The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [501]
“Is it Kaine trying to have me killed?”
“I always respect client confidentiality,” she said quietly, “and I can’t miss forever.”
“Then stop it right now,” I said. “Why do you even need to do it at all?”
She pegged a blue romper on the line.
“Two reasons: first, I’m not going to give up work just because I’m married with a kid, and second, I always complete a contract, no matter what. When I don’t deliver the goods, the clients want refunds. And the Windowmaker doesn’t do refunds.”
“Yes,” I replied, “I was curious about that. Why the Windowmaker?”
She glared at me coldly. “The printers made a mistake on the notepaper, and it would have cost too much to redo. Don’t laugh.”
She hung up a pillowcase.
“I’ll contract you out, Miss Next, but I won’t try today—which gives you some time to get yourself together and leave town once and for all. Somewhere where I can’t find you. And hide well—I’m very good at what I do.”
She took a sideways glance towards the kitchen. I hung up a large SO-17 T-shirt on the line.
“He doesn’t know, does he?” I asked.
“Spike is a fine man,” replied Cindy, “just a little slow on the uptake. You’re not going to tell him, and he’s never going to know. Grab the other end of that sheet, will you?”
I took the end of a dry sheet, and we folded it together.
“I’m not going anywhere, Cindy,” I told her, “and I’ll protect myself in any way I can.”
We stared at one another for a moment. It seemed like such a waste.
“Retire!”
“Never!”
“Why?”
“Because I like it and I’m good at it—would you like some tea, Thursday?”
Spike had entered the garden carrying the baby. “So how are my two favorite ladies?”
“Thursday was helping me with the washing, Spikey,” said Cindy, her hard-as-nails professionalism replaced with a silly sort of girlie ditziness. “I’ll put the kettle on—two sugars, Thursday?”
“One.”
She skipped into the house.
“What do you think?” asked Spike in a low tone. “Isn’t she just the cutest thing ever?”
He was like a fifteen-year-old in love for the first time.
“She’s lovely, Spike. You’re a lucky man.”
“This is Betty,” said Spike, waving the tiny arm of the infant with his huge hand. “One year old. You were right about being honest with Cindy—she didn’t mind me doing all that vampire sh—I mean stuff. In fact, I think she’s kinda proud.”
“You’re a lucky man,” I repeated, wondering just how I was going to avoid making him a widower and the gurgling child motherless.
We walked back into the house, where Cindy was busying herself in the kitchen.
“Where have you been?” asked Spike, depositing Betty next to Friday, where they looked at one another suspiciously. “Prison?”
“No. Somewhere weird. Somewhere other.”
“Will you be returning there?” asked Cindy innocently.
“She’s only just got back!” exclaimed Spike. “We don’t want to be shot of her quite yet.”
“Shot of her—of course not,” replied Cindy, placing a mug of tea on the table. “Have a seat. There are Hobnobs in that novelty dodo biscuit tin over there.”
“Thank you.”
“So,” I continued, “how’s the vampire business?”
“So-so. Been quiet recently. Werewolves the same. I dealt with a few zombies in the city center the other night, but Supreme Evil Being containment work has almost completely dried up. There has been a report of a few ghouls, bogeys and phantoms in Winchester, but it’s not really my area of expertise. There is talk of disbanding the division and then taking me on freelance when they need something done.”
“Is that bad?”
“Not really. I can charge what I want with vampires on the prowl—but in slack times I’d be a bit stuffed. Wouldn’t want to send Cindy out to work full-time, now, would I?”
He laughed, and Cindy laughed with him, handing a rusk to Betty, who gave it an almighty toothless bite and then looked puzzled when there was no effect. Friday took it off her and showed how it was done.
“So what are you up to at present?” asked Spike.
“Not much. I was just dropping in before I went off up to Goliathopolis—my