Now I’d better speak to Valerie.”
“What will we have to drop?” Valerie asked him, then told Patricia “We’ll have four extra pages, I see, of course” as if it solved more than that problem.
Patricia made for the comfortably uncluttered discreetly antique dining-room, only to find her father awaiting her with a murmur. “Are you quite certain this swine you mentioned has been sufficiently dealt with?”
“More than quite, daddy. It really wasn’t as bad as I expect you’re imagining, and it wasn’t entirely his fault. I could have been more definite sooner.”
“Just remind me of his name again.”
“It was Simon, wasn’t it, Trish?” Valerie said on her way into the room. “As in pure, I don’t think.”
“This is why I never talked about it.” They were making her feel that just because she was smaller than average she couldn’t look after herself—the mistake Simon had made, she suspected. “I didn’t want you two upset when there’s completely no need,” she said.
“You shouldn’t keep bad things inside you,” Valerie insisted. “That isn’t how a writer deals with them. I knew there was something wrong when there was. I asked, if you remember.”
“I’d better make a start,” Patricia said, feeding herself a last mouthful of breakfast before carrying her items to the kitchen sink. In her bedroom she straightened the quilt that was printed with a night sky and transferred the Margaret Atwood novel she’d finished last night from the floor to the bookshelves in the corner flanked by pages of the student newspaper bearing her byline. By this time the computer had produced its opening screen. An online search brought her several references to Shell, starting with her web site. She clicked on the address, and Shell’s face commenced spreading down the screen.
It appeared beneath a banner that proclaimed SHELL GARRIDGE STANDUP in red. It came in strips, beginning with one that contained her eyes, which offered less a welcome than a challenge. Her small blunt nose had little to add to that, but as it was produced Patricia had an unnecessary impression of watching grey water drain away to reveal Shell’s head. Now here was the mouth, its right corner awry on the way to a grin or a smile, what sort wasn’t clear. Shell’s image stopped at the chin to leaveroom for a banner reading DO I MAKE YOU LAUGH? Patricia thought that could as easily be taken for a dare as for an invitation. The page contained nothing else apart from Shell’s email address and phone number. Other pages were promised—press quotes, photographs, Shell interviewing herself, links to sites for people she admired—but they were still under construction. “You’re another one who isn’t giving much away,” Patricia murmured, having thought of Dudley Smith, but he had no relevance to Shell. She fetched her mobile from the bedside table and dialled the number on the screen. At least she would have followed the solitary lead, if it was one, that the page provided.
The phone rang five times, and then she seemed to hear someone pick it up. “Shell Garridge,” Shell said. “If you’re not a stalker there’s nothing to be scared of. Say who you are and what you want and where I can call you back.”
Patricia had hoped the message might be humorous. The reference to a stalker suggested paranoia, which would scarcely fit into a tribute. She was wondering if she ought to leave a token response in case anyone played the tape when a not entirely steady voice said “Hello?”
It could have been Shell’s or an attempt to mimic hers. Patricia had to overcome both notions so as to say “Hello.”
“Who’s that? What do you want?”
“I’m a reporter. Patricia Martingale. Could I ask who you are?”
“One of them, are you. I expect they’ll be all over her now.” Almost as bitterly the woman added “I’m her mother.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs . . .”
“Don’t you even know that? Garrett,”
“What will we have to drop?” Valerie asked him, then told Patricia “We’ll have four extra pages, I see, of course” as if it solved more than that problem.
Patricia made for the comfortably uncluttered discreetly antique dining-room, only to find her father awaiting her with a murmur. “Are you quite certain this swine you mentioned has been sufficiently dealt with?”
“More than quite, daddy. It really wasn’t as bad as I expect you’re imagining, and it wasn’t entirely his fault. I could have been more definite sooner.”
“Just remind me of his name again.”
“It was Simon, wasn’t it, Trish?” Valerie said on her way into the room. “As in pure, I don’t think.”
“This is why I never talked about it.” They were making her feel that just because she was smaller than average she couldn’t look after herself—the mistake Simon had made, she suspected. “I didn’t want you two upset when there’s completely no need,” she said.
“You shouldn’t keep bad things inside you,” Valerie insisted. “That isn’t how a writer deals with them. I knew there was something wrong when there was. I asked, if you remember.”
“I’d better make a start,” Patricia said, feeding herself a last mouthful of breakfast before carrying her items to the kitchen sink. In her bedroom she straightened the quilt that was printed with a night sky and transferred the Margaret Atwood novel she’d finished last night from the floor to the bookshelves in the corner flanked by pages of the student newspaper bearing her byline. By this time the computer had produced its opening screen. An online search brought her several references to Shell, starting with her web site. She clicked on the address, and Shell’s face commenced spreading down the screen.
It appeared beneath a banner that proclaimed SHELL GARRIDGE STANDUP in red. It came in strips, beginning with one that contained her eyes, which offered less a welcome than a challenge. Her small blunt nose had little to add to that, but as it was produced Patricia had an unnecessary impression of watching grey water drain away to reveal Shell’s head. Now here was the mouth, its right corner awry on the way to a grin or a smile, what sort wasn’t clear. Shell’s image stopped at the chin to leaveroom for a banner reading DO I MAKE YOU LAUGH? Patricia thought that could as easily be taken for a dare as for an invitation. The page contained nothing else apart from Shell’s email address and phone number. Other pages were promised—press quotes, photographs, Shell interviewing herself, links to sites for people she admired—but they were still under construction. “You’re another one who isn’t giving much away,” Patricia murmured, having thought of Dudley Smith, but he had no relevance to Shell. She fetched her mobile from the bedside table and dialled the number on the screen. At least she would have followed the solitary lead, if it was one, that the page provided.
The phone rang five times, and then she seemed to hear someone pick it up. “Shell Garridge,” Shell said. “If you’re not a stalker there’s nothing to be scared of. Say who you are and what you want and where I can call you back.”
Patricia had hoped the message might be humorous. The reference to a stalker suggested paranoia, which would scarcely fit into a tribute. She was wondering if she ought to leave a token response in case anyone played the tape when a not entirely steady voice said “Hello?”
It could have been Shell’s or an attempt to mimic hers. Patricia had to overcome both notions so as to say “Hello.”
“Who’s that? What do you want?”
“I’m a reporter. Patricia Martingale. Could I ask who you are?”
“One of them, are you. I expect they’ll be all over her now.” Almost as bitterly the woman added “I’m her mother.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs . . .”
“Don’t you even know that? Garrett,”
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