The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [377]
There was an excited knock at the door. It was Ibb. It had been looking more feminine all week and had even gone so far as to put on haughty airs all day Wednesday. Obb, on the other hand, had been insisting it was right about everything, knew everything, and had sulked when I proved it wrong, and we all knew where that was leading.
“Hello, Ibb,” I said, placing the sketch aside, “how are you?”
Ibb replied by unzipping and opening the top of its overalls.
“Look!” she said excitedly, showing me her breasts.
“Congratulations,” I said slowly, still feeling a bit groggy, “you’re a her.”
“I know!” said Ibb, hardly able to contain her excitement. “Do you want to see the rest?”
“No, thanks, I believe you.”
“Can I borrow a bra?” she asked, moving her shoulders up and down. “These things aren’t terribly comfortable.”
“I don’t think mine would fit you,” I said hurriedly, “you’re a lot bigger than I am.”
“Oh,” she answered, slightly crestfallen, then added, “How about a hair tie and a brush? I can’t do a thing with this hair. Up, down—perhaps I should have it cut—and I so wish it were curly!”
“Ibb, it’s fine, really.”
“Lola,” she corrected me, “I want you to call me Lola from now on.”
“Very well, Lola, sit on the bed.”
So Lola sat while I brushed her hair and she nattered on about a weight-loss idea she had had, which seemed to revolve around weighing yourself with one foot on the scale and one on the floor. Using this idea, she told me, she could lose as much weight as she wanted and not give up cakes. Then she started talking about this great new thing that she had discovered that was so much fun she thought she’d be doing it quite a lot—and she reckoned she’d have no trouble getting men to assist.
“Just be careful,” I told her. “Think before you do what you do with whom.” It was advice my mother had given me. I expected Lola would ignore it as much as I had.
“Oh, yes,” Lola assured me, “I’ll be very careful—I’ll always ask them their name first.”
When I had finished, she stared at herself in the mirror for a moment, gave me a big hug and skipped out the door. I dressed slowly and walked into the kitchen.
Obb was sitting at the table painting a Napoleonic cavalry officer the height of a pen top. He was gazing intently at the miniature horseman and glowering with concentration. He had developed into a dark-haired and handsome man of at least six foot three over the past few days, with a deep voice and measured speech; he also looked about fifty. I suspected it was now a he but hoped he wouldn’t try to demonstrate it in the same way that Lola had.
“Morning, Obb,” I said, “breakfast?”
He dropped the horseman on the floor.
“Now look what you’ve made me do!” he growled, adding, “Toast, please, and coffee—and it’s Randolph, not Obb.”
“Congratulations,” I told him, but he only grunted in reply, found the cavalry officer and carried on with his painting.
Lola bounced into the living room, saw Randolph and stopped for a moment to stare at her nails demurely, hoping he would turn to look at her. He didn’t. So she stood closer and said:
“Good morning, Randolph.”
“Morning,” he grunted without looking up, “how did you sleep?”
“Heavily.”
“Well, you would, wouldn’t you?”
She missed the insult and carried on jabbering. “Wouldn’t yellow be prettier?”
Randolph stopped and stared at her. “Blue is the color of a Napoleonic cavalry officer, Lola. Yellow is the color of custard—and bananas.”
She turned to me and pulled a face, mouthed square and then helped herself to coffee.
“Can we go shopping, then?” she asked me. “If we