Mostly Harmless - Douglas Adams [5]
“Not happy”?
She was completely bewildered. Was this Woody Allen trying to contact her under an assumed name? It was a 212 area code number. So it was someone in New York. Who was not happy. Well, that narrowed it down a bit, didn’t it?
She went back to the receptionist at the desk.
“I have a problem with this message you just gave me,” she said. “Someone I don’t know has tried to call me and says she’s not happy.”
The receptionist peered at the note with a frown.
“Do you know this person?” he said.
“No,” Tricia said.
“Hmmm,” said the receptionist. “Sounds like she’s not happy about something.”
“Yes,” said Tricia.
“Looks like there’s a name here,” said the receptionist. “Gail Andrews. Do you know anybody of that name?”
“No,” said Tricia.
“Any idea what she’s unhappy about?”
“No,” said Tricia.
“Have you called the number? There’s a number here.”
“No,” said Tricia, “you only just gave me the note. I’m just trying to get some more information before I ring back. Perhaps I could talk to the person who took the call?”
“Hmmm,” said the receptionist, scrutinizing the note carefully. “I don’t think we have anybody called Gail Andrews here.”
“No, I realize that,” said Tricia. “I just-”
“I’m Gail Andrews.”
The voice came from behind Tricia. She turned around.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m Gail Andrews. You interviewed me this morning.”
“Oh. Oh, good heavens, yes,” said Tricia, slightly flustered.
“I left the message for you a few hours ago. I hadn’t heard so I came by. I didn’t want to miss you.”
“Oh. No. Of course,” said Tricia, trying hard to get up to speed.
“I don’t know about this,” said the receptionist, for whom speed was not an issue. “Would you like me to try this number for you now?”
“No, that’ll be fine, thanks,” said Tricia. “I can handle it now.”
“I can call this room number here for you if that’ll help,” said the receptionist, peering at the note again.
“No, that won’t be necessary, thanks,” said Tricia. “That’s my own room number. I’m the one the message was for. I think we’ve sorted this out now.”
“You have a nice day now,” said the receptionist.
Tricia didn’t particularly want to have a nice day. She was busy.
She also didn’t want to talk to Gail Andrews. She had a very strict cut-off point as far as fraternizing with the Christians was concerned. Her colleagues called her interview subjects Christians and would often cross themselves when they saw one walking innocently into the studio to face Tricia, particularly if Tricia was smiling warmly and showing her teeth.
She turned and smiled frostily, wondering what to do.
Gail Andrews was a well-groomed woman in her mid-forties. Her clothes fell within the boundaries defined by expensive good taste, but were definitely huddled up at the floatier end of those boundaries. She was an astrologer-a famous and, if rumor were true, influential astrologer, having allegedly influenced a number of decisions made by the late President Hudson, including everything from which flavor of Cool Whip to have on which day of the week to whether or not to bomb Damascus.
Tricia had savaged her more than somewhat. Not on the grounds of whether or not the stories about the president were true, that was old hat now. At the time Ms. Andrews had emphatically denied advising President Hudson on anything other than personal, spiritual or dietary matters, which did not, apparently, include the bombing of Damascus. (NOTHING PERSONAL, DAMASCUS! the tabloids had hooted at the time.)
No, this was a neat topical little angle that Tricia had come up with about the whole issue of astrology itself. Ms. Andrews had not been entirely ready for it. Tricia, on the other hand, was not entirely ready for a rematch in the hotel lobby. What to do?
“I can wait for you in the bar, if you need a few minutes,” said Gail Andrews. “But I would like to talk to you, and I’m leaving the city