but only to receive another push in the chest from Teresa Handley, the crime novelist. "Made sure I won't be invited again, didn't you?" she was saying. "I thought it was only lasses and bum bandits who powdered their noses."
"Let's just remember it was your publisher who gave- —"
"Someone else's fault, is it, like always? Leave me a note if you ever decide to grow up." She gazed at him with a resignation that seemed almost affectionate, then shoved him harder. "I told him I wanted none of it and I told you not to. And what's the tale of you and the profs big lass?"
"The subject happened to come up and she asked me if I had—"
"Her fault and all, was it? There's a shock. I hope you realise when her father hears about it that'll queer me with his whole department."
"Tess, the only way he'll know is if you carry on—"
"Oh, it's my fault! I shouldn't have needed telling, should I? Where do you reckon you're going?"
Each time she gave him a push she stepped back into the doorway. Now he tried to dodge around her as she offered another, and Clement, murmuring, "Do excuse me if you," lurched at the gap on the other side of her. Clement faltered, waving pipe and matchbox with a rattle loud enough to have been emitted by both. "Forgive me, madam, but I think you ought to realise I'm, dear me."
"Not you, you silly old whatever you're supposed to be. I'm talking to the bane of my existence. You scuttle off." She moved out of the doorway to let Clement sidle around her, and her husband made to follow. "Not you!" she roared.
Clement stopped as though she'd collared him, and her husband bumped into him from behind. Don and Marshall and the professors of law and genetics were descending, and came to a halt on seven stairs to watch. Susanne thought it was time to intervene, but before she could Clement swung round, raising his pipe by the stem like a miniature cudgel, a gesture which flung tobacco over his shoulder as though for luck, and squeezing the matchbox in his other fist with a sound of muffled splintering. "I warn you," he said.
"Don't be daft. How old are you? You'd think you were still in the playground," Teresa Handley told him, hauling her spouse away from him. "Just say if you want shut of us and we'll be gone."
This was to Susanne. Presumably the alternative was to leave the couple alone in the room. She was glancing at Don for his opinion when the phone rang in the hall. Clement shoved the crushed matchbox into his pocket and let the bowl of the pipe fall into his other hand. "Shall I, yes?"
"Go ahead," Susanne told him, not least to allow him to save face.
He unhooked the receiver and transferred it to his cheek. "Yes, or rather, Travis residence."
He frowned and seemed about to wave his pipe for silence as the group on the stairs recommenced descending. "I beg your, ah," he said, and his forehead relaxed. "I believe it's for young, yes."
He held out the receiver at arm's length, stretching the coils of the cord taut, as Marshall ran down, having handed Don the bottles. It looked to Susanne as though the receiver would spring out of reach if Marshall didn't catch hold of it in time, but he did. "Hi, it's Marshall. Who's—"
He snatched the receiver away from his face, and Don clutched the bottles to himself. Teresa Handley and her husband backed into the room, and Susanne almost snapped the stem of the wineglass she'd picked up from on top of the television. What came out of the receiver with such force that she could hear the earpiece vibrating was a child's shriek
She couldn't tell whether it expressed rage or panic or despair. There were words in it, presumably directed at Marshall, but its loudness rendered them incomprehensible. It lasted only a few seconds, which was far more than enough. Then there was a click like the sound of a gun with no bullets, and the receiver began its empty drone, and it and Marshall were isolated by a silence which nobody appeared to want to break.
5 Customers
By
"Let's just remember it was your publisher who gave- —"
"Someone else's fault, is it, like always? Leave me a note if you ever decide to grow up." She gazed at him with a resignation that seemed almost affectionate, then shoved him harder. "I told him I wanted none of it and I told you not to. And what's the tale of you and the profs big lass?"
"The subject happened to come up and she asked me if I had—"
"Her fault and all, was it? There's a shock. I hope you realise when her father hears about it that'll queer me with his whole department."
"Tess, the only way he'll know is if you carry on—"
"Oh, it's my fault! I shouldn't have needed telling, should I? Where do you reckon you're going?"
Each time she gave him a push she stepped back into the doorway. Now he tried to dodge around her as she offered another, and Clement, murmuring, "Do excuse me if you," lurched at the gap on the other side of her. Clement faltered, waving pipe and matchbox with a rattle loud enough to have been emitted by both. "Forgive me, madam, but I think you ought to realise I'm, dear me."
"Not you, you silly old whatever you're supposed to be. I'm talking to the bane of my existence. You scuttle off." She moved out of the doorway to let Clement sidle around her, and her husband made to follow. "Not you!" she roared.
Clement stopped as though she'd collared him, and her husband bumped into him from behind. Don and Marshall and the professors of law and genetics were descending, and came to a halt on seven stairs to watch. Susanne thought it was time to intervene, but before she could Clement swung round, raising his pipe by the stem like a miniature cudgel, a gesture which flung tobacco over his shoulder as though for luck, and squeezing the matchbox in his other fist with a sound of muffled splintering. "I warn you," he said.
"Don't be daft. How old are you? You'd think you were still in the playground," Teresa Handley told him, hauling her spouse away from him. "Just say if you want shut of us and we'll be gone."
This was to Susanne. Presumably the alternative was to leave the couple alone in the room. She was glancing at Don for his opinion when the phone rang in the hall. Clement shoved the crushed matchbox into his pocket and let the bowl of the pipe fall into his other hand. "Shall I, yes?"
"Go ahead," Susanne told him, not least to allow him to save face.
He unhooked the receiver and transferred it to his cheek. "Yes, or rather, Travis residence."
He frowned and seemed about to wave his pipe for silence as the group on the stairs recommenced descending. "I beg your, ah," he said, and his forehead relaxed. "I believe it's for young, yes."
He held out the receiver at arm's length, stretching the coils of the cord taut, as Marshall ran down, having handed Don the bottles. It looked to Susanne as though the receiver would spring out of reach if Marshall didn't catch hold of it in time, but he did. "Hi, it's Marshall. Who's—"
He snatched the receiver away from his face, and Don clutched the bottles to himself. Teresa Handley and her husband backed into the room, and Susanne almost snapped the stem of the wineglass she'd picked up from on top of the television. What came out of the receiver with such force that she could hear the earpiece vibrating was a child's shriek
She couldn't tell whether it expressed rage or panic or despair. There were words in it, presumably directed at Marshall, but its loudness rendered them incomprehensible. It lasted only a few seconds, which was far more than enough. Then there was a click like the sound of a gun with no bullets, and the receiver began its empty drone, and it and Marshall were isolated by a silence which nobody appeared to want to break.
5 Customers
By
Similar Books
