The Crimson Petal and the White by Michel Faber Page A

produce anything in that field.’
    ‘But honestly Bill – you really must show yourself more often. We haven’t seen you at any of the old haunts for ages.’
    ‘Got to preserve your bad name, you know.’
    ‘Got to keep your hand in.’
    ‘Mustn’t be foiled by the march of time.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ says the startled William. His traumatic haircut has exposed strands of premature grey amongst the gold, so he’s sensitive to any mention of advancing age.
    ‘Pubescent girls , William. Time catches up with them. They don’t stay ripe for ever, you know. Half a year makes all the difference. Indeed, you’ve already missed some girls that have passed into legend, Bill – legend .’
    ‘To give just one example: Lucy Fitzroy.’
    ‘Oh yes – Lord Almighty yes.’
    The two men leap up from the bench as if on a pre-agreed signal.
    ‘Lucy Fitzroy,’ begins Ashwell, in the manner of a music-hall recital, ‘was a new girl at Madame Georgina’s in the Finchley Road, where there is chastisement a’plenty.’ By way of illustration Ashwell brings his cane down hard on his calf several times. ‘ Down , flesh! Up , flesh! Down !’
    ‘Steady on, Ashwell.’ Bodley lays a cautioning hand on his friend’s arm. ‘Remember, only a lord can make a limp look distinguished.’
    ‘Well, as you may know, Bodley and I occasionally take a peek in Madame Georgina’s to see what calibre of girl is wielding the whips. And late last year we came upon an absolute fizgig of a girl, introduced to us by the madam as Lucy Fitzroy, illegitimate daughter of Lord Fitzroy, with horse-riding consequently in her blood.’
    ‘Well no doubt it’s all bosh, but the girl seemed convinced of it! Fourteen years old, smooth and firm as a babe, with the most glorious pride. She had on all the riding gear, and she wore it so well – she’d come down the stairs, sideways , like this, one boot, then the other, as though she were dismounting from the steps. She’d be clutching a very short and quite vicious riding crop, and on her cheeks you could see those little spots of colour burning – genuine, I’ll swear. And Madame Georgina told us that whenever a man was sent up to her, the girl would stand on the landing and wait there just so, and when the poor fool got close enough, ssshwish! she’d slash him across the cheek with the crop, and then point with it towards the bed and say—’
    ‘Good God!’ exclaims Ashwell, having chanced to look in the direction of Bodley’s pointing stick. ‘God almighty! Who would you say that is?’ He shades his eyes with one hand and peers intently at the far end of St James’s Park. Bodley falls into position at his side, peering likewise.
    ‘It’s Henry,’ he proclaims delightedly.
    ‘Yes, yes it is – and Mrs Fox!’
    ‘Of course.’
    The two men turn to face William once more and bow gravely.
    ‘You must excuse us, Bill.’
    ‘Yes, we wish to go and torment Henry.’
    ‘You have my blessing,’ says William, with a smirk.
    ‘He avoids us, you know – avoids us like the plague, ever since … uh … how shall we put it …?’
    ‘Ever since his own personal angel alighted at the end of his bed.’
    ‘Quite. Anyway, we must do our very best to catch him before he makes a run for it.’
    ‘Oh, he couldn’t, not with Mrs Fox in tow: she’d drop dead! They haven’t a chance, I tell you.’
    ‘Cheers, Willy.’
    And with that they are off, pursuing their victims at high speed. Indeed, they run at such a furious pace, despite their formal dress, that they must pump their arms for balance, quite unconcerned about the impression they must be making on anyone watching – in fact, they exaggerate their ridiculous chuff-chuffing gait for their own amusement. Behind them they leave two long, wet, dark-green trails in the grass, and a rather dazed William Rackham.
    It’s always been very much Bodley and Ashwell’s style to swoop in and out of conversations, and if one wishes to feel