A Dangerous Fortune - Ken Follett [141]
“Don’t you know me, April?” said Maisie; and at once April shrieked with delight and jumped up and threw her arms around her.
When they had embraced and kissed, April turned to the other women in the kitchen and said: “Girls, this is the woman who did what we all dream of. Formerly Miriam Rabinowicz, later Maisie Robinson, she is now Mrs. Solomon Greenbourne!”
The women all cheered as if Maisie were some kind of hero. She felt bashful: she had not anticipated that April would give such a frank account of her story—especially in front of Emily Pilaster—but it was too late now.
“Let’s have a gin to celebrate,” April said. They sat down and one of the women produced a bottle and some glasses and poured them drinks. Maisie had never enjoyed gin, and now that she was accustomed to the best champagne she liked it even less, but she knocked it back to be companionable. She saw Emily sip hers and grimace. Their glasses were immediately recharged.
“Well, what brings you here?” April said.
“A marital problem,” Maisie said. “My friend here has an impotent husband.”
“Bring him here, my love,” April said to Emily. “We’ll sort him out.”
“He’s already a customer, I suspect,” Maisie said.
“What’s his name?”
“Edward Pilaster.”
April was startled. “My God.” She stared hard at Emily. “So you’re Emily. You poor cow.”
“You know my name,” Emily said. She looked mortified. “That means he speaks to you about me.” She drank some more gin.
One of the other women said: “Edward’s not impotent.”
Emily blushed.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “Only he usually asks for me.” She was a tall girl with dark hair and a deep bosom. Maisie thought she did not look very impressive in her grubby robe, smoking a cigarette like a man; but perhaps she was attractive when she was dressed up.
Emily recovered her composure. “It’s so strange,” she said. “He’s my husband, but you know more about him than I do. And I don’t even know your name.”
“Lily.”
There was a moment of awkward silence. Maisie sipped her drink: the second gin tasted better than the first. This was a very bizarre scene: the kitchen, the women in déshabillé, the cigarettes and gin, and Emily, who an hour ago had not been sure what sexual intercourse consisted of, discussing her husband’s impotence with his favorite whore.
“Well,” April said briskly, “now you know the answer to the question. Why is Edward impotent with his wife? Because Micky’s not around. He can never get hard if he’s alone with a woman.”
“Micky?” said Emily incredulously. “Micky Miranda? The Cordovan Minister?”
April nodded. “They do everything together, especially here. Once or twice Edward has come in on his own but it never works.”
Emily was looking bewildered. Maisie asked the obvious question: “What, exactly, do they do?”
It was Lily who answered. “Nothing very complicated. Over the years they’ve tried several variations. At the moment what they like is, the two of them go to bed with one girl, usually me or Muriel.”
Maisie said: “But Edward really does it, properly, does he? I mean, he gets hard, and everything?”
Lily nodded. “No question of that.”
“Do you think that’s the only way he could ever manage it?”
Lily frowned. “I don’t think it matters much exactly what happens, how many girls and so on. If Micky is there, it works, and if he’s not, it doesn’t.”
Maisie said: “Almost as if Micky is the one Edward really loves.”
Emily said faintly: “I feel as if I’m in a dream, or something.” She took a long swallow of gin. “Can all this be true? Do these things really go on?