Loitering With Intent by Muriel Spark

girl whose mother, to overcome her daughter’s strong objections to marrying some man on the grounds that he had chronic bad breath, said, ‘Well, you can’t have everything.’ Such blithe anecdotes put me in a frame of mind to see myself once more in a carefree light. I told a number of funny stories to Wally about Sir Quentin’s set at Hallam Street, and I gave him an outline of what my life was like on the grubby edge of the literary world. Wally, who was racking his brains as to where he had heard of old Quentin Oliver ‘somewhere or other’, and was extremely entertained by my stories, at the same time advised me strongly to get another job. ‘I should get out of all that if I were you, Fleur. You’d be happier.’
    I said, yes, possibly. In fact, it came to me during that evening of high spirits that I preferred to stay in the job;
    I preferred to be interested as I was than happy as I might be. I wasn’t sure that I so much wanted to be happy, but I knew I had to follow my nature. However, I didn’t say this to Wally. It wouldn’t have done.
    I promised Wally that he should meet the fabulous Edwina.

    I stayed in bed next morning; about eleven o’clock, when I woke, I telephoned to Hallam Street to say I wasn’t coming in.
    Beryl Tims answered the phone.
    ‘Have you got a medical certificate?’ she said.
    ‘Go to hell.’
    ‘Pardon?’
    ‘I’m not ill,’ I said. ‘I was out dancing all night, that’s all.’
    ‘Hold on while I get Sir Quentin.’
    ‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘There’s somebody at my door.’
    This was true; I hung up and went to find at the door the red-faced house-boy with a bunch of amber-coloured roses and behind him the daily cleaner, whose unwanted services were thrown in with the rent, in her pink dress and white apron. It was a colourful ensemble. I stared at them for a moment, then I sent the maid away while the house-boy told me that I’d had a visitor the night before —‘That awful nice lady that’s married to your gentleman friend. I let her in here to wait, and she waited the best part of an hour. ‘Twas after ten she left.’ I gathered this was Dottie.
    I got rid of the boy and counted the roses, which were from Wally. Fourteen. This pleased me. I always liked getting roses, but the usual dozen seemed always so shop-ordered. Fourteen had been really thought of.
    In the late afternoon, at about six, when I was thinking of getting up and doing a bit of my new novel, the Baronne Clotilde du Loiret rang me up. ‘Sir Quentin,’ she said, ‘is worried about you, Fleur. Are you indisposed? Sir Quentin thought there might be something I could do. If you have any problem, you know, Sir Quentin insists on complete frankness.’
    ‘I’m taking a day off. How good of Sir Quentin to be so concerned.’
    ‘But just at this moment, Fleur, as I say, the affairs of the Association are falling to bits, aren’t they? I mean, Bucks Gilbert is a bit much, isn’t she? Of course, she hasn’t a penny. I mean, we all had a very frank discussion this afternoon. I’ve just left them. Then Quentin introduced a sort of prayer-meeting, my dear, it was most embarrassing. What could one do? I quite see that I for one have a private life and when I say private life I’m sure you know what I mean. But I do object to being prayed over. Do you know, I’m terrified of Quentin. He knows too much. And Maisie Young—’
    ‘Why don’t you give it up?’ I said.
    ‘What? Our Autobiographical Association? Well, I can’t explain, but I do believe in Quentin. I’m sure you do too, Fleur.’
    ‘Oh, yes. I almost feel I invented him.’
    ‘Fleur, do you think there’s something, I mean something special, between him and Beryl Tims? I mean, they’re very thick with each other. And you know, this afternoon at the prayer part, that awful Mummy of Quentin’s came in and started making that sort of insinuation. Of course she’s ga-ga, but one wonders. She says she’s fond of you, Fleur,