‘Scampi? Yes... fine.’ A pause, then she asked, ‘How is Dick’s arm?’
As Terry moved towards the kitchen, she said, ‘I didn’t ask him.’
Helga’s mouth tightened. She finished her drink, then getting to her feet, she went to the kitchen door. Terry was unpacking the paper sack.
‘How long have you known Dick?’ she asked, leaning against the doorway.
‘Long enough,’ Terry said curtly. ‘Do you like these grilled in their shells or in a sauce?’
‘Whichever is the easiest,’ Helga said impatiently.
The girl turned and looked at her, her face wooden.
‘No good cooking is easy, Mrs. Rolfe,’ she said. ‘Say what you want and you’ll get it.’
‘Oh, in their shells. I’m not hungry.’
Terry dropped the scampi into a sieve and ran cold water over them.
‘Is Dick your boy friend, Terry?’ Helga asked.
Terry shook the scampi, then turned them out on to a cloth.
‘You could say that.’
‘And you? Where do you live?’
‘I have a pad.’
‘I am sure you have, but where?’
‘North side.’
A long pause while Terry blotted the scampi dry. Helga was determined to persist.
‘I was talking to Dick’s mother this morning. She tells me he isn’t living at home. Is he staying with you?’
Terry turned on the grill.
‘Does it matter?’ She picked up a pack of rice. ‘Rice okay? You can have dehydrated potatoes if you want them.’
‘I’ll have rice.’ A pause. ‘I am asking you: is he staying with you?’
Terry poured rice into a cup.
‘Are you that interested, Mrs. Rolfe?’
Helga controlled her rising temper.
‘Oddly enough, Terry, I am. Is he living with you?’
Terry poured hot water into a saucepan and set it on a burner.
‘Yes, he is staying with me and he screws me.’
Shocked, for a moment Helga was speechless. She abruptly realized, by questioning this girl, she was inviting insolence.
‘I am not interested in your relations with him,’ she said, her voice cold. ‘I want to know where he is.’
Terry added salt to the water. She began to wash the rice.
‘His mother said nothing about his breaking his arm,’ Helga said through the silence.
Terry tipped the rice into the boiling water.
‘Do you mind eating early, Mrs. Rolfe?’ she said without looking at Helga. ‘I have a date.’
‘Did you hear what I said?’ Helga snapped. ‘I don’t believe he has broken his arm!’
Terry began to lay the scampi on the grill.
‘Do you like lemon juice, Mrs. Rolfe? Some people are allergic to lemon. If you don’t dig lemon, there’s tabasco.’
‘Terry! Has he or has he not broken his arm?’
‘If you want dinner, Mrs. Rolfe, could you let me get on with it? All this talk holds me up.’
Helga controlled herself with an effort. The calm, cold effrontery of this girl was something she had never before experienced.
‘I am asking you a question and I want an answer!’ she said, her voice strident.
‘It’ll be ready in ten minutes, Mrs. Rolfe. Excuse me. I’ll set the table.’
Side-stepping Helga, Terry went in to the living room.
Helga stood motionless, her hands into fists. She longed to rush into the living room, grab hold of this insolent little bitch and slap her face. Get hold of yourself. You’re handling this like a moron.
She walked into the living room and not looking at Terry who was laying the table, she turned on the television set. A close up picture of a girl swam into focus on the screen. She seemed to be trying to swallow a microphone and her mouth was as big as a fire bucket. Her amplified, brash voice exploded into the room. Helga winced and turned down the sound.
Terry returned to the kitchen.
There was a long pause while the girl on the screen fought with the microphone and made noises like a cat on heat.
Terry returned, carrying a dish and a plate.
‘It is all ready, Mrs. Rolfe. You haven’t any wine. If you had told me, I would have got you some.’
Helga walked over to the neatly laid table and sat down.
‘I’ll get some tomorrow. This looks very good.’ She surveyed the scampi, perfectly cooked and the bowl of rice. ‘You seem to be a very good cook, Terry.’
‘Well, if that’s all, Mrs. Rolfe, I’ll run along,’ Terry said. ‘I’ll clear up tomorrow.’
Helga, now calm, now steel hard, began to peel one of the scampi.
‘No, it is not all, Terry. Sit down.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Rolfe. I told you. I have a date.’
Helga spooned some rice on to her plate.
‘Sit down!’ She ate one of the scampi. ‘Excellent.’
Terry was moving to the door.
‘Terry! Did you hear what I said? Sit down!’
‘Sorry, Mrs. Rolfe. I am late already.’ She reached the door and opened it.
‘Sit down!’ Helga screamed at her. ‘Unless you want to see your fancy boy in jail!’
Terry paused, then shrugging, her face expressionless, she came back into the room and dropped into a lounging chair.
Score one, Helga said to herself. So this little bastard does mean something to her! She ate another scampi, squeezed lemon over her rice, wished there was a glass of Chablis to go with the meal.
‘Did Dick tell you he is in trouble?’ she asked, selecting another scampi. She forced her voice to sound calm.
‘Say what you have to say, Mrs. Rolfe, and make it short,’ Terry said indifferently. ‘I have a date.’
‘These scampi are very good,’ Helga said, thinking. I’ll give this little bitch a taste of her own medicine.
‘Is your date with Dick?’
‘Why should you care, Mrs. Rolfe?’
A point to her, Helga thought. Be careful.
‘Yes, Dick is in trouble,’ she went on. ‘Didn’t you wonder how he managed to buy a motorbike costing over four-thousand dollars?’
The girl leaned back in the chair, crossing her long legs.
‘That is his business. Only people with little to do stick their noses into other people’s business.’
Another point to her, Helga thought, but I hold the trump card.
‘He didn’t tell you he stole a ring from me, sold it and with the proceeds bought the bike?’
She shelled another scampi and squeezed more lemon.
Terry said nothing. She looked at her watch, then re-crossed her legs.
‘Did you hear what I said?’
‘Yes. Why should I care?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Is there anything else you have to say, Mrs. Rolfe?’
‘Yes. Tell Dick that unless he is here by nine o’clock tonight, a police officer will pick him up and I will charge him with stealing my ring.’
Terry nodded and got to her feet.
‘At nine o’clock? What would you want him for at that time, Mrs. Rolfe?’
Helga finished the last of the scampi.
‘Oh, to clear up, Terry. Just run along and tell him.’ She stared at the girl, steel in her eyes. ‘Unless, of course, you want him to spend the night in jail.’
‘Mrs. Rolfe, I will make a suggestion.’ Terry groped in the hip pocket of her pants and took out two crumpled fifty dollar bills which she dropped on the floor. ‘That’s the money Dick owes you. You won’t be seeing him nor me again. Now for the suggestion: when a middle-aged woman gets hot pants for a boy young enough to be her son, cold water helps. Go sit in a cold bath, Mrs. Rolfe,’ and turning, she walked out of the room and out of the villa.
As she listened to the roar of the motorcycle fading into the distance, Helga stared down at the empty scampi shells as empty as she felt at this moment.