Jasper Fforde - Lost in a Good Book

‘It’s an onion,’ I said in a loud voice.

There was a stunned silence. Several of the art critics looked at me, then at Duchamp 2924, then at the onion.

I was sort of hoping the critics would say something like. ‘We’d like to thank you for bringing this to our attention. We nearly made complete dopes of ourselves’, but they didn’t. They just said:

‘Is this true?’

To which Duchamp 2924replied that this was true in fact , but untrue representationally , and as if to reinforce the fact he drew a bunch of shallots from within his jacket and added:

‘I have here another piece I’d like you to see. It’s called The id within II (grouped) , and is a collection of concentric three-dimensional shapes locked around a central core…’

Cordelia pulled me away as the critics craned forward with renewed interest.

‘You seem very troublesome tonight, Thursday.’ She smiled. ‘Come on, I want you to meet someone.’

She introduced me to a young man with a well-tailored suit and well-tailored hair.

‘This is Harold Flex,’ announced Cordelia. ‘Harry is Lola Vavoom’s agent and a big cheese in the film industry.’

Flex shook my hand gratefully and told me how fantastically humbled he was to be in my presence.

‘Your story needs to be told, Miss Next,’ enthused Flex, ‘and Lola is very enthusiastic.’

‘Oh, no,’ I said hurriedly, realising what was coming. ‘No, no. Not in a million years.’

‘You should hear Harry out, Thursday,’ pleaded Cordelia. ‘He’s the sort of agent who could cut a really good financial deal for you, do a fantastic PR job for SpecOps and make sure your wishes and opinions in the whole story were vigorously listened to.’

‘A movie’’ I asked incredulously. ‘Are you nuts? Didn’t you see The Adrian Lush Show ? SpecOps and Goliath would pare the story to the bone!’

‘We’d present it as fiction , Miss Next,’ explained Flex. ‘We’ve even got a title. The Eyre Affair . What do you think?’

‘I think you’re both out of your tiny minds. Excuse me.’

I left Dilly and Mr Flex plotting their next move in low voices and went to find Bowden, who was staring at a dustbin full of paper cups.

‘How can they present this as art?’ he asked. ‘It looks just like a rubbish bin!’

‘It is a rubbish bin,’ I replied. ‘That’s why it’s next to the refreshments table.’

‘Oh!’ he said, then asked me how the press conference went.

‘Kaine is fishing for votes,’ he told me when I had finished. ‘Got to be. A hundred million might buy you some serious airtime for advertising but putting Cardenio in the public domain could sway the Shakespeare vote—that’s one group of voters you can’t buy.’

I hadn’t thought of this.

‘Anything else?’

Bowden unfolded a piece of paper.

‘Yes. I’m trying to figure out the running order for my stand-up comedy routine tomorrow night.’

‘How long is your slot?’

‘Ten minutes.’

‘Let me see.’

He had been trying out his routine on me, although I protested that I probably wasn’t the best person to ask. Bowden himself didn’t find any of the jokes funny, although he understood the technical process involved.

‘I’d start off with the penguins on the ice floe,’ I suggested, looking at the list as Bowden made notes, ‘then move on to the pet centipede. Try the white horse in the pub next and if that works well do the tortoise that gets mugged by the snails—but don’t forget the voice; then move on to the dogs in the waiting room at the vet’s and finish with the one about meeting the gorilla.’

‘What about the lion and the baboon?’

‘Good point. Use that instead of the white horse if the centipede goes flat.’

Bowden made a note.

‘Centipede… goes… flat. Got it. What about the man going bear-hunting? I told that to Victor and he sprayed Earl Grey out of both nostrils at once.’

‘Keep it for an encore. It’s three minutes long on its own—but don’t hurry. Let it build—then again, if your audience is middle-aged and a bit fuddy-duddy I’d drop the bear, baboon and the dogs and use the greyhound and the racehorses instead—or the one about the two Rolls-Royces.’

‘Canapés?’ said Mum, offering me a plate.

‘Got any more of those prawny ones?’

‘I’ll go and see.’

I followed her into the vestry, where she and several other members of the Women’s Federation were getting food ready.

‘Mum, Mum,’ I said, following her to where the profoundly deaf Mrs Higgins was laying doilies on plates, ‘I must talk to you.’

‘I’m busy, sweetness.’

‘It’s very important.’

She stopped doing what she was doing, put everything down and steered me to the corner of the vestry, just next to a worn stone effigy, reputedly a follower of St Zvlkx.

‘What’s the problem that’s more important than canapés, o daughter-my-daughter?’

‘Well,’ I began, unsure of how to put it, ‘remember you said how you wanted to be a grandmother?’

‘Oh, that, ’ she said, laughing, ‘I’ve known you’ve had a bun in there for a while—I was just wondering when you were going to tell me.’

‘Wait a minute!’ I said, feeling suddenly cheated. ‘You’re meant to be all surprised and tearful.’

‘Done that, darling. Can I be so indelicate as to ask who the father is?’

‘My husband, I hope—and before you ask, the ChronoGuard eradicated him.’

She gave me a hug.

‘Now that I can understand. Do you ever see him in the sort of way I see your father?’

‘No,’ I replied miserably, ‘he’s only in my memories.’

‘Poor little duck!’ exclaimed my mother, giving me another hug. ‘But thank the Lord for small mercies—at least you get to remember him. Many of us never do—just vague feelings of something that might have been. You must come along to Eradications Anonymous with me one evening. Believe me, there are more Lost Ones than you might imagine.’

I’d never really talked about Dad’s eradication with my mother. All her friends had assumed my brothers and I had been fathered by youthful indiscretions. To my highly principled mother this had been almost as painful as Dad’s eradication. I’m not really one for any organisation with ‘anonymous’ in the title, so I decided to backtrack slightly.

‘How did you know I was pregnant?’ I asked as she rested her hand on mine and smiled kindly.

‘Could spot it a mile off. You’ve been eating like a horse and staring at babies a lot. When Mrs Pilchard’s little cousin Henry came round last week you could hardly keep your hands off him.’

‘Aren’t I like that usually?’

‘Not even remotely. You’re filling out along the bustline too—that dress has never looked so good on you. When’s sprogging time? July?’

I paused as a wave of despondency washed over me, brought on by the sheer inevitability of motherhood. When I first knew about it Landen had been with me and everything seemed that much easier.

‘Mum, what if I’m no good at it? I don’t know the first thing about babies. I’ve spent my working life chasing after bad guys. I can field-strip an M16 blindfold, replace an engine in an APC and hit a two-pence piece from thirty yards eight times out of ten. I’m not sure a cot by the fireside is really my sort of thing.’

‘It wasn’t mine either,’ confided my mother, smiling kindly. ‘It’s no accident that I’m a dreadful cook. Before I met your father and had you and your brothers I worked at SO-3. Still do, on occasions.’