“I see.”
“My motives are a little shaky, I guess.” She gave him her best winsome smile. “I just wanted a little pleasant company during the ordeal.”
“As Jesus said to Mary Magdalene.” His eyes were full of mischief.
“Maybe it’s not such a good …”
“I’d love to go,” he said.
“You’re sure, now?”
“Absolutely. It’s settled. There.” He punctuated the decision by clamping his hands to his knees.
She rose. “Great. I also thought we might have dinner together the night before. If you haven’t got plans, I mean.”
He gazed at her for a moment, then said: “Lovely.”
As she left, she could feel his eyes following her. The sensation made her almost dizzy, so she went up to the roof to collect her thoughts before facing Brian. The night was clear and rain-washed. Beneath the new streetlight on Barbary Lane, the young eucalyptus leaves seemed pale as ghosts, the gentle gray-green of weathered copper. She counted four lighted vessels gliding soundlessly across the obsidian surface of the bay. The big neon fish at Fisherman’s Wharf glowed pink above the water like a talisman from the Christians in the catacombs.
She sought out the North Star and made the only wish that came to mind.
“Let me guess.”
She flinched, startled by her husband’s voice. He stood in the doorway, smiling at her.
“God,” she said. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Hey. Sorry.” He came up behind her and kissed her neck. “You were making a wish, weren’t you?”
“None of your business, smartass.”
He chuckled, nuzzling her. “I like it when you do those little-girl things.” She grunted at him.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, still holding her. “What about Sierra City?”
“What about it?”
“For our trip.”
She drew a total blank.
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already.”
“Well, don’t make me guess.”
“This weekend,” he said. “Ethelmertz time?”
“Oh. Right.”
“Or somewhere up the coast would be just as good.”
“No. Sierra City is fine.”
“Whatever,” he said. “What’s in the bag?”
Preoccupied as she had been, she had all but forgotten about the Sani-Fem. “Oh … it’s a … never mind. You don’t wanna know.”
“Yes I do.” He took the bag from her and removed the plastic funnel. “Christ almighty. What is it?”
She snatched the Sani-Fem from his hands and marched to the bay side of the roof.
“What the hell are you doing?”
She peered down into the dark tangle of shrubbery. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Just one of my little-girl things.” She dropped her slacks and pushed her panties down.
“Mary Ann, for God’s sake …”
“Lower your voice,” she said. “You’ll attract attention.”
That Woman Again
WILFRED’S FATHER WAS BELLOWING SO FEROciously that Michael awoke from a dream about bumping into Jon at a Buckingham Palace garden party. He sat up in bed, clinging to the fantasy like a comforter, while the patriarch slammed pieces of furniture against the wall upstairs. Amidst the cacophony, he could barely discern the shrill desperation of Wilfred’s reedy, childlike voice.
“Poofter!” thundered the father. “Bleedin’ poofter … vile, filthy smut … I’ll teach you, you little …”
Something shattered against a wall.
Horror-struck, Michael jumped out of bed and slipped into Simon’s red satin bathrobe. Opening the door to the hallway, he peered warily up the staircase just as the door upstairs opened, then slammed shut. He ducked back into his apartment, easing the door shut, and waited until he heard the father’s leaden footsteps move down the stairs, through the hallway and out of the house. Hearing nothing else, he climbed halfway up the stairs and called: “Wilfred?”
No answer.
“Wilfred … are you all right?”
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me. Michael. Did he hurt you?” He continued to climb toward Wilfred’s door.
“Wait there, mate. I’ll be down in a bit. I’m all right.”
So he returned to his apartment, where he brewed a pot of coffee and waited. When Wilfred finally appeared in the doorway, grinning valiantly, he was pressing a wad of toilet paper against his temple. “Sorry about the commotion, mate.”
“Jesus,” murmured Michael. “What did he do?”
“Aw … threw me against the cupboard.”
“He threw you?”
“Is that so bleedin’ difficult? I’m not exactly Arnold Bleedin’ Schwarzenegger.”
Michael smiled at him. “C’mere. Let’s take a look at that. What did you do to piss him off, anyway?”
Wilfred came closer and lifted the wad of toilet paper. “He found me old Zipper in the dustbin.”
“He did what?”
“It’s a magazine with naked blokes.”
“Oh. Jesus, that’s gonna be a goose egg. Hang on … I’ve got some alcohol and Band-Aids in my travel kit.” He found what he needed, then returned, dabbing the kid’s forehead as he asked: “You read that stuff?”
Wilfred was aghast at his ignorance. “They’re for wanking, mate, not reading.”
Michael smiled. “I stand corrected.”
“You never bought one?”
“Oh, sure. It’s pretty popular at home right now. It’s a lot safer to have sex with a magazine. Does that sling?”
“Like bloody hell,” said Wilfred.
“Good. It’s working. My friend Ned calls it periodical sex. I always thought that was kind of cute.” He pressed the “flesh-colored” Band-Aid into place, noting the careless injustice of that expression. “There. Almost good as new.”
Wilfred sniffed the air. “Is that coffee?”
“Sure. Want a cup?”
“Super,” said Wilfred.
Bringing him the coffee, Michael asked: “Got plans for the day?”
The kid shrugged.
“Great. Then take me to Harrods.”
“Are you serious?”
“Sure. I need to buy some things for my friends back home.”
So Wilfred obliged and led him to the princely department store, where Michael stocked up on treasures from the royal kitsch section: Prince William egg cups. Princess Diana dish-rags. Queen Mum appointment books. He searched in vain for something with Princess Anne’s face on it, but that visage seemed of little value to the British—camp or otherwise.
As they passed through the men’s wear department, Wilfred tugged on his sleeve. “Look, mate. Princess Diana.”
“That’s O.K.,” said Michael. “I’ve already got the dish-rag.”
“No, mate. Herself.” He jerked his head toward a svelte blonde who stood at the counter examining a pair of men’s pajamas. She was wearing a pale gray cashmere sweater above a pink floral Laura Ashley skirt. There were discreet little pearls at her ears and throat, and her feet were encased in black patent pumps.
Michael ducked behind a pillar and signaled Wilfred to join him.
The kid giggled. “Hey, mate, it isn’t really …”
“Shhh. Don’t let her see you.”
Hugely amused, Wilfred whispered: “Its just a Sloane Ranger.”
“A what?”
“A twitzy-twee bitch. They shop in Sloane Square. They all try to look like …”
“Wilfred, gel back here!”
“Have you gone …?”
“I know her,” Michael whispered. “At least, I think I do. She looks a lot like an old friend of mine.”
Wilfred rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you ask her, then?”
“I tried that once and she ran away.”
“When?”
“About a week ago. On Hampstead Heath. Oh, God …
has she left yet?”
“Not yet. The shop assistant is showing her some more pajamas.”
Michael strained to hear her voice, but it was obliterated by the stately din of the department store. “This is insane,” he murmured. “She must be in deep trouble.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Why wouldn’t she speak to me? Something is horribly wrong,”
Wilfred shrugged. “She looks all right to me.”
“I know,” said Michael. “That’s what’s wrong.”
The kid peered around the pillar again. “She’s leaving now. What are you gonna do?”
“Jesus. If she sees me, we may lose her for good.”
“What if I follow her? She won’t recognize me.”
“I don’t know….”
“A wog would scare her off, eh?”
Michael frowned at him. “She’s not like that. All right … go ahead. See what you can find out. Wait! Where should we meet?”
The kid screwed up his face in thought. “Well … the Markham Arms in Kings Road … No, it’s not Saturday.”
“Huh?”
“It’s only gay on Saturday.”
“Screw that. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”
“Right. Markham Arms, Kings Road.”
“Got it,” said Michael. “Don’t let her see you, Wilfred. Just watch what she does, O.K.?”
The kid brought his fingertips to his Band-Aid and gave a jaunty salute, already moving toward his quarry. Michael waited fifteen minutes, then left Harrods and caught a cab to the Markham Arms. The pub was full of noisy shoppers, bordering on trendy, many of whom seemed to be in flight from the first major downpour of the day. He bought a cider and wedged himself in a comer as the jukebox began to play Sting’s “Spread a Little Happiness” from Brimstone and Treacle.
Wilfred didn’t appear at the appointed time, so Michael bought another cider and a package of vinegar crisps. He chatted briefly with a handsome businessman at the bar, who looked as if he belonged there on Saturday. They were discussing Cals when Wilfred pushed his way through the crowd and shook the rain off his golden-brown locks.
“In the first place,” he announced, “she’s an American.” I knew it. What else?”
Wilfred grinned. “A stout would loosen me tongue.”
“You got it.” He signaled the bartender and ordered a Guinness and another package of crisps. “She didn’t see you, did she?”
“Don’t think so,” the kid replied. “I kept me distance. It wasn’t easy, mate. She kept a steady pace all the way.”
“Where did she go?”
“Hey … me stout.”
Michael turned and took the glass from the bartender, handing it to Wilfred. “There’s a seat over there. Shall we grab it?”
“Good idea,” the kid answered. “I’m exhausted.”
Michael said “Take care” to the businessman and followed Wilfred through the raucous mob. When they were seated, Wilfred said: “She’s a high-toned one, isn’t she? She spent the whole bleedin’ time in Beauchamp Place.”
“Where’s that?”
“Not far from Harrods. Off the Brompton Road. It’s mostly for rich people and Americans. Poncy little shops … that sort of thing.”
“Where did she go?”
“Oh … a shop called Emeline that sells jewelry. I don’t think she bought anything, but it was hard to tell. I had to watch from the street. The shop was too small to do any proper spying.”
“Good thinking.”
“Then she went to a place called Spaghetti.”
“A restaurant?”
“A dress shop. She didn’t stay long. The rain started again, so she ran along the pavement for a bit. Some bloke on a motorcycle splashed water on her dress, and she stopped and gave him the finger. Said, ‘Fuck you, mac.’ ”
Michael smiled. “It’s her, all right.”
“I waited a bit, then I tailed her into a shop called Caroline Charles. The bitch behind the counter gave me a dirty look, so I couldn’t hang around too long.”
“She didn’t say anything? My friend, I mean.”
“Not much. She bought a dress. Paid for it in cash with a great wad of bills she pulled out of her purse.”
“Did she take the dress with her?”
Wilfred shook his head. “She wanted it mailed. Said she needed it by Easter.”
“Great! Did she say where?”
“Sorry, mate. She wrote it down for the shop assistant.”
“Did you follow her?”
Wilfred shook his head. “She took a cab when she left.”
“What color was the dress?”
“Sort of pink,” answered Wilfred. “No, peach, perhaps, with big puffy sleeves. Why?”
“C’mon, kiddo. Let’s grab a cab. It’s my turn to play detective.”
Fifteen minutes later, he left Wilfred at a coffee shop in Beauchamp Place, then headed off to Caroline Charles on his own. The woman behind the counter was just as chilly as Wilfred had depicted her.
“Yes, sir. May I help you?”
“Yes, thank you. My wife just bought a dress here … about half an hour ago. An American lady in a gray sweater and pink skirt?”
“Yes.”
“A peach dress. She asked that it be shipped.”
“I recall it quite well, sir. What may I do for you?”
“Well … I know this sounds awfully silly, but she thinks she may have given you the wrong address. She’s been … uh … ill lately and she tends to be rather absentminded, and she thinks she may have given you our winter address instead of … you know … our summer one, and, well, I thought it best to check.”
The woman frowned at him.
“Frankly,” said Michael, lowering his voice to a whisper, “if I could get her off Valium, we wouldn’t have this problem. Last week she forget where she left the Bentley and it took us two days to find it.”
The saleswoman’s lip curled slightly as she pulled out the order and laid it in front of Michael. As he read it, he burned the words into his brain:
Roughton
Easley-on-Hill
Near Chipping Campden
Gloucestershire
“Good,” he said. “Everything’s in order. I guess there’s hope for the old girl yet.”
By the time he got back to the coffee shop, the address had been reduced to gibberish in his head, slithy toves gyring and gimbling in the wabe. Spotting Wilfred, he silenced him with a wave until he had a chance to write it down. Then he showed it to him.
“Make any sense?”
The kid shrugged. “Gloucestershire does. I think I’ve heard of Chipping Campden, but the rest …”
“Is Roughton the name of a person or a place?”
“Could be either, I suppose. It’s not hers?”
“Nope. Hers is Ramsey. Mona Ramsey.”
“Maybe the dress was just a gift for someone. No … that’s not likely.”
“Why not?” asked Michael. The thought had already occurred to him. If she was being kept by a wealthy benefactress, she might well pick up a little something for her.
“Well,” said Wilfred, “she tried it on, didn’t she? Unless her friend is exactly the same size.” He paused for a moment, apparently reading Michael’s mind. “She fancies girls, does she?”
He smiled at the kid. “Most of the time. She’s pretty much of a loner, though. She doesn’t trust people. She thinks life is a shit sandwich.”
“She’s right,” said Wilfred.
“She doesn’t take any guff from people. She’s like you in that respect.”
“Nothin’ wrong with that, mate.”
“I know. I could learn that talent myself. I’ve never known a Southerner who wasn’t too polite for his own good.”
“You’re from the South?”
Michael nodded.
“The Deep South?”
“Not exactly. Orlando. And stop looking at me like that. I’ve never lynched a soul.”
Wilfred smiled and butted Michael’s calf with the side of his fool. “What are you gonna do about her?”
“Well … I guess I could mail a letter to this address. Fat chance that’ll do any good, since she ran away from me on the heath.”
“Are you sure she knew it was you?”
“Positive. And I know why she ran away.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m the closest thing she’s got to a conscience.”
“And she’s doing something wrong?”
“Well … something she’s ashamed of. She’s even got a disguise for it. She doesn’t usually look like that. Her real hair is red and frizzy and she’s never worn a string of pearls in her life. Not to mention pink. ”
“You’ve known her long?”
Michael thought for a moment. “At least eight years. My landlady in San Francisco is her …” He couldn’t help chuckling, though it seemed faintly disrespectful to Mrs. Madrigal. “My landlady is her father.”
Wilfred blinked at him.
“She’s a transsexual. She used to be a man.”
“A sex change?”
Michael nodded. “You hardly ever think about that. She’s just a nice person … the kindest person I’ve ever known.” He missed her, he realized, far more than he missed his real parents.
He was tired of fretting over Mona, so they returned to Harrods and resumed shopping. Two hours later they dragged wearily into 44 Colville Crescent, laden with royal-family souvenirs. While Michael examined his treasures, Wilfred pranced about the kitchen making sandwiches.
“This tastes wonderful,” Michael mumbled, biting into a chicken-and-chutney on rye.
“Good.”
“How’s the noggin, by the way?”
“Aw … can’t even feel it.”
“Is it safe for you to go home?”
Wilfred looked up from his sandwich. “Sick o’ me, mate?”
“C’mon. I was just worried about your old man. Does he stay mad for long?”
The kid shook his head. “He doesn’t stay anything for long.”
The door buzzer sounded, causing Michael to flinch. He rose and peered through the front curtains. The caller was a woman of thirty or so, looking soberly aristocratic in a burgundy blazer and Hermès scarf. Her box-pleated navy blue skirt appeared to conceal a lower torso so formidable that it might have done justice to a centaur. Her hair, dirty-blond and center-parted, curved inward beneath her jaw, like a pair of parentheses containing a superfluous concept.