So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish - Douglas Adams [24]
“What do you mean?”
She twirled the little wooden cocktail stick in her tomato juice.
“It’s why I asked if you were a friend of my brother’s. Or half-brother really. He’s the only one who calls me Fenny, and I’m not fond of him for it.”
“So, what’s …?”
“Fenchurch.”
“What?”
“Fenchurch.”
“Fenchurch.”
She looked at him sternly.
“Yes,” she said, “and I’m watching you like a lynx to see if you’re going to ask the same silly question that everyone asks me till I want to scream. I shall be cross and disappointed if you do. Plus I shall scream. So watch it.”
She smiled, shook her hair a little forward over her face and peered at him from behind it.
“Oh,” he said, “that’s a little unfair, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.”
“All right,” she said with a laugh, “you can ask me. Might as well get it over with. Better than having you call me Fenny all the time.”
“Presumably…” said Arthur.
“We’ve only got two tickets left, you see, and since you were so generous when I spoke to you before—”
“What?” snapped Arthur.
The woman with the perm and the smile and the now nearly empty book of cloakroom tickets was waving the two last ones under his nose.
“I thought I’d give the opportunity to you, because the prizes are so nice.”
She wrinkled up her nose a little confidentially.
“Very tasteful. I know you’ll like them. And it is for Anjie’s retirement present, you see. We want to give her—”
“A kidney machine, yes,” said Arthur, “here.”
He held out two more ten-pence pieces to her, and took the tickets.
A thought seemed to strike the woman. It struck her very slowly. You could watch it coming in like a long wave on a sandy beach.
“Oh dear,” she said, “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
She peered anxiously at both of them.
“No, it’s fine,” said Arthur, “everything that could possibly be fine,” he insisted, “is fine.
“Thank you,” he added.
“I say,” she said, in a delighted ecstasy of worry, “you’re not… in love, are you?”
“It’s very hard to say,” said Arthur. “We haven’t had a chance to talk yet.”
He glanced at Fenchurch. She was grinning.
The woman nodded with knowing confidentiality.
“I’ll let you see the prizes in a minute,” she said, and left.
Arthur turned, with a sigh, back to the girl that he found it hard to say whether he was in love with.
“You were about to ask me,” she said, “a question.”
“Yes,” said Arthur.
“We can do it together if you like,” said Fenchurch. “Was I found…”
“… in a handbag,” joined in Arthur.
“… in the Left Luggage office,” they said together.
“… at Fenchurch Street Station,” they finished.
“And the answer,” said Fenchurch, “is no.”
“Fine,” said Arthur.
“I was conceived there.”
“What?”
“I was con—”
“In the Left Luggage office?” hooted Arthur.
“No, of course not. Don’t be silly. What would my parents be doing in the Left Luggage office?” she said, rather taken aback by the suggestion.
“Well, I don’t know,” sputtered Arthur, “or rather—”
“It was in the ticket queue.”
“The—”
“The ticket queue. Or so they claim. They refuse to elaborate. They only say you wouldn’t believe how bored it is possible to get in the ticket queue at Fenchurch Street Station.”
She sipped demurely at her tomato juice and looked at her watch.
Arthur continued to gurgle chirpily for a moment or two.
“I’m going to have to go in a minute or two,” said Fenchurch, “and you haven’t begun to tell me whatever this terrifically extraordinary thing is that you were so keen to get off your chest.”
“Why don’t you let me drive you to London?” said Arthur. “It’s Saturday, I’ve got nothing particular to do, I’d—”
“No,” said Fenchurch, “thank you, it’s sweet of you, but no. I need to be by myself for a couple of days.” She smiled and shrugged.
“But—”
“You can tell me another time. I’ll give you my number.”
Arthur’s heart went boom boom churn churn as she scribbled seven figures in pencil on a scrap of paper and handed it to him.
“Now we can relax,” she said with a slow smile which filled Arthur till he thought he would burst.
“Fenchurch,” he said, enjoying the name as he said it, “I—”
“A box,” said