The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [415]
“That would be nice, thank you,” I spluttered as Mrs. Bradshaw stared at me with her dark, deep-set eyes.
“Excellent! I’ll be out in a jiffy to join you. Feet, Trafford.”
“What? Oh!” said Bradshaw, taking his boots off the chair opposite. When Mrs. Bradshaw had left, he turned and said to me in a serious whisper, “Tell me, did you notice anything odd about the memsahib?”
“Er,” I began, not wanting to hurt his feelings, “not really.”
“Think, it’s important. Is there anything about her that strikes you as a little out of the ordinary?”
“Well, she’s only wearing a pinafore,” I managed to say.
“Does that bother you?” he asked in all seriousness. “Whenever male visitors attend, I always have her cover up. She’s a fine-looking gal, wouldn’t you agree? Drive any man wild, wouldn’t you say?”
“Very fine.”
He shuffled in his chair and drew closer. “Anything else?” he said, staring at me intently. “Anything at all. I won’t be upset.”
“Well,” I began slowly, “I couldn’t help noticing that she was . . .”
“Yes?”
“. . . a gorilla.”
“Hmm,” he said, leaning back, “our little subterfuge didn’t fool you, then?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Melanie!” he shouted. “Please come and join us.”
Mrs. Bradshaw lumbered back onto the veranda and sat in one of the club armchairs, which creaked under her weight.
“She knows, my love.”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Bradshaw, producing a fan and hiding her face. “However did you find out?”
A servant appeared with a tray of teas, left them on the table, bowed and withdrew.
“Is it the hair?” she asked, delicately pouring the tea with her feet.
“Partly,” I admitted.
“I told you the powder wouldn’t cover it up,” she said to Bradshaw in a scolding tone, “and I’m not shaving. It makes one itch so. One lump or two?”
“One please,” I replied. “Is it a problem?”
“It’s no problem here,” said Mrs. Bradshaw. “I often feature in my husband’s books and nowhere does it specify precisely that I am anything but human.”
“We’ve been married for over fifty years,” added Bradshaw. “The problem is that we’ve had an invitation to the Bookies next week and Melanie here is a little awkward in public.”
“To hell with them all,” I replied. “Anyone who can’t accept that the woman you love is a gorilla isn’t worth counting as a friend!”
“Do you know,” said Mrs. Bradshaw, “I think she’s right. Trafford?”
“Right also!” He grinned. “Appreciate a woman who knows when to call a wife a gorilla. Hoorah! Lemon sponge, anyone?”
I took the elevator to the twenty-sixth floor and walked out into the lobby of the Council of Genres, clasping the orders that the Bellman had given me.
“Excuse me,” I said to the receptionist, who was busy fielding calls on a footnoterphone, “I have to report to Mr. Solomon.”
“Seventh door on the left,” she said without looking up. I walked down the corridor amongst the thronging mass of bureaucrats walking briskly hither and thither clasping buff files as though their lives and existence depended on it, which they probably did.
I found the correct door. It opened onto a large waiting room full of bored people who all clutched numbered tickets and stared vacantly at the ceiling. At a door at the far end was a desk manned by a single receptionist. He stared at my sheet when I presented it, sniffed and said, “How did you know I was single?”
“When?”
“Just then, in your description of me.”
“I meant single as in solitary.”
“Ah. You’re late. I’ll wait ten minutes for you and ‘His Lordship’ to get acquainted, then send the first lot in. Okay?”
“I guess.”
I opened the door to reveal another long room, this time with a single table at the far end of it. Sitting at the desk was an elderly, bewhiskered man dressed in long robes, who was dictating a letter to a stenographer. The walls of the room were covered with copies of letters from satisfied clients; he obviously took himself very seriously.
“Thank you for your letter dated the seventh of this month,” said the elderly man as I walked closer. “I am sorry to inform you that this office no longer deals with problems arising with or appertaining to junkfootnoterphones.