The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [169]
“Thursday, darling!” interrupted Gloria, Wilbur’s wife. Formerly a Volescamper, she had married Wilbur under the accidental misapprehension that A: he would be coming into a fortune and B: he was as intelligent as his father. She had been wrong—in a spectacular fashion—on both counts.
“Darling, you are looking simply divine—have you lost weight?”
“I have no idea, Gloria, but . . . you’re looking different.”
And she was. Habitually dressed to the nines in expensive clothes, hats, makeup and lashings of what-have-you, tonight Gloria was dressed in chinos and a shirt. She hardly wore any makeup and her hair, usually perfectly coiffured, was tied up in a ponytail with a black scrunchie.
“What do you think?” she asked, doing a twirl for us both.
“What happened to the £500 dresses?” asked Landen. “Bailiffs been in?”
“No, this is all the rage—and you should know, Thursday. FeMole is promoting the Thursday Next look. This is very much ‘in’ at present.”
“Ridiculous,” I told her, wondering if there was an end to the ludicrous media spin-offs from the whole Eyre thing. Cordelia had gone so far as to license jigsaw puzzles and action figures before I had a chance to stop her. I wondered if she’d had a hand in this, too.
“If Bonzo the Wonder Hound had rescued Jane Eyre,” I asked, trying to keep a straight face, “would you all be wearing studded collars and smelling each other’s bottoms?”
“There is no need to be offensive,” replied Gloria haughtily as she looked me up and down. “You should be honored. Mind you, the December issue of FeMole thinks that a brown leather flier’s jacket is more in keeping with ‘the look.’ Your black leather is a little bit passé, I’m afraid. And those shoes—hell’s teeth!”
“Wait a moment!” I returned. “How can you tell me that I don’t have the Thursday Next look? I am Thursday Next!”
“Fashions evolve, Thursday—I’ve heard that next month’s fashions will be marine invertebrates. You should enjoy it while you can.”
“Marine invertebrates?” echoed Landen. “What happened to that squidlike jumper of your mum’s? We could be sitting on a fortune!”
“Can neither of you be serious?” asked Gloria disdainfully. “If you’re not in you’re out, and where would you be then?”
“Out, I guess,” I replied. “Land, what do you think?”
“Totally out, Thurs.”
We stared at her half smiling, and she laughed. Gloria was a good sort once you broke down the barriers. Wilbur, seizing the chance to tell us more about his fascinating new job, carried on as soon as his wife stopped talking.
“I’m now on £20K plus car and a good pension package. I could take voluntary retirement at fifty-five and still draw two-thirds of my wage. What is the SpecOps retirement fund like?”
“Crap, Wilbur—but you know that.”
A slightly smaller and more follicularly challenged version of Wilbur walked up.
“Hello, Thursday.”
“Hello, Orville. How’s the ear?”
“Just the same. What was that you were saying about retiring at fifty-five, Will?”
In all the excitement of pension plans I was forgotten. Charlotte, who was Orville’s wife, also had the Thursday Next look; she and Gloria fell eagerly into untaxing conversation about whether leather shoes in “the look” should be worn above or below the ankle and whether a small amount of eyeliner was acceptable. As usual, Charlotte tended to agree with Gloria; in fact, she tended to agree with everybody about everything. She was as hospitable as the day was long; just don’t get caught in an elevator with her—she could agree you to death.
We left them to their conversation, and I walked into the living room, deftly catching the wrist of my elder brother Joffy, who had been hoping to give me a resounding slap on the back of my head as was his thirty-five-year-old custom. I twisted his arm into a half nelson and had his face pressed against the door before he knew what had happened.
“Hello, Joff,” I said. “Slowing up in your old age?”
I let him go, he laughed energetically, straightened his jaw and dog collar and hugged me tightly while proffering a hand for Landen to shake. Landen,