Linda said on the second Saturday, holding up a navy suit from Betty Jackson. ‘I’ve never had anything so beautiful! You don’t mind, Belinda?I mean, she’d have bought one for you if you’d been there. She got me this Estée Lauder foundation as well.’
‘Of course I don’t mind,’ Belinda replied. In fact, she considered it miraculous that Linda shared Mother’s interest in expensive tortured cloth and coloured, perfumed grease. It removed from herself the unbearable pressure to look smart and fashionable; it liberated a very needy (and misunderstood) aspect of her nature that hankered for elasticated waists and roomy cardigans. Here was a consequence of hiring a new cleaning lady she had certainly never anticipated when she formerly argued the cause of Mrs Holdsworth. She looked at Linda’s tight little suit and shuddered. Tight little suits induced claustrophobia in her. She wanted to rip constricting garments with gardening shears while screaming, ‘Let me out of here.’
It was now too late to tell Linda about the fish, unfortunately. But aside from the nice little trays of cod, prawns,
bouillabaisse
and
goujons
Belinda was silently tipping down the loo in between indulging in the ample and enjoyable snacks, she felt no praise was high enough for Linda. It was quite true. Wherever she had a vacuum, Linda went right ahead and abhorred it. Just like a force of nature. Linda really was, as she had said at the outset, completely on her side.
Thrown entirely into her work, moreover, Belinda was serenely happy. She had yearned all her life for such a release from daily cares, for hours on end to read and write, uninterrupted by the requirement to do anything manual, social, culinary or selfless. Ahead of her stretched an endless string of Virginia Woolf’s pure and rounded pearls. Viv phoned; she was told nothing about it. Maggie phoned; ditto. Belinda honestly didn’t care. Linda took care of breakfast, dinner, tea and sympathy. And what a bonus that she seemed to enjoy it! Belinda had always felt guilty at making Mrs Holdsworth do the housework; with Linda, she felt she was doing her afavour; she was helping Linda to be fulfilled simply by accepting everything she did.
Meanwhile, Linda also continued to show astonishing initiative. For example, after a week, a woman from the
Today
programme on Radio 4 phoned, asking Belinda to take part in a short discussion about making scenes in public places (the Garrick story had spread). But, blissfully secluded upstairs, Belinda knew nothing whatever about it.
‘What shall I do?’ Linda whispered to Mother, with the receiver pressed against her chest. ‘Exposure is useful to a writer, isn’t it?’
Mother made a noise. A sort of ‘tch’. ‘Belinda always says no to that sort of thing. She won’t even do book signings. If you ask me, she has a horror of the mob.’
‘No,’ agreed Linda, ‘I don’t suppose she’d do it.’
She pulled a face at Mother, who suddenly had an idea. ‘You do it, Linda.’
‘Me?’
‘In my opinion, you’ll do it better than she would. Besides, it was you who hit Jorkin.’
So Linda agreed. And the next morning, without mentioning it to Belinda, went by BBC car to Broadcasting House and by general consent acquitted herself magnificently.
Not expecting visitors, since none had come in fifteen years, Mrs Holdsworth was surprised when Viv Ripley came to see her on the second Friday. Viv had heard Linda on the
Today
programme and been outraged. She had tried to phone Belinda six times. ‘They said she was Belinda on the radio!’ she explained to Jago. ‘She’s impersonating Belinda on the public airwaves! She’s only been working there a week and look what she’s done!’
‘You’re obsessed,’ said Jago.
‘No, I’m not. I care about my friend.’
‘You’re not just sore Linda left?’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are. You’re jealous as hell. Giving up your job was insane.’
So she had sought out
‘Of course I don’t mind,’ Belinda replied. In fact, she considered it miraculous that Linda shared Mother’s interest in expensive tortured cloth and coloured, perfumed grease. It removed from herself the unbearable pressure to look smart and fashionable; it liberated a very needy (and misunderstood) aspect of her nature that hankered for elasticated waists and roomy cardigans. Here was a consequence of hiring a new cleaning lady she had certainly never anticipated when she formerly argued the cause of Mrs Holdsworth. She looked at Linda’s tight little suit and shuddered. Tight little suits induced claustrophobia in her. She wanted to rip constricting garments with gardening shears while screaming, ‘Let me out of here.’
It was now too late to tell Linda about the fish, unfortunately. But aside from the nice little trays of cod, prawns,
bouillabaisse
and
goujons
Belinda was silently tipping down the loo in between indulging in the ample and enjoyable snacks, she felt no praise was high enough for Linda. It was quite true. Wherever she had a vacuum, Linda went right ahead and abhorred it. Just like a force of nature. Linda really was, as she had said at the outset, completely on her side.
Thrown entirely into her work, moreover, Belinda was serenely happy. She had yearned all her life for such a release from daily cares, for hours on end to read and write, uninterrupted by the requirement to do anything manual, social, culinary or selfless. Ahead of her stretched an endless string of Virginia Woolf’s pure and rounded pearls. Viv phoned; she was told nothing about it. Maggie phoned; ditto. Belinda honestly didn’t care. Linda took care of breakfast, dinner, tea and sympathy. And what a bonus that she seemed to enjoy it! Belinda had always felt guilty at making Mrs Holdsworth do the housework; with Linda, she felt she was doing her afavour; she was helping Linda to be fulfilled simply by accepting everything she did.
Meanwhile, Linda also continued to show astonishing initiative. For example, after a week, a woman from the
Today
programme on Radio 4 phoned, asking Belinda to take part in a short discussion about making scenes in public places (the Garrick story had spread). But, blissfully secluded upstairs, Belinda knew nothing whatever about it.
‘What shall I do?’ Linda whispered to Mother, with the receiver pressed against her chest. ‘Exposure is useful to a writer, isn’t it?’
Mother made a noise. A sort of ‘tch’. ‘Belinda always says no to that sort of thing. She won’t even do book signings. If you ask me, she has a horror of the mob.’
‘No,’ agreed Linda, ‘I don’t suppose she’d do it.’
She pulled a face at Mother, who suddenly had an idea. ‘You do it, Linda.’
‘Me?’
‘In my opinion, you’ll do it better than she would. Besides, it was you who hit Jorkin.’
So Linda agreed. And the next morning, without mentioning it to Belinda, went by BBC car to Broadcasting House and by general consent acquitted herself magnificently.
Not expecting visitors, since none had come in fifteen years, Mrs Holdsworth was surprised when Viv Ripley came to see her on the second Friday. Viv had heard Linda on the
Today
programme and been outraged. She had tried to phone Belinda six times. ‘They said she was Belinda on the radio!’ she explained to Jago. ‘She’s impersonating Belinda on the public airwaves! She’s only been working there a week and look what she’s done!’
‘You’re obsessed,’ said Jago.
‘No, I’m not. I care about my friend.’
‘You’re not just sore Linda left?’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Yes, you are. You’re jealous as hell. Giving up your job was insane.’
So she had sought out
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