minute. With a mistress it rises to one hundred and sixty.”
“And with a call girl?” Gloria asked.
“Oh, through the roof, I imagine,” the consultant said cheerfully. “Of course, he might have been revived quicker if he hadn’t been tied up.”
“Tied up?”
“The girl with him attempted to resuscitate him, she seems quite the inventive sort.”
“Tied up?”
G loria discovered the inventive call girl in question, the clown-aliased “Jojo,” still hanging around in the A and E waiting room. Her real name was “Tatiana,” apparently.
“I’m Gloria,” Gloria said.
“Hello, Gloria,”Tatiana said, her overripe Ls making the greeting seem slightly sinister, like that of a James Bond villainess.
“His wife,” Gloria added, for clarification.
“I know. Graham talks about you.”
Gloria wondered at what point in the transaction between Graham and a call girl that her name would crop up. Before, after—during?
“Not during,”Tatiana said. “He can’t speak during.” She raised expressive eyebrows in response to Gloria’s unspoken query. “Gag,” she said finally.
“Gag?” Gloria murmured over a coffee and a Danish in the hospital’s café. It was the first time she had been in the new infirmary and felt slightly disoriented by the fact that it was just like a shopping mall.
“Stops the screaming,” Tatiana said matter-of-factly, unrolling the pinwheel of a pain au raisin before delicately chewing on it in a way that reminded Gloria of the squirrels in her garden. Gloria frowned, trying to imagine how you could be tied down on an Apex bed. Impossible, surely? (No bedposts.)
“What does he say,” she asked, “when he can speak?”
Tatiana shrugged. “This and that.”
Gloria said, “Where are you from?” and Tatiana said, “Tollcross,” and Gloria said, “No, I mean originally,” and the girl looked at her with her catty green eyes and said, “From Russia, I am Russian,” and for a moment Gloria had a glimpse of endless forests of thin birch trees and the insides of smoky foreign coffeehouses, although she supposed the girl was more likely to have lived in a concrete highrise in some horrendously bleak suburb.
She was dressed in jeans and a vest top, not working clothes, surely. “No,” she said, “here is costume,” indicating the contents of the large bag she had with her. Gloria caught a glimpse of buckles and leather and some kind of corset that, for a surreal moment, brought to Gloria’s mind an image of her mother’s flesh-pink surgical Camp corset. “He likes to be submissive,” Tatiana yawned. “Powerful men, they’re all the same. Graham and his friends. Idyots .”
His friends? “Oh, lord.” She thought of Pam’s husband, Murdo. She thought of Pam tootling around town in her brand-new Audi A8, going to her bridge club, her health club, Plaisir du Chocolat for afternoon tea. While Murdo was doing—what? Gloria shuddered to think.
She sighed. Was this what Graham really wanted, not Windsmoor and Country Casuals, not tedious brass buttons, but a woman young enough to be his own daughter, trussing him up like a turkey? It was strange how something you weren’t expecting could, nonetheless, turn out to be no surprise at all.
Gloria noticed that Tatiana was wearing a tiny gold crucifix in each ear. Was she religious? Were Russians religious now that they weren’t Communists? You couldn’t ask, people never did. Not in Britain. On holiday in Mauritius, the driver taking them from the airport to the hotel asked Gloria, “Do you pray?” just like that, five minutes after picking them up and loading their suitcases in the boot. “Sometimes,” she replied, which wasn’t really true, but she sensed he would be disappointed to learn she was godless.
Gloria had never understood why you would want to wear an instrument of torture and death as an ornament. You may as well wear a noose or a guillotine. At least Tatiana’s earrings were plain, no
“And with a call girl?” Gloria asked.
“Oh, through the roof, I imagine,” the consultant said cheerfully. “Of course, he might have been revived quicker if he hadn’t been tied up.”
“Tied up?”
“The girl with him attempted to resuscitate him, she seems quite the inventive sort.”
“Tied up?”
G loria discovered the inventive call girl in question, the clown-aliased “Jojo,” still hanging around in the A and E waiting room. Her real name was “Tatiana,” apparently.
“I’m Gloria,” Gloria said.
“Hello, Gloria,”Tatiana said, her overripe Ls making the greeting seem slightly sinister, like that of a James Bond villainess.
“His wife,” Gloria added, for clarification.
“I know. Graham talks about you.”
Gloria wondered at what point in the transaction between Graham and a call girl that her name would crop up. Before, after—during?
“Not during,”Tatiana said. “He can’t speak during.” She raised expressive eyebrows in response to Gloria’s unspoken query. “Gag,” she said finally.
“Gag?” Gloria murmured over a coffee and a Danish in the hospital’s café. It was the first time she had been in the new infirmary and felt slightly disoriented by the fact that it was just like a shopping mall.
“Stops the screaming,” Tatiana said matter-of-factly, unrolling the pinwheel of a pain au raisin before delicately chewing on it in a way that reminded Gloria of the squirrels in her garden. Gloria frowned, trying to imagine how you could be tied down on an Apex bed. Impossible, surely? (No bedposts.)
“What does he say,” she asked, “when he can speak?”
Tatiana shrugged. “This and that.”
Gloria said, “Where are you from?” and Tatiana said, “Tollcross,” and Gloria said, “No, I mean originally,” and the girl looked at her with her catty green eyes and said, “From Russia, I am Russian,” and for a moment Gloria had a glimpse of endless forests of thin birch trees and the insides of smoky foreign coffeehouses, although she supposed the girl was more likely to have lived in a concrete highrise in some horrendously bleak suburb.
She was dressed in jeans and a vest top, not working clothes, surely. “No,” she said, “here is costume,” indicating the contents of the large bag she had with her. Gloria caught a glimpse of buckles and leather and some kind of corset that, for a surreal moment, brought to Gloria’s mind an image of her mother’s flesh-pink surgical Camp corset. “He likes to be submissive,” Tatiana yawned. “Powerful men, they’re all the same. Graham and his friends. Idyots .”
His friends? “Oh, lord.” She thought of Pam’s husband, Murdo. She thought of Pam tootling around town in her brand-new Audi A8, going to her bridge club, her health club, Plaisir du Chocolat for afternoon tea. While Murdo was doing—what? Gloria shuddered to think.
She sighed. Was this what Graham really wanted, not Windsmoor and Country Casuals, not tedious brass buttons, but a woman young enough to be his own daughter, trussing him up like a turkey? It was strange how something you weren’t expecting could, nonetheless, turn out to be no surprise at all.
Gloria noticed that Tatiana was wearing a tiny gold crucifix in each ear. Was she religious? Were Russians religious now that they weren’t Communists? You couldn’t ask, people never did. Not in Britain. On holiday in Mauritius, the driver taking them from the airport to the hotel asked Gloria, “Do you pray?” just like that, five minutes after picking them up and loading their suitcases in the boot. “Sometimes,” she replied, which wasn’t really true, but she sensed he would be disappointed to learn she was godless.
Gloria had never understood why you would want to wear an instrument of torture and death as an ornament. You may as well wear a noose or a guillotine. At least Tatiana’s earrings were plain, no
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