The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [243]
“Of course not,” I replied, barely able to conceal my rage. “Isn’t that the point of eradication?”
“I have known Lavoisier for longer than I would care to forget,” intoned Flanker gravely, “and I have never had anything but the highest regard for his integrity. Making wild accusations isn’t going to help your cause one iota.”
I sat down again and rubbed a hand across my face. Dad had been right. Accusing Lavoisier of any wrongdoing was pointless.
“Can I go?”
“I have nothing to hold you on, Next. But I’ll find something. Every agent is on the make. It’s just a question of digging deep enough.”
“How did it go?” asked Bowden when I got back to the office.
“I got an F,” I muttered, sinking into my chair.
“Flanker,” said Bowden, trying on his Eat More Toast cap. “Has to be.”
“How did the stand-up go?”
“Very well, I think,” answered Bowden, dropping the cap in the bin. “The audience seemed to find it very funny indeed. So much so that they want me to come back as a regular—What are you doing?”
I slithered to the floor as quickly as I could and hid under the table. I would have to trust Bowden’s quick wits.
“Hello!” said Miles Hawke as he walked into the room. “Has anyone seen Thursday?”
“I think she’s at her monthly assessment meeting,” replied Bowden, whose deadpan delivery was obviously as well suited to lying as it was to stand-up. “Can I take a message?”
“No, just ask her to get in contact, if she could.”
“Why don’t you stay and wait?” said Bowden. I kicked him under the table.
“No, I’d better run along,” replied Miles. “Just tell her I dropped by, won’t you?”
He walked off and I stood up. Bowden, very unusually for him, was giggling.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing—why don’t you want to see him?”
“Because I might be carrying his baby.”
“You’re going to have to speak up. I can hardly hear you.”
“I might,” I repeated in a hoarse whisper, “be carrying his baby!”
“I thought you said it was Land—What’s the matter now?”
I had dropped to the ground again as Cordelia Flakk walked in. She was scanning the office for me in annoyance, hands on hips.
“Have you seen Thursday about?” she asked Bowden. “She’s got to meet these people of mine.”
“I’m really not sure where she is,” replied Bowden.
“Really? Then who was it I saw ducking under this table?”
“Hello, Cordelia,” I said from beneath the table. “I dropped my pencil.”
“Sure you did.”
I clambered out and sat down at my desk.
“I expected more from you, Bowden,” said Flakk crossly, then turned to me: “Now, Thursday. We promised these two people they could meet you. Do you really want to disappoint them? Your public, you know.”
“They’re not my public, Cordelia, they’re yours. You made them for me.”
“I’ve had to keep them at the Finis for another night,” implored Cordelia. “Costs are escalating. They’re downstairs right now. I knew you’d be in for your assessment. How did you do, by the way?”
“Don’t ask.”
I looked at Bowden, who shrugged. Looking for some sort of rescue, I twisted on my seat to where Victor was running a possible unpublished sequel of 1984 entitled 1985 through the Prose Analyzer. All the other members of the office were busy on their various tasks. It looked like my PR career was just about to restart.
“All right,” I sighed, “I’ll do it.”
“Better than hiding under the desk,” said Bowden. “All that jumping around is probably not good for the baby.”
He clapped his hand over his mouth, but it was too late.
“Baby?” echoed Cordelia. “What baby?”
“Thanks, Bowden.”
“Sorry.”
“Well, congratulations!” said Cordelia, hugging me. “Who is the lucky father?”
“I don’t know.”
“You mean you haven’t told him yet?”
“No, I mean I don’t know. My husband’s, I hope.”
“You’re married?”
“No.”
“But you said—?”
“Yes I did,” I retorted as dryly as I could. “Confusing, isn’t it?”
“This is very bad PR,” muttered Cordelia darkly, sitting on the edge of the desk to steady herself. “The leading light of SpecOps knocked up in a bus shelter by someone she doesn’t even know!”
“Cordelia, it’s not like that—and