Adam and Eve and Pinch Me by Ruth Rendell Page A

and suggested they might describe Eugenie and Jordan as her niece and nephew, children of her sister tragically killed in a car crash, Zillah drew the line. So, rather surprisingly, did Jims. Malina must remember, he said, that he wasn’t all that well known, he wasn’t a
celebrity.
    “Temporarily,” said Malina briskly.
    “If I get a post,” Jims said, dropping his voice, “it will of course be rather different.”
    All this was making Zillah nervous. “My children won’t go away.”
    “No, darling, and we don’t want them to.”
    “It might be wise,” said Malina, “not to give any interviews to the print media for a year. Could we have your first husband tragically killed in a car crash?” Reluctantly she was forced to relinquish this favorite scenario. “Well, no, maybe not. But by then,” she added coyly, “another wee one may be on the way.”
    Zillah thought the chances of another wee one slender in the extreme. She had no experience of interviews or journalists but was already frightened of them. Still, she had long ago cultivated the art of banishing unpleasant thoughts from her mind. It was the only form of defense she knew. So, every time a picture of Jims as shadow minister of state at the Home Office or under-secretary for health came into her head and she had a vision of a reporter appearing on her doorstep, she thrust it away. And whenever a voice whispered in her mind’s ear, “Tell me something about your previous marriage, Mrs. Melcombe-Smith,” she plugged it up. After all, she
knew
Jerry wouldn’t reappear. What surer way could there be of making plain your intention to disappear than by announcing your death?
    Jims bought her an engagement ring, three large emeralds mounted on a square cushion of diamonds. He’d already given her a Visa card in the name of Z. H. Leach and now gave her an American Express platinum card for Mrs. J. I. Melcombe-Smith and told her to buy any clothes she liked. Wearing her new Caroline Charles green suit with the bead-encrusted bodice, she dined with Jims in the Churchill Room at the Palace of Westminster and was introduced to the leader of the Conservative party in the Commons. Seven years ago Zillah would have described herself as a Communist, and she didn’t know if she really was a Conservative.
    “You are now, darling,” said Jims.
    After dinner he took her into Westminster Hall and down into the Chapel of St. Mary Undercroft. Even Zillah, who took very little notice of such things, had to admit that Sir Charles Barry’s stonework was impressive and the lavish fittings magnificent. Obediently, she looked at the bosses showing St. Catherine martyred on her wheel and St. John the Evangelist boiling in oil, though she was squeamish about such things and St. Lawrence being grilled made her feel a bit sick. She’d take care not to look up during the marriage ceremony. Against all this rich and brilliant color, she decided, an ivory wedding dress would be most effective. Because she’d fixed on the single-woman option, she was determined to push aside the memory of her marriage and was almost reconciled to a church ceremony.
    It was a pity the children couldn’t be there. She rather fancied Eugenie as bridesmaid and Jordan as page. They’d have looked so chic in black velvet with white lace collars. Apart from these frivolous considerations, she was seriously concerned about her children. Their existence was one of those not exactly unpleasant, more disturbing facts she couldn’t banish, though she tried. That is, she tried not to think about them except as the two people she was closest to in the world, possibly the only people she loved, for her affection for Jims hardly came into that category. But the circumstances were too awkward to allow her to forget the troublesome aspects. For one thing, they constantly asked when they were going to see Jerry again. Jordan had a disconcerting habit of declaiming loudly out in the street or, worse, when