The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [485]
“Braxton,” I said, giving him a spontaneous hug, “you’re a darling!”
“Nonsense!” he said gruffly, and a tad embarrassed. “But I do expect a little something in return.”
“And that is?”
“Well,” he said slowly, his eyes dropping to the ground, “I wonder if you and I might—”
“Might what?”
“Might . . . play golf on Sunday. A few holes.” His eyes gleamed. “Just for you to get the taste. Believe me, as soon as you grasp the handle of a golf club, you’ll be hooked forever! Mrs. Hicks need never know. How about it?”
“I’ll be there at nine,” I told him, laughing.
“You’ll be a long time waiting—I get there at eleven.”
“Eleven it is.”
I shook his hand and walked out of the door a free woman. Sometimes help arrives from the last place you expect it.
7.
The Literary Detectives
Goliath Corporation Publishes Broad Denial
The Goliath Corporation yesterday attempted to head off annoying and time-wasting speculation by issuing the broadest denial to date. “Quite simply, we deny everything,” said Mr. Toedee, the Goliath head PR operative, “including any story that you might have heard now or in the future.” Goliath’s shock tactics reflected the growing unease with Goliath’s unaccountability, especially over its advanced weapons division. “It’s very simple,” continued Mr. Toedee. “Until we have been elevated to a Faith when everything can be denied using the ‘Goliath works in mysterious ways’ excuse, we expressly deny possessing, or any involvement with, the Ovinator, Anti-Smite technology, Speedgrow tomatoes or Diatrymas running wild in the New Forest. In fact, we don’t know what any of these things are.” To cries of “What is an Ovinator?” and “Tomatoes?” Mr. Toedee declared the press conference over, blessed everyone and departed.
Article in The Toad on Sunday, July 3, 1988
I found Bowden fretting in the LiteraTec office and related what had happened.
“Well, well,” he said at last, “I think old Braxton’s got a crush.”
“Oh, stop it!”
The office we were sitting in resembled a large library in a country house somewhere. It was two stories high, with shelves crammed full of books covering every square inch of wall space. A spiral staircase led to a catwalk that ran around the wall, enabling access to the upper galleries. It was neat and methodical—but somehow less busy than I remembered.
“Where is everyone?”
“When you were here last, we had a staff of eight. Now it’s only Victor, me, and Malin. All the rest were reassigned or laid off.”
“All SpecOps departments?”
Bowden laughed. “Of course not! The bullyboys at SO-14 are alive and well and answer to Yorrick Kaine’s every order. SO-1 hasn’t seen many cuts, either—”
“Thursday, what a delightful surprise!”
It was Victor Analogy, my old boss here at the Swindon LiteraTecs. He was an elderly gentlemen with large muttonchop side-burns and was dressed in a neat tweed suit and bow tie. He had taken off his jacket due to the summer heat but still managed to cut a very dashing figure, despite his advanced age.
“Victor, you’re looking very well!”
“And you, dear girl. What devilry have you been up to since last we met?”
“It’s a long story.”
“The best sort. Let me guess: inside fiction?”
“In one.”
“What’s it like?”
“It’s quite good, really. Confusing at times and subject to moments of extreme imaginative overload, but varied, and the weather’s generally pretty good. Can we talk safely in here?”
Victor nodded, and we sat down. I told them about Jurisfiction, the Council of Genres and everything else that had happened to me during my tenure as Bellman. I even told them loosely about my involvement in The Solution of Edwin Drood, which amused them both no end.
“I’ve always wondered about that,” mused