Since they do thank you. Thank you and more. The strangest thing—I never expected it—they thank you even when the news is bad.
“It’s not just that they’re women, Helen …”
“No?”
Suddenly all ears. “Well, you can’t leave it at that—you’ve got to go on.”
Chicken Marsala, Sole Véronique … But it wasn’t just the cooking. This dad of hers that she’d never known.
Rita said, “Are you married yourself, Mr. Webb?”
“Was.”
A cock of her blonde head.
“A long story.”
(Though it wasn’t really: a quick goodbye then off she went to school.)
“You don’t have to tell me.”
She glanced round my office—the way Helen had glanced round at the house. The tiniest hint of a tut-tut.
There are all kinds of motive: information, confirmation, desperation … Sometimes it’s an act of war. It’s savage, it’s rough. And there’s always the rebound factor. I’d got wise to that.
The tiniest hint of a sigh.
I’d already given her the news: the who and the where. She’d already half-known. The no-nonsense, dry-eyed type. She worked in a factory—cardboard products—manager’s PA. I imagined she could do the job for him, do it all with her eyes shut, but she had to know her place.
She sat now in my office, legs crossed, eyes clear, the black point of one shoe now and then prodding the air.
And I’m a detective. I’m not a fool. I can read signs. I ought to have had a sign on my door: “George Webb: Private Investigator and Rebound Consultant.”
And wasn’t I on the rebound too? A long story. A long, slow rebound.
She wasn’t finished, so it proved. She wanted me to go one step further. A little extra job. She wanted me to take her to the house, the address—while the husband was there—and just wait outside while she went and knocked. That was all, a simple job. She’d only be a moment.
Would I do this? She’d pay.
The point of her shoe poked forward, like something being aimed. She took her eyes off me and looked along the stretched-out line: knee, ankle, toe.
So we went. A modern house on a new estate. Nine in the evening. They thank you, you become allies.
I parked outside. A cold January night. She was all grim, steady silence, but before she got out, while my hand rested on the wheel, she reached across and pressed her fingers against my wrist. “Wish me luck,” she said—as if no particular reply was needed. Then she took away her fingers, leant across further, took my face in both hands and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Wish me luck.” I did.
She got out, straightened her skirt. She might have said, “Keep me covered.” What was she going to do? Pull a gun? (From where?) A knife, a jar of acid? While I sat here drumming on the steering wheel?
She walked up the front path. It’s an inspiring sight, a magnificent sight, the striding hips of a woman who hasn’t got much to lose and, right now, means serious business.
I waited. The door was opened, a shaft of light. She was actually let in. I waited to hear yells, screams, breaking glass. Remembering my police training. Put in your call first. It was more than a moment, it was almost ten minutes. Then she reappeared.
I’ll never know what she did or said in there, but she walked out in a way that was magnificent too, but different from the way she’d walked in. She held her head up high, breathed the air. She might have swiped one brisk palm against the other. Her moment of glory, of make-do glory, of hollow revenge. I thought of Rachel: where was she now?
Though the revenge wasn’t over yet.
She got back in. She said nothing. For an instant she sat still and rigid as a statue, then she went into cascades of tears, she went liquid. I put a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off. I felt I shouldn’t have been there. Then she pulled herself up, groping in her handbag for a tissue, and said, “Drive! Drive! Get us out of here!” So I drove. She said, “Put your foot down!” as if we’d just robbed a bank.
I drove—in no particular direction. I drove like an ambulance driver, like a cop who’d done time on cars.
Then after a while she said, “Stop! Stop!” There was a dark empty side street, a grass verge, dimly lit. “Stop here, George, stop here!” I thought she was going to be sick—she’d fling open the door and throw up. So I stopped.
Then she lurched across towards me and—how to put this?—dived into my trousers.
In the morning, in her bedroom: more tears. She oozed tears. “I’m sorry. Oh God, I’m sorry.” As if she’d dragged me there by force. A hand clapped over her face. “Oh God, what a mess. You’d better go.”
But it was a Sunday morning in January, grey, bleak and cold, and after a while she got up and was gone for maybe half an hour. She’d paused and turned in the doorway first. “How do you like your eggs?”
She came back with a tray. Tea, toast, marmalade. She’d taken a shower, she’d done things to her face, her hair, slapped on some scent. And she was wearing a pale-pink fluffy dressing-gown, inside which her tits huddled and snuggled up to each other.
An empty bed, George.
Mr. Rebound.
The truth is she wasn’t the first. Who else do they have to lean on, to console them? And, God knows, you have to have a heart. And sometimes it’s just at the point that you think they’ll collapse completely, they’ll go to pieces, that, strangely, they brighten up, they bristle, they find a new fire. Their friend in need. Mr. Quick Revenge.
I’d never have guessed it. It’s supposed to be a loner’s job, a loser’s job. A shabby, shady, dead-end job. Matrimonial work.
And I’d never have guessed there was this other person inside me: a womanizer, a woman specialist. Sleeping with my clients. Each one with the same worrying complaint: they aren’t getting loved any more. All part of the service. Your agent, your confidant, your bosom-pal.
Though it’s true: not every one. One or two—well, three. Some of them wouldn’t have touched me with a barge-pole.
I told Helen. Maybe she’d guessed—she could read my face. It was after she told me about Clare. My turn now. And the strange thing was a bit of her was shocked—or she was good at pretending—more shocked than I’d been. Though what she did next was laugh. Well, who’d have guessed? Her old dad, her policeman dad.
But wasn’t it a time-honoured remedy—and only what she’d half-recommended, half-urged? Sitting there in the candlelight, being wined and dined. You wash away one woman with a blur of others. You press away memories as you press down flesh.
(And it was her revenge, too, on her mother?)
“So there you are, Helen—now you know.”
What shall I say? I let myself be used, get pounced on? But I didn’t exactly resist. I was even ready to pounce, myself. All included, no extra charge. The first time I slept with a client I thought: so what happens now, about the fee—I forget it? But what would that make her? So I took the cheque. What did that make me?
A phase? A cure? Hollow revenge? A different kind of hound on a different kind of scent.
Until I felt used-up, or emptied, or just plain worse-for-wear. Till Helen’s look was no longer intrigued, amused, even vaguely conspiring—just a little sad.
Was this how it was? I was just going to the bad? Looking after myself (eating well), but letting myself go. Fucking clients. Swigging now and then out of that bottle in the office that was meant to be just for them.
Corrupt as they come.
I thought her husband might come back at any moment (his name was Terry). The standard scene. A Sunday morning: bursting in. Double revenge. But she said no, no chance of that. Not after last night.
Whatever she’d done.
So I didn’t leave till after four in the afternoon. Sneaking away under cover of dark.
She couldn’t cook scrambled eggs (you have to take them from the heat when they’re still not quite done). Later I found out she couldn’t cook much at all. Not her strong point. Her strong points were elsewhere—like in walking into an office, taking a cool look around and knowing how to put it into shape. But they didn’t stop there. She had a talent for detection too, so it proved. She’d never known it was there.
Something else that happens too: they get a taste, a glimpse, a hankering. Undercover work. I could do this too.
But with Rita it wasn’t just a fancy, it was real. She had the knack, she had the makings. She was good at it. All her life and she’d never known: she could be a detective. These unsuspected people inside us. And why work in a factory making empty cardboard boxes, letting your talents go to waste?
“You need help, you know, George” (while she cleared away the tray). “That office is a tip. You need sorting out—you need more than just you.”
So in the end I took her on. I took her in. On a strictly professional basis, of course. And I started giving her jobs—assignments—outside the office. Nothing too tricky at first. But there are some jobs that are best done by a woman, or in combination with a woman. And she was good at it, no question, she’s never let me down. A real find. One of those women whose fate it is to be told they’re worth their weight in gold.
“My weight in gold? That won’t help me keep my figure, will it, George?” Running her hands down over her hips.
She’s there right now—holding the fort.
Where would I be without you, Rita? I think I’m about to find out.
And I might have given her the Nash job, I nearly might.