She had seen to more than that. She had already died by fire, by water, by the bizarre circumstances of her own romantic madness. Which gave her something more in common with Piper. They were both nonentities moving in a limbo of monotonous motels, he with his ledgers and her body but she with nothing more than a sense of meaninglessness and a desperate futility. That night while Piper related, Baby, inanimate beneath him, made up her mind. They would leave the beaten track of motels and drive down dirt roads into the hinterland of the Deep South. What happened to them there would be beyond her choosing.
What was happening to Frensic was definitely beyond his choosing. He sat at the Formica-topped table in Cynthia Bogden's kitchen and tried to eat his cornflakes and forget what had occurred towards dawn. Driven frantic by Cynthia's omnivorous sexuality he had proposed to the woman. It had seemed in his whisky-sodden state the only defence against a fatal coronary and a means of getting her to tell him who had sent her Pause. But Miss Bogden had been too overwhelmed to discuss minor matters of that sort in the middle of the night. In the end Frensic had snatched a few hours sleep and had been woken by a radiant Cynthia with a cup of tea. Frensic had staggered through to the bathroom and had shaved with someone else's razor and had come down to breakfast determined to force the issue. But Miss Bogden's thoughts were confined to their wedding day.
'Shall we have a church wedding?' she asked as Piper toyed biliously with a boiled egg.
'What? Oh. Yes.'
'I've always wanted a church wedding.'
'So have I,' said Frensic with as much enthusiasm as if she had suggested a crematorium. He savaged the egg and decided on the direct approach. 'By the way did you ever meet the author of Pause O Men for the Virgin?'
Miss Bogden dragged her thoughts away from aisles, altars and Mendelssohn. 'No,' she said, 'the manuscript came by post.'
'By post?' said Frensic, dropping his spoon. 'Isn't that rather unusual?'
'You're not eating your egg,' said Miss Bogden. Frensic took a spoonful of egg into his dry mouth.
'Where did it come from?'
'Lloyds Bank,' said Miss Bogden and poured herself another cup of tea. 'Another cup for you?'
Frensic nodded. He needed something to wash the egg down with. 'Lloyds Bank?' he said finally. 'But there must have been words you couldn't read. What did you do then?'
'Oh I just rang up and asked.'
'You phoned? You mean you phoned Lloyds Bank and they'd...'
'Oh you are silly, Geoffrey,' said Miss Bogden, 'I didn't phone Lloyds Bank. I had this other number.'
'What other number?'
'The one I had to ring, silly,' said Miss Bogden and looked at her watch. 'Oh look at the time. It's almost nine. You've made me late, you naughty boy.' And she rushed out of the kitchen. When she returned she was dressed for the day. 'You can call a taxi when you're ready,' she said, 'and we'll meet at the office.' She kissed Frensic passionately on his egg-filled mouth and went out.
Frensic got to his feet and spat the egg into the sink and turned the tap on. Then he took a pinch of snuff, helped himself to some more tea and tried to think. A phone number she had to ring? The whole business became more extraordinary the further he delved into it. And for once delved was the right word. In looking for the source of Pause he had dug himself...Frensic shuddered. Dug was the right word too. In the plural it was exact. He went through to the lavatory and sat there miserably for ten minutes trying to concentrate on his next move. A phone number? An author who insisted on making corrections by telephone? There was an insanity about all this that made his own actions over the past few days look positively rational. And there was absolutely nothing rational about proposing to Miss Cynthia Bogden. Frensic finished his business in the lavatory and came out. On a small table in the hall stood a telephone. Frensic crossed to it and looked through Miss Bogden's private list of numbers but there was nothing there to indicate the author. Frensic returned to the kitchen, made himself a cup of instant coffee, took some more snuff and finally telephoned for a taxi.
It came at ten and at half past Frensic shuffled into the Typing Agency. Miss Bogden was waiting for him. So were twelve awful women sitting at typewriters.
'Girls,' Miss Bogden called euphemistically as Frensic peered anxiously into the office, 'I want you all to meet my fiancé, Mr Geoffrey Corkadale.'
The women all rose from the seats and gaggled congratulations on Frensic while Miss Bogden suppurated happiness.
'And now the ring,' she said when the congratulations died down. She led the way out of the office and Frensic followed. The bloody woman would want a ring. Just so long as it wasn't too expensive. It was.
'I think I like the solitaire,' she told the jeweller in the Broad. Frensic flinched at the price and was about to put his entire scheme in jeopardy when he was struck by a brilliant thought. After all, what was five hundred pounds when his entire future was at stake?
'Oughtn't we to have it engraved?' he said as Cynthia put it on her finger and admired its brilliance.
'What with?' she cooed.
Frensic simpered. 'Something secret,' he whispered, 'something we two alone will understand. A code d'amour.'
'Oh you are awful,' said Miss Bogden. 'Fancy thinking of something like that.' Frensic glanced at the jeweller uncomfortably and applied his lips to the perm again.
'A code of love,' he explained.
'A code of love?' echoed Miss Bogden. 'What sort of code?'
'A number,' said Frensic, and paused. 'Some number that only we would know had brought us together.'
'You mean...?'
'Exactly,' said Frensic forestalling any alternatives, 'after all, you typed the book and I published it.'
'Couldn't we just have Till Death Do Us Part?'
'Too much like the TV series,' said Frensic who had very much earlier intentions. He was saved by the jeweller.
'You'd never get that inside the ring. Not Till Death Do Us Part. Too many letters.'
'But you could do numbers?' said Frensic.
'Depends how many.'
Frensic looked enquiringly at Miss Bogden. 'Five,' she said after a moment's hesitation.
'Five,' said Frensic. 'Five teeny weeny little numbers that are our code of love, our own, our very own itsy bitsy secret.' It was his last desperate act of heroism. Miss Bogden succumbed. For a moment she had...but no, a man who could in the presence of an austere jeweller By Appointment to Her Majesty talk openly about five teeny weeny itsy bitsy numbers that were their code of love, such a man was above suspicion.
'Two oh three five seven,' she simpered.
'Two oh three five seven,' said Frensic loudly. 'You're quite sure? We don't want to make any mistakes.'
'Of course I'm sure,' said Miss Bogden, 'I'm not in the habit of making mistakes.'
'Right,' said Frensic plucking the ring from her finger and handing it to the jeweller, 'stick them on the inside of the thing. I'll be back to collect it this afternoon,' and taking Miss Bogden firmly by the arm he steered her towards the door.
'Excuse me, sir,' said the jeweller, 'but if you don't mind...'
'Mind what?' said Frensic.
'I would prefer it if you paid now sir. With engraving, you understand, we have to...'
Frensic understood all too well. He released Miss Bogden and sidled back to the counter.