Page 89 of A Good Heart is Hard to Find
18
Don’t You Love Me, Baby?
Tonight’s subject on the ‘Factions of Fiction’ programme is the horror genre: where has it been? Where is it going? Should it get there?
Later Cass Leigh, extreme modern exponent of the art of terror, will be giving us her views, which she says can be summed up as: ‘If you don’t like it, don’t read it. If you don’t read it, don’t review it.’
First, though, we havean author from the gentler end of the horror spectrum, Melanie Mandrible.
Melanie, you feel that there is an increasing call from readers for the more spiritual, traditional fairy-story horror novel, don’t you?
‘Yes, because that’s the only kind of book she can write, dimwit!’ I said, turning the radio off in disgust.
There was no point in listening further, since I could predict practicallyevery word of what Milky Melanie would say, and of course I knew what I said, having recorded it ages ago.
I was feeling at a bit of a loose end, with an aching void inside waiting to be filled afresh once inspiration struck for the next novel. While this feeling only usually lasted a week or two while I was tidying up the final version of the last book and sending it off to my agent, it washellwhile it did.
I really didn’t know what to do with myself.
Of course, what I should have been doing was sorting out the other tricky aspects of my life, like calling Max and telling him it really was all over between us, dumping the Predictova kit, calling some dog-breeders, and possibly leaving the country for a month or so as an interim measure.
I did sortonething out, though: I wentback to the pub for dinner, having no excuse any more to skulk at home, and made my peace with Jason. He’d stopped being mad with me, and was mad with jealousy over Dante’s outbidding him instead, so I told him that Dante’d read the manuscript of my next novel in which I’d portrayed one of his ancestors as an evil monster, and he probably merely intended to put me through the torments of hell overEaster weekend as retribution.
‘Yes, but how?’ he demanded, frowning horribly, as only Jason can.
‘I expect he’ll try and make me do some haunting, and perhaps help Rosetta with the guests?’ I said doubtfully. ‘He mentioned his book, too, so maybe I’ll end up typing his notes up or something, as well. Whatever, I expect he will get his money’s worth.’
‘That’s what’s worrying me,’ Jason saiddarkly. ‘So I’m going to book myself into Kedge Hall for Easter and protect you!’
‘I don’t think Rosetta has any rooms left, Jason,’ I said, startled. ‘But thanks for the offer. You are sweet when I’ve been so horrible to you!’
‘Well, we’re still friends, aren’t we?’ he said, leaning over and kissing my cheek.
I smiled slightly mistily at him, since I’d really been an absolute cow. ‘Of coursewe are! And don’t worry about me – I can take care of myself.’
And with a bit of luck, Orla might take care of Jason if theBarbarella costume arrived in time! From the sound of it it was pretty sure to grab his attention, and even if it didn’t it was certain to be a popular singing telegram outfit anyway.
When she turned up later she was definitely not pleased to hear Jason still insistingon asking Rosetta if she could squeeze him in at the Hall somewhere, but he wouldn’t be moved even when I told him he would be wasting his time and money: I intended doing whatever Dante wanted, and leaving the minute my bondage ended.
Somehow, that didn’t seem to reassure him.
Since Max hadn’t phoned me after the auction, I was rather hoping he’d called the vicar instead, and so got the badnews from someone else.
Unfortunately not, for on the Sunday he rang me and said gaily: ‘Hello, slave!’
‘Er … Max,’ I began, slightly nervously.
‘I bet that was a surprise? And good news – I’ll be home even sooner than you expected to claim your services, because I’m not finishing out the whole sabbatical year now! So, what’s the damage? How much am I paying for the pleasure of a day in yourcompany?’
‘I fetched four hundred pounds,’ I said shortly, and there was a small silence.
‘But my limit was sixty pounds!’ Max said disbelievingly. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? The vicar said no one ever fetched more than twenty pounds, except for one year when you went to some old antique dealer for thirty.’
‘Mr Browne. He got Orla this year, and prices have gone up a bit.’
‘So come on, darling,joking aside, what’s the damage? I know you’re special tomebut—’
‘It reallywasfour hundred pounds, Max. Bidding was pretty brisk.’
