“What do you think would look nice on the patio?” he asked her, drawing away from me and leading her toward a set of wrought-iron patio furniture, leaving me feeling in some unfathomable way bereft. I found myself wondering how Galea managed to turn the act of buying furniture into a seduction. He had a way with women that went with the looks, and it was said at least some of his design commissions owed much to urging on the part of his clients’ wives, several of whom he was rumored to have had affairs with. These affairs never seemed to last long. When I wasn’t falling under his spell, I liked to think that it was his incessant use of the first person singular that caused even the most infatuated to lose interest. More likely, however, it was he who did the dumping.
I couldn’t hear what he and Ms. Perez were saying; they were almost whispering to each other by this time, their heads almost touching, but I couldn’t argue with the results: the armoire, an antique Indonesian cabinet, the teak table and chairs, two carved mirrors, the wrought-iron and glass patio set, two side tables, and a large, intricately carved coffee table. The bill would be satisfyingly well into five digits, and even The Deez sat up and took notice, surprised no doubt to find a kindred spirit, someone who viewed the world as his oyster in the same way he did.
Throughout the entire performance, ignored by her husband and almost forgotten by the rest of us, Mrs. Galea stood, back to the wall, near the front door. Not once in this whole process did Galea consult with, or even acknowledge, his wife, although presumably she too would spend time in the house in Malta. Her opinion, at least insofar as furniture was concerned, did not appear to be of any consequence.
Rumored to be considerably older than her husband, she certainly looked it. She was a rather plain woman, about her husband’s height, her features too sharp—perhaps patrician would be a kinder way of describing them—to be attractive. Her hair was cut way too severely, a blunt cut that accentuated the sharpness of her features and the square of her jaw. Her clothes—of the powder-blue twin sweater set and pearls variety, matching pleated skirt unfashionably long, pleats sewn down over the hips—while no doubt expensive, could only be described as dull. To be fair, I suppose, I should say that it was possible that twin sweater sets were back in style—where clothes fashion is concerned, I’d be the last to know—but more than anything else Mrs. Galea gave the impression of a colorless creature intent on blending into the background as much as possible. The only feature that commanded attention were her eyes, intelligent and inquisitive. If her husband was the charmer of the pair, she was the born observer.
Monica Perez, on the other hand, whose opinion apparently did matter, was quite die opposite of Mrs. Galea, flashy and, in my opinion, definitely more style than substance. And there I was to complete the female triangle, not entirely immune to his charms but definitely wary. For a moment I had a vision of the three of us as three little planets revolving around his sun, held there by the strength of his personality and the brightness of his charm.
Then, the selections made, Galea, bored already with Ms. Perez, turned his attention back to me. His most charming smile on his face, teeth perfect, head cocked disarmingly to one side, he once again took my elbow and steered me toward the desk. I knew that I was about to learn the quid pro quo to all this money being spent: Galea’s propensity to keep a mental tally of owe-me’s aside, there almost always is one when somebody spends that much money in the shop, and I tried to steel myself for what was to come.
He was standing way too close again, and since he was only a little taller than I am, his eyes were disconcertingly focused directly on mine.
“I have a small favor to ask of you,” he began.
Say no, I told myself. Out loud I said, “If I can help, I will,” trying to keep my tone neutral as possible.
“I am going to be entertaining some very important people at my house in Malta very soon, in about ten days, actually, and I need the place to be arranged to my standard, which as you know is rather exacting, shall we say. Unfortunately I can’t go there myself right away—I have to make a presentation to one of the banks here—so I can’t supervise the work personally. I need all of these pieces consolidated with some furniture at my house and shipped to this address,” he said, handing me a slip of paper with the address neatly typed on it. “But most importantly, I need you to go over there and see that the finishing is up to snuff and that all the furniture is placed correctly. I will, of course, cover your airfare and compensate you for your time.”
“I’m not sure I could be away from the store right now,” I said, “and furthermore…” My voice trailed off as I searched for an excuse not to go.
“You could stay in the house too, which is already partially furnished, and I will reimburse you for your meals and other expenses while you are there. You could look upon it as a bit of a holiday,” he said in a wheedling tone and giving me the high voltage smile.
“This will be expensive, Mr. Galea,” I said, but I could feel myself weakening. “First of all, the deadline means we’ll have to ship by air, not sea. And why not have someone there see to the placement of the furniture?”
“There is no one over there I can trust to do this to my standards. In fact there are very few people anywhere I would trust with tins task,” he said smoothly. “The meeting is an important one for me,” he added.
I would accept, of course. I knew it, and so did he, but I didn’t want to look like a pushover to his charms.
“Here is a check for $2500 as an advance on expenses. You can have the shipping and insurance charges billed directly to me, as usual,” he said. “Will you do it?”
I nodded. There was no question we needed the sale. I looked at the check and capitulated totally. I called Sarah to come and do the paperwork, and then feeling slightly guilty, turned my attention to Mrs. Galea. She was now intently examining a small wooden carving, only three or four inches high, one of several we had in a basket at the front desk, a conversation piece and an inexpensive purchase for those just browsing.
“I’m Lara, Lara McClintoch, Mrs. Galea. I don’t think we have been officially introduced. That’s an Indonesian Worry-man you’re looking at. If you look closely you can see it is a man all hunched over. The idea is that you rub all your troubles onto his back, and he takes them all on for you.”
She smiled tentatively. “You’re the owner, then,” she said.
“One of them,” I replied. “Sarah Greenhalgh, who is with your husband now, is me other.”
“You have lovely things,” she said, smiling rather shyly.
At this point, her husband, his business done, turned to me and said, as if my time was now his alone to command, “Come to the house at ten o’clock tomorrow morning to see the furniture I want shipped and to pick up a set of plans.”
“Is ten convenient for you too, Mrs. Galea?” I asked, turning to her. If he wasn’t going to ask her, I was. She nodded, blushing at the attention.
Ignoring her, Galea headed down the steps to the car, leaving her to follow him out of the store. As she got to the door, I rushed after her and pressed the Worryman into her hands. If anyone needed it, she did.
“With our compliments, Mrs. Galea,” I said.
She looked surprised. “Thank you,” she said. “And it’s Marilyn.”
With that they were gone, a screeching of brakes from another car as Galea pulled away without so much as a glance at the rest of the traffic, leaving all of us, particularly Monica Perez, slightly breathless.
“Dreadful man!” Sarah sighed when Monica Perez had also left and we once again had the store to ourselves. “Imagine having a husband who flirts with other women right in front of you. That poor woman!”