Page 7 of A Good Heart is Hard to Find
‘What, none?’ Orla said, startled. ‘Email?’
‘He doesn’t trust it.’
‘Right. New-fangled invention, I know. He could write?’
‘He could – but he doesn’t. I tell you, Orla, when I take a clear look at my life, what have I got apart from my writing?’
And an empty glass.
‘A clear case of rebellion?’ she suggested. ‘It’s not like you to drink Max’sprecious whisky, for a start! And now I come to think of it, where are all his things?’
She looked around, her eyes so wide that the spiky lashes spread like a sooty sunburst. ‘I mean, we’re drinking whisky from the bottle, not a cut-crystal decanter, and these glasses look like Woolworth’s finest.’
‘They are. I’ve just packed all his stuff into empty Fortnum and Mason hampers and put them inthe attic while I was up there getting the Christmas decorations down.’
‘Sounds like a fair exchange. Are you going to put the decorations up now? Can I help?’
‘Why not?’ I said, waving my glass expansively. ‘There’s the tree, and I’ve made gingerbread stars, and I’ve got two dozen candy canes, and little chocolate umbrellas and—’
‘You do go over the top at Christmas, don’t you? Must be thatstrict childhood you had.’
‘I love Christmas! Even Christmas on my own,’ I enthused.
‘You haven’t been alone on Christmas Day since Mike left me,’ she pointed out. ‘You, me, Jason and turkey at my house as usual?’
‘And Tom,’ I added.
‘Into every pot of ointment a fly must fall. With any luck he will drink too much and pass out like last year, and Jason will have to take him home early,’ sheconsoled me.
Actually, it turned out that there were three flies in the jar of Seasonal Balm, and the major one was that by Christmas Day Max had failed to send me even a card, let alone a present, and I knew there was little chance that he would be able to slip away and phone over the holiday.
Tom, bluebottle number two, was indeed present at Orla’s house for Christmas dinner, the price wehave to pay for our friendship with Jason. It is a constant amazement to me that he could father so objectionable a child. (Orman, I suppose I should say, since he is now at university.)
After Jason and Tom had finally gone home, replete and bearing foil-wrapped parcels of left-over turkey and pud, Orla revealed the existence of the third fly to me.
‘I’ve thought up a new act for Song Language,’she told me as we cleared the festive board.
Song Language is the name of the singing telegram service she set up after Mike left in order to try and maintain the standard of living to which she was addicted.
She’s a Marilyn Monroe look-alike herself and she’d soon talkedmeinto a Vampirella costume (which was not much different from my normal look, actually) and a couple of other people intoeven more improbable garb.
‘It’s a great idea,’ she said now, tossing the turkey carcass arbitrarily into the dustbin, because, as she pointed out, who wants to see turkey ever again after Christmas Day?
‘You have?’ I said cautiously, hoping it didn’t involve me.
‘Yes.You’regoing to double up as Wonder Woman! Won’t that go down a bomb?’
‘Me? Wonder Woman? You mean, like that old TV serieswith Lynda somebody – Carter – terrific figure and a mouth like a ventriloquist’s dummy?’
‘That’s the one. You’re tall and dark-haired, and you’ve got the figure for the costume,andthe legs for the boots, too.’
‘I haven’t got the mouth, though, or her really light-coloured eyes. Mine are just grey, putrid grey.’
‘Putrid?’
‘Sorry, I meant pewter. Must have been thinking about something else.’
‘As usual. And you don’t have to be an exact copy, just near enough to give the impression,’ she wheedled. ‘I bet it would be even more popular than the vampire thing.’
