Mrs Holdsworth, and was now taking tea with that lady in her council flat in Battersea, where the smell of boiled sprouts filled the room to a height of five feet. Viv discovered that if you stood up and tipped your head back you could, in fact, inhale air smelling of something else. But unfortunately you couldn’t spend a whole visit pretending to admire the Artex swirls on the ceiling.
‘So, if you still have access to the house, Mrs Holdsworth,’ she said, ‘you could see what Linda is getting up to. I would pay you handsomely.’
‘How handsomely’s that, then?’ Mrs H, sitting down, lit a Dunhill menthol from a flat green box, an accessory curiously out of keeping with her general eschewal of all things debonair.
‘Fifty pounds now, and fifty more when you’ve reported back. Just think. You could buy a new scarf straight away.’
Mrs Holdsworth looked offended. ‘What’s wrong with my fucking scarf?’
‘Nothing at all. I just meant you might like another one.’ Viv felt she wasn’t getting anywhere. She tried a new tack. ‘I’ll come clean with you, Mrs Holdsworth. I am not only Belinda’s concerned friend, I am also Linda’s probation officer.’
The old woman took a deep drag on the cigarette, and narrowed her eyes. Viv was indeed a much better liar than Jago. The woman was wavering.
‘Bleeding probation officers don’t give you fifty quid.’
‘Linda is a dangerous woman, Mrs Holdsworth. Surely you noticed?’
‘I’ll tell you what, she unplugged my Hoover.’
‘Exactly.’
And so it was Sunday morning now. The Johanssons were happy in their well-organized new home; Jago and Viv were scarcely speaking; Mrs Holdsworth was boiling sprouts; and in Malmö, Ingrid Johansson watched the horizon through a barred window, and hummed tunelessly. Meanwhile Maggie was sitting grimly in her flat with the curtains closed while Noel rang her doorbell and rapped at the letterbox. The fateful role-playing moment had clearly arrived.
Rap, rap. Ring, ring. Rap. Ring.
‘It’s me,’ he called.
Rap, rap.
‘It’s Leon!’
Maggie curled her feet under her, and tried to concentrate on
Bridget Jones’s Diary.
She grimaced and put it down. It was a book she never could get on with somehow. She’d had it open at the same page for three solid years.
‘Open up,’ continued Noel, cheerfully. ‘I know you’re in there. Nyow, nyow!’
‘Piss off!’ she shouted.
She had decided to have nothing to do with this experiment of Noel’s. Let her problem take twenty years to sort out; Noel’s short-sharp-shock technique was all too clearly a smokescreen for base motives. ‘Full transference’ was what he wanted from Margaret, he said. It was an ominous phrase. Call her a weary old cynic who’d been sleeping around too long, but she felt sure the energetic exchange of body fluids would be bound to come into the full-transference process somewhere.
‘Go away, I’m reading
Bridget
Jones’s
Diary,’
she called. ‘I happen to have located a very funny bit, actually.’
But he knocked and rang until her patience ran out and she opened the door – only to be flattened by the full whirlwindforce of Noel’s impersonation. Despite herself, Maggie was impressed. The only time she’d seen anything like it was at a Stanislavsky summer school, when the group had been advised to imagine themselves as experiencing nuclear fission while at the same time taking barbiturates.
‘Did you miss me?’ he said, bursting through the door in a cataract of luggage. Kicking a suitcase across the room, he plonked down a flight bag, a duty-free carrier, a lap-top briefcase and a large fluffy toy in the shape of a red racing car. ‘Present from Oshbosh. Do you like it?’
He sat down, ran a hand through his hair, and gave her a wide grin. She had to hand it to Noel. As an act, it was terrifyingly good. The toy had a price in dollars on it, and there were old, dog-eared Grand Prix stickers on the suitcase.
‘So, if you still have access to the house, Mrs Holdsworth,’ she said, ‘you could see what Linda is getting up to. I would pay you handsomely.’
‘How handsomely’s that, then?’ Mrs H, sitting down, lit a Dunhill menthol from a flat green box, an accessory curiously out of keeping with her general eschewal of all things debonair.
‘Fifty pounds now, and fifty more when you’ve reported back. Just think. You could buy a new scarf straight away.’
Mrs Holdsworth looked offended. ‘What’s wrong with my fucking scarf?’
‘Nothing at all. I just meant you might like another one.’ Viv felt she wasn’t getting anywhere. She tried a new tack. ‘I’ll come clean with you, Mrs Holdsworth. I am not only Belinda’s concerned friend, I am also Linda’s probation officer.’
The old woman took a deep drag on the cigarette, and narrowed her eyes. Viv was indeed a much better liar than Jago. The woman was wavering.
‘Bleeding probation officers don’t give you fifty quid.’
‘Linda is a dangerous woman, Mrs Holdsworth. Surely you noticed?’
‘I’ll tell you what, she unplugged my Hoover.’
‘Exactly.’
And so it was Sunday morning now. The Johanssons were happy in their well-organized new home; Jago and Viv were scarcely speaking; Mrs Holdsworth was boiling sprouts; and in Malmö, Ingrid Johansson watched the horizon through a barred window, and hummed tunelessly. Meanwhile Maggie was sitting grimly in her flat with the curtains closed while Noel rang her doorbell and rapped at the letterbox. The fateful role-playing moment had clearly arrived.
Rap, rap. Ring, ring. Rap. Ring.
‘It’s me,’ he called.
Rap, rap.
‘It’s Leon!’
Maggie curled her feet under her, and tried to concentrate on
Bridget Jones’s Diary.
She grimaced and put it down. It was a book she never could get on with somehow. She’d had it open at the same page for three solid years.
‘Open up,’ continued Noel, cheerfully. ‘I know you’re in there. Nyow, nyow!’
‘Piss off!’ she shouted.
She had decided to have nothing to do with this experiment of Noel’s. Let her problem take twenty years to sort out; Noel’s short-sharp-shock technique was all too clearly a smokescreen for base motives. ‘Full transference’ was what he wanted from Margaret, he said. It was an ominous phrase. Call her a weary old cynic who’d been sleeping around too long, but she felt sure the energetic exchange of body fluids would be bound to come into the full-transference process somewhere.
‘Go away, I’m reading
Bridget
Jones’s
Diary,’
she called. ‘I happen to have located a very funny bit, actually.’
But he knocked and rang until her patience ran out and she opened the door – only to be flattened by the full whirlwindforce of Noel’s impersonation. Despite herself, Maggie was impressed. The only time she’d seen anything like it was at a Stanislavsky summer school, when the group had been advised to imagine themselves as experiencing nuclear fission while at the same time taking barbiturates.
‘Did you miss me?’ he said, bursting through the door in a cataract of luggage. Kicking a suitcase across the room, he plonked down a flight bag, a duty-free carrier, a lap-top briefcase and a large fluffy toy in the shape of a red racing car. ‘Present from Oshbosh. Do you like it?’
He sat down, ran a hand through his hair, and gave her a wide grin. She had to hand it to Noel. As an act, it was terrifyingly good. The toy had a price in dollars on it, and there were old, dog-eared Grand Prix stickers on the suitcase.
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