Suckers

In between heavy doses of Alka-Seltzer and fruit juice, I had to deal with a series of bothersome phone calls. The first was from the editor of a women's magazine called Flirt, wanting to know if I'd finished compiling their readership profile. I said I hadn't and she made tutting noises and told me she needed it for a meeting in the morning. There was no way out. I sighed and promised it would be on her desk first thing.

The second call was from Jack, wanting to know what had happened to the research I owed him. I told him it was ready, which was sort of true, though I still had to type it out. I agreed to drop it round that evening.

The third call was from Ruth Weinstein, inviting me to a party she would be holding the following Saturday. I said I didn't think I'd be able to make it, but I'd try, and she remarked that, when it came to parties, I was always noncommittal, but everyone always knew I'd turn up anyway. That pissed me off; I didn't like being thought of as predictable. 'OK,' I said crossly, 'I'll come.' I had no intention of doing any such thing — all I wanted was for the conversation to end — but Ruth chattered on about work, and Charlie, and the gallery, and asked after Duncan like she always did, because we'd all been to the same art school and she'd never stopped being curious about him and me, though I had never told her a thing.

All I told her now was that I had a humungous hangover in the hope she would take the hint and shut up. Instead she said, 'Oh, what were you up to last night, then?' I ignored the question, which was impertinent, and said I'd call. She reminded me that I always said that, but never did — she always ended up having to call me. This was true enough. Ruth refused to let our long-standing acquaintanceship follow its natural course and shrivel up.

The fourth call was from Duncan. I was pleased to hear him until I realized he wasn't calling to apologize for his bad manners after all. He wanted a sympathetic ear, and he didn't care who it belonged to. 'I missed her,' he said. 'I didn't get back in time, and she'd already left. She didn't even leave a note.'

'What did you expect?' I asked, and tried to jog his memory. 'You spent the night with another woman.'

He moaned. 'Don't I know it. Dora, I feel dreadful. Where did we go? Where's the car?'

Thanks, I thought. Thanks a lot. 'Our happy hour turned into a lost weekend. You drove the car into a wall.'

There was a shocked pause before he said, 'Jeez, I was wondering about the bruises. We didn't kill anyone, did we? How's the car?'

'The car's just fine,' I said, 'just a few small dents.' I told him where I'd parked it. Nice of him to ask after me. I could hear him smothering a sigh. He knew I was being terse, but couldn't work out why, unless maybe I was having my period. Whenever members of the opposite sex failed to respond to Duncan's boyish charm, he always concluded it was their time of the month. But it wasn't mine, not yet.

'I didn't get breathalysed or anything?'

'No.'

'Thanks, Dora.' There was an awkward pause. 'I guess I'd better go and rescue the car. Before it gets clamped.'

'Why don't you do that,' I said, and hung up.

Duncan's call left me in a rotten mood. For about the billionth time I made up my mind never to talk to him again. Let him worry about Lulu all he liked. See if I cared.

I spent the rest of the day trying to work. I typed out some lists and vox pop quotations for Jack, and concocted some readership survey results for Flirt. I looked upon these things as conceptual art. They may have been made up, but they seemed no less accurate than any other form of market research. I prided myself on my knowledge of human nature, and my attitude was that I was the market. I told everyone my readership profiles were composite portraits, compiled from data gleaned from hundreds upon hundreds of telephone interviews — interviews which were constantly having to be updated in order to reflect the minutest fluctuations in the state of the economy. No one ever queried an invoice; they just coughed up.

At about eight o'clock, as I was making last-minute corrections to Jack's research, Duncan called again. In my frail condition I found myself talking to him before remembering, too late, I'd decided not to.

'She's still not back.'

'So? The night is young.'

'She hasn't even called.'

'She won't have had time. You know what it's like.'

'I'm really worried.'

'Duncan, I've got to rush, I'm going out. I'll call you in the morning.' Feeling deliciously hard-hearted, I hung up on him and set off for the tree-lined crescent where Jack and Alicia lived.

'How's Roxy these days?' I asked.

Jack glared at me. 'Fine.'

Alicia was knitting an unidentifiable garment on large wooden needles, somehow managing not to stab Abigail, who was gurgling and wriggling on her lap. The needles ceased clicking as she looked up. 'I didn't know you knew Roxy.'

'We went to the same school,' I lied. 'She was a real bully. She used to beat the crap out of me.'

Alicia returned to her knitting. 'Ooh, what a cow,' she said, rather absent-mindedly. I didn't pursue the matter. My initial question had been a test, to find out if she knew her husband was being unfaithful. From her reaction I concluded not, but I held my tongue. I enjoyed making Jack feel uncomfortable, but I wasn't about to ruin his marriage.

'Let's have a look at these papers,' he said pointedly. 'Want a drink?' I asked for a gin and tonic, and he stayed where he was, sifting through the typed sheets. After a few seconds, Alicia dutifully gathered up her knitting, hefted the baby on to one arm and struggled to her feet.

'I'll have one too,' Jack said without looking up.

I couldn't bear it. 'Stay where you are,' I said to Alicia. 'I'll do it, save you getting up.' She beamed and sat down again in a tangle of baby and wool.

Jack and Alicia kept their liquor in an Art Deco cocktail cabinet. I wondered how much cocaine had been chopped up on the mirrored shelf over the years. Not a lot recently; apart from the occasional joint, Alicia was now completely illegal-substance-free, and was trying to make Jack follow suit, though I suspected he and Roxy sometimes depleted the office Biro collection after hours.

I thought about how much Alicia annoyed me, all the more so because she was settling for less than she deserved. Once upon a time she had earned herself a first-class degree, had written articles for a couple of heavyweight literary reviews, had seemed poised for some sort of brilliant career.

According to Duncan, she had always been surrounded by so many admirers he'd considered himself favoured when she finally agreed to go out with him.

Then she married Jack, and everything changed. He had taken her on a Grand Tour — France, Italy, Greece, Spain — before bringing her home to install her as a baby-maker. Things hadn't gone quite as planned — Jack, of course, blamed Alicia for the delay — but now they were back on course. He was saying they wanted a two-year gap between babies.

They weren't short of money, but had never got round to hiring a nanny, so Alicia was left holding the baby while Jack went out on the town; it was an arrangement which suited him down to the ground. Alicia's reward was a gold American Express and frequent weekends in a remote part of Dorset, where they'd just bought a cottage. I was angling for an invite, though wary of ending up stuck in the middle of nowhere having to listen to Jack's monologues.