The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [531]
And before I could stop her, she opened the door to the living room to reveal—Friday, alone, asleep on the sofa.
My mother looked confused and stared at me.
“Thursday, just what is going on?”
“I can’t even begin to explain it,” I replied, wondering where Melanie had gone. It’s a big room, but not nearly large enough to hide a gorilla. I leaned in and saw that the French windows were ajar. “Must have been a trick of the light.”
“Trick of the light?”
“Yes. May I?”
I closed the door and froze as I noticed Melanie tiptoeing across the lawn, fully visible through the kitchen windows.
“How can it be a trick of the light?”
“I’m . . . not really sure,” I stammered. “Have you changed the curtains in here? They look kind of different.”
“No. Why didn’t you want me to look in the living room?”
“Because . . . because . . . I asked Mrs. Beatty to look after Friday, and I knew you didn’t approve, but now she’s gone and everything is okay.”
“Ah!” said my mother, satisfied at last. I breathed a sigh of relief. I’d got away with it.
“Goodness!” said Hamlet, pointing. “Isn’t that a gorilla in the garden?”
All eyes swiveled outside, where Melanie stopped in midstride over the sweet williams. She paused for a moment, gave an embarrassed smile and waved her hand in greeting.
“Where?” said my mother. “All I can see is an unusually hairy woman tiptoeing through my sweet williams.”
“That’s Mrs. Bradshaw,” I murmured, casting an angry glance at Hamlet. “She’s been doing some child care for me.”
“Well, don’t be so rude and let her wander around the garden, Thursday—ask her in!”
Mum put down her shopping and filled the kettle. “Poor Mrs. Bradshaw must think us dreadfully inhospitable. Do you suppose she’d fancy a slice of Battenberg?”
Hamlet and Emma stared at me, and I shrugged. I beckoned Melanie into the house and introduced her to my mother.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Melanie. “You have a very lovely grandchild.”
“Thank you,” Mum replied, as though the effort had been entirely hers. “I do my best.”
“I’ve just come back from Trafalgar,” I said, turning to Lady Hamilton. “Dad’s restored your husband, and he said he’d pick you up at eight-thirty tomorrow.”
“Oh!” she said, with not quite as much enthusiasm as I had hoped. “That’s . . . that’s wonderful news.”
“Yes,” added Hamlet more sullenly, “wonderful news.”
They looked at one another.
“I’d better go and pack,” said Emma.
“Yes,” replied Hamlet, “I’ll help you.”
And they both left the kitchen.
“What’s wrong with them?” asked Melanie, helping herself to a slice of the proffered cake and sitting down on one of the chairs, which creaked ominously.
“Lovesick,” I replied. And I think they genuinely were.
“So, Mrs. Bradshaw,” began my mother, settling into business mode, “I have recently become an agent for some beauty products, many of which are completely unsuitable for people who are bald—if you get my meaning.”
“Ooooh!” exclaimed Melanie, leaning closer. She did have a problem with facial hair—hard not to, being a gorilla—and had never had the benefit of talking to a cosmetics consultant. Mum would probably end up trying to sell her some Tupperware, too.
I went upstairs, where Hamlet and Emma were arguing. She seemed to be saying that her “dear Admiral” needed her more than anything, and Hamlet said that she should come and live with him at Elsinore and “to hell with Ophelia.” Emma replied that this really wasn’t practical and then Hamlet made an extremely long and intractable speech which I think meant that nothing in the real world was simple or slick and he lamented the day he ever left his play, and that he was sure Ophelia had discussed country matters with Horatio when his back was turned. Then Emma got confused and thought he was impugning her Horatio, and when he explained that it was his friend Horatio she changed her mind and said she would come with him to Elsinore, but then Hamlet thought perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all and he made another long speech until even