The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [431]
Enter Ghost.
MACBETH
Avaunt, and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee!
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
Which thou dost glare with.
LADY MACBETH
Think of this, good peers,
But as a thing of custom. ’Tis no other,
Only it spoils the pleasure of the time.
MACBETH
What man dare, I dare.
Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear,
The arm’d rhinoceros, or th’ Hyrcan tiger;
Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves
Shall never tremble. Or be alive again
And dare me to the desert with thy sword.
If trembling I inhabit then, protest me
The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow!
Unreal mock’ry, hence!
Exit Ghost.
“And the winner is,” announced the emcee, opening the envelope, “. . . Count Dracula.”
The applause was deafening as the Count walked up to receive his award. He shook hands with the emcee and took the statuette before turning to the audience. He was white and cadaverous and I shivered involuntarily.
“First,” said the Count in a soft voice with a slight lisp, “my thanks go to Bram for his admirable reporting of my activities. I would also like to thank Lucy, Mr. Harker and Van Helsing—”
“I hope he’s not going to start crying like he did last year,” said a voice close to my ear. I turned to find the Cheshire Cat sitting precariously on a seat back. “It’s so embarrassing.”
But he did. The Count was soon choking back floods of tears, thanking everyone he could think of and generally making a complete fool of himself.
“How are you enjoying the awards?” I said to the Cat, glad to see a friendly face.
“Not bad. I think Orlando was a bit miffed to lose out to Puss in Boots for the Best Talking Cat award.”
“My money was on you.”
“Was it really?” said the Cat, smiling even more broadly. “You are nice. Do you want some advice?”
“Indeed I do.” The Cheshire Cat had always remained totally impartial at Jurisfiction. A hundred Bellmans could come and go, but the Cat would always be there—and his knowledge was vast. I leaned closer.
“Okay,” he announced grandly, “here’s the advice. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t get off a bus while it’s still moving.”
“That’s very good advice,” I said slowly. “Thank you very much.”
“Don’t mention it,” said the Cat, and vanished.
“Hello, Thursday.”
“Hi, Randolph. How are things?”
“Okay,” he said slightly doubtfully. “Have you seen Lola?”
“No.”
“Unlike her to miss a party,” he muttered. “Do you think she’s okay?”
“I think Lola can look after herself. Why are you so interested?”
“I’m going to tell her that I quite like her!” he answered resolutely.
“Why stop there?”
“You mean tell her I really like her?”
“And more—but it’s a good place to start.”
“Thanks. If you see her, tell her I’m on the Unplaced Generics table.”
I wished him good luck and he left. I got up and walked to a curtained-off area where several bookies were taking bets. I placed a hundred on Jay Gatsby to win the Most Troubled Romantic Lead (Male) Award. I didn’t think he would win; I just wanted Tweed to waste time trying to figure out what I was up to. I joined the Caversham Heights table soon afterwards and sat down next to Mary, who had returned for the awards.
“What’s going on in the book?” she demanded indignantly. “Jack tells me he’s been changing a few things whilst I’ve been away!”
“Just a few,” I said, “but don’t worry, we wouldn’t write anything embarrassing for you without consultation.”
Her eyes flicked across to Arnie, who was sharing a joke with Captain Nemo and Agatha Diesel.
“Just as well,” she replied.
The evening drew on, the celebrities announcing the nominations becoming more important as the categories became more highly regarded. Best Romantic Male went to Darcy and Best Female in a Coming-of-Age Book went to Scout Finch. I looked at the clock. Only ten minutes to go before the prestigious Most Troubled Romantic Lead (Male) was due to be announced; the female version of this award had been well represented by Thomas Hardy; Bathsheba Everdene and Tess