The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [224]
PROFESSOR M. BLESSINGTON, PR (ret.),
The Global Standard Deity
IPAID TO HAVE my car released with a check that I felt sure would bounce, then drove home and had a snack and a shower before driving over to Wanborough and Joffy’s first Les Artes Modernes de Swindon exhibition. Joffy had asked me for a list of my colleagues to boost the numbers, so I fully expected to see some work people there. I had even asked Cordelia, who I had to admit was great fun when not in PR mode. The art exhibition was being held in the Global Standard Deity church at Wanborough and had been opened by Frankie Saveloy a half hour before I arrived. It seemed quite busy as I stepped inside. All the pews had been moved out, and artists, critics, press and potential purchasers milled amongst the eclectic collection of art. I grabbed a glass of wine from a passing waiter, suddenly remembered I shouldn’t be drinking, sniffed at it longingly and put it down again. Joffy, looking very smart indeed in a dinner jacket and dog collar, leapt forward when he saw me, grinning wildly.
“Hello, Doofus!” he said, hugging me affectionately. “Glad you could make it. Have you met Mr. Saveloy?”
Without waiting for an answer, he propelled me towards a puffy man who stood quite alone at the side of the room. He introduced me as quickly as he could and then legged it. Frankie Saveloy was the compère of Name That Fruit! and looked more like a toad in real life than he did on TV. I half expected a long sticky tongue to shoot out and capture a wayward fly, but I smiled politely nonetheless.
“Mr. Saveloy?” I said, offering my hand. He took it in his clammy mitt and held on to it tightly.
“Delighted!” grunted Saveloy, his eyes flicking to my cleavage. “I’m sorry we couldn’t get you to appear on my show—but you’re probably feeling quite honored to meet me, just the same.”
“Quite the reverse,” I assured him, retrieving my hand forcibly.
“Ah!” said Saveloy, grinning so much the sides of his mouth almost met his ears and I feared the top of his head might fall off. “I have my Rolls-Royce outside—perhaps you might like to join me for a ride?”
“I think,” I replied, “that I would sooner eat rusty nails.”
He didn’t seem in the least put out. He grinned some more and said: “Shame to put such magnificent hooters to waste, Miss Next.”
I raised my hand to slap him but my wrist was caught by Cordelia Flakk, who had decided to intervene.
“Up to your old tricks, Frankie?”
Saveloy grimaced at Cordelia.
“Damn you, Dilly—out to spoil my fun!”
“Come on, Thursday, there are plenty of bigger fools to waste your time on than this one.”
Flakk had dropped the bright pink outfit for a more reserved shade but was still able to fog film at forty yards. She took me by the hand and steered me towards some of the art on display.
“You have been leading me around the houses a bit, Thursday,” she said testily. “I only need ten minutes of your time with those guests of mine!”
“Sorry, Dilly. Things have been a bit hectic. Where are they?”
“Well,” she replied, “they were meant to be both performing in Richard III at the Ritz.”
“Meant to be?”
“They were late and missed curtain up. Can you please make time for them both tomorrow?”
“I’ll try.”
“Good.”
We approached a small scrum where one of the featured artists was presenting his latest work to an attentive audience composed mostly of art critics who all wore collarless black suits and were scribbling notes in their catalogues.
“So,” said one of the critics, gazing at the piece through his half-moon spectacles, “tell us all about it, Mr. Duchamp2924.”
“I call it The Id Within,” said the young artist in a quiet voice, avoiding everyone’s gaze and pressing his fingertips together. He was dressed in a long black cloak and had sideburns cut so sharp that if he turned abruptly he would have had someone’s eye out. He continued: “Like life, my piece reflects the many different layers that cocoon and restrict us in society today. The outer layer—reflecting yet counterpoising the harsh exoskeleton we all display—is hard, thin, yet somehow