty. Bury the hatchet, that’s what I say.”

“If you do that, Sergeant Lafcadio Wilson, you can find someone else to cook your roast pork for Sunday lunch. I shall take myself round to Daniel and Lauren and my dear little granddaughter. So you’ve been warned.”

The more she thought about it, the more Minty wanted to see the Mail and the Mirror . No one would take all those photographs if they didn’t mean to get them in the papers and one of them might have Jock in it, must have, even if in shadowy or transparent form. It would be proof to show people, she thought vaguely, people like those Wilsons and maybe Josephine. When she’d stuck the knife into Jock she’d seen Josephine looking at her under that big black hat as if she were mad, an awful stare with her lip curled up.

When it got to half past midday and Laf still hadn’t come, Minty washed her hands, put her coat on, and went round to the paper shop, the one opposite the cemetery gates. There she bought three Sunday papers. Going home, she passed Laf and Sonovia’s gate and smelled the rich, savory aroma of roasting pork, inviting for others but enough to make Minty shudder. She dragged her thoughts away from the bubbling fat, the spitting crackling, and the browning potatoes-you could never get a roasting pan really clean-and went indoors and washed her hands. Maybe she’d have another bath in a minute.

That the papers contained no pictures of Josephine’s wedding, not only none of Jock taking his seat in the empty chair but none at all, was a bitter disappointment. Minty had to content herself with front-page photographs (and more inside) of someone called James Melcombe-Smith MP to a Ms. Zillah Leach. The bit of print underneath said,

James Melcombe-Smith (30), Conservative member for South Wessex, marries his childhood sweetheart Zillah Leach (27) at the chapel of St. Mary Undercroft in the Palace of Westminster. A likely candidate for promotion when the party leader reshuffles the shadow cabinet, Mr. Melcombe-Smith and his bride will defer their honeymoon in the Maldives until the House of Commons gets up for Easter on 20 April.

Minty wasn’t very interested in any of that but she admired the bride’s looks, considering her far prettier and better-dressed in her ivory slipper satin with cream and crimson orchids than Josephine in that ugly bright red. Josephine’s glare and curling lip still rankled, and Minty felt resentful. She turned to the inside page but it only showed this Melcombe-Smith person walking about in the country with a gun and the bride grinning like mad in a dirty old sweater with her hair all over the place, under a completely incomprehensible heading: OUTING? WHO HAS THE LAST LAUGH NOW?

The trouble with some newspapers was that the ink came off all over your hands. Minty went upstairs and had a bath. Jock’s ghost would be back. If not today, tomorrow-and if not tomorrow, next week. Because she hadn’t killed it. That dinner knife was a hopeless weapon. It simply made a ghost slip away for a while, escape, like any live person would when a weapon was waved at it. Next time she must be ready with one of the long, sharp knives if she wanted to be rid of him forever.

A PRODUCTION COMPANY had asked Matthew to go on a program it was making for BBC2 Television. It was to be called Living on Air or something like that, and he was to be-well-the star, really. That is, he was to talk to people with problems similar to his own, interview them, and point up the differences between disparate attitudes to food. They’d make a pilot, and if that was a success it might lead to a series. Michelle was delighted. Matthew was so much better-looking since he’d been on Fiona’s regime and he had such a beautiful speaking voice.

“It always reminds me of that newscaster,” said Fiona. “What’s he called? Peter Sissons.”

“They must have picked him because he sounds so nice,” said Michelle.

Fiona doubted that. They’d obviously picked him because of his column and because he looked like one of those men you saw pictures of who’d been in Japanese prisoner of war camps. But she didn’t say so. The two women were in Fiona’s conservatory, drinking chilled chardonnay, while Matthew was at his computer, writing this week’s “Anorexic’s Diary.” It was the prettier sort of conservatory, a white, curlicued crystal palace, with white cane furniture, blue cushions, a cane-and-glass table, and a great many little bonsai trees and tall ferns and spider plants in blue ceramic pots. Beyond the glass could be seen Fiona’s small walled garden in which spring flowers bloomed and a fountain played.

“Jeff will be home in a minute,” said Fiona, for all the world as if her boyfriend had a job and commuted like the neighbors. Then she went on, embarrassing Michelle, “You don’t like him, do you?”

“I don’t really know him, Fiona.” Michelle was finding this very awkward, but asked so directly, she had to speak out. “I admit I have wondered-and Matthew’s wondered-if you’re not being…well, a bit precipitate, marrying someone you’ve only known for a few months.”

Fiona didn’t seem put out. “I know that this is the man I’m certain I want to spend the rest of my life with. Please try to like him.”

He lives off you, he’s rude, he’s insincere and cruel , thought Michelle. He’s a liar . These feelings must have shown in her face, though she expressed none of them aloud, for Fiona had begun to look distressed. “When you know him better you’ll think differently, I know you will.”

“All right, my dear, I admit I don’t much care for him. No doubt it’s as much my fault as his. Since he’s going to be your husband, I’ll try to get on better with him.”

“You’re always so reasonable and fair. Have some more wine?”

Michelle let Fiona pour another inch of chardonnay into her glass. It was supposed to be fattening, but she’d noticed that most of the people whose preferred tipple it was remained disconcertingly thin. She’d been strong and not eaten a single one of the salted almonds in the dish on the table. Resigned, she asked, “Have you fixed a date for the wedding yet?”

“Believe it or not, we can’t find anywhere to have our reception. Apparently, everyone wants to get married in millennium year. It was going to be June but we’ve had to move on into August. That’s where Jeff is now, trying to find a venue.”

Surely he could have done that on the phone, thought Michelle. Still, she was delighted the wedding was to be postponed. As for trying to like him, it was more probable that every week that went by was likely to begin the eye-opening she and Matthew hoped would enlighten Fiona as to Jeff’s true nature. “Church or register office?”