26
LORD WOODCOCK PHONED AGAIN AND AGAIN, A BLACK-SUITED motorcycle rider from the Star Maker went round twice, but Mortimer, settled in at the Prince Albert Hotel on Cromwell Road, continued to feign illness. Drinking himself to sleep at night, he imagined they did it together on the floor. Or in the bathtub. Bed would be too conventional for Ziggy.
Together, he thought, they’re having a good laugh at me.
“Do you know what,” Joyce tells him, giggling, “Mortimer has insurance.”
“What a square,” Ziggy says, marveling.
“He’s also got money in a building society. Put away against a rainy day,” Joyce says, nudging him.
“Is it, ah, a joint account? Can you make withdrawals too?”
“Yes. Once the income tax made a mistake in his favor and do you know what? He wrote them, enclosing a check.”
“Stop. You’re kidding me.”
“Did you notice the seat belts?”
“In the car? Yeah.”
“Wait, this is the best, Ziggy, he never flies anywhere without making a will and leaving it in a sealed envelope for me.”
“Crazy.”
Crazy. I’m crazy, Mortimer thought. I should charge into the bedroom with a knife and cut them both down. The stink, migod, every time she raises her arms, those black maggoty clumps. I should –
But when he visited, he was controlled, subdued, even with Ziggy.
“Life is totally absurd,” Ziggy once said. “Like who ever would have thought you’d be visiting me here? Oh, I left all the bills and stuff on the hall table for you.”
“Thanks.”
“She wants to have my child, a son by Ziggy, but I put my foot down there, Mortimer.”
“Good for you.”
“Like it would be terrible to be my son. The kids born of famous artists are always zeros.”
I should charge him with a knife, Mortimer thought, but there’s my son to consider. My no longer misguided son, he reminded himself, extracting pleasure from this, his one small triumph.
To begin with, Mortimer had feared for Miss Ryerson, for after only two days at Beatrice Webb House, she had looked a wreck. By the end of the week her eyes were red and puffy and she was willing to throw the sponge in. Then, within a fortnight, the metamorphosis took place. On a day when Mortimer happened to be visiting the house, come to collect more clothes, Doug came home from school, his eyes shining, his manner quiescent. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said to Mortimer.
Sir.
Then, excusing himself, he went to his room to do his prep. “Prep?” Mortimer asked Joyce, astonished. “At Beatrice Webb House?”
Yes, Joyce confessed unhappily, and not only that. Doug had asked the news agent to cancel his subscription to Playboy and send him Knowledge magazine instead.
Finally Doug emerged from his room, politely asking for a glass of milk and a peanut butter sandwich.
“How are things at school these days?” Mortimer asked.
“Absolutely super! Miss Ryerson makes you feel so good.”
“Really!”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I must get back to work.”
“One minute, Doug.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mustn’t overdo the studies, eh?”
“But Ryerson doesn’t like it if you don’t do well. If you do well she makes you feel good all over.”
“All right. Off you go, then,” Mortimer said, beaming at Joyce. “Mortimer, there’s something I should –”
“William Golding is all wet. Kids, you see, are basically good. Given strong moral leadership –”
“– say to you.”
“About you and Ziggy?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not interested. He’s going to walk out on you, you know. If not this month, next. But I’m not taking you back.”
“Ziggy has made me aware of my womanhood for the first time. It’s like taking LSD. A whole new sensual world has been opened to me.”
“Spare me the details, please.”
“After we’ve made love,” she said breathlessly, “he doesn’t wash.” After, before, Mortimer thought.
“Because when he’s alone,” she continued, “creating, well …” Joyce paused to smooth out her skirt. “It inspires him to be able to have me on his fingertips, if you get my meaning.”
“Yes, I do, alas.”
“Now, you’d never think of that.”
“It’s poetry.”
“Yes. I think so.”
“And so natural,” he added snidely.
“Oh, you, you’re so inhibited.” All at once, Joyce’s face filled with concern. “Mortimer, are you any … better?”
Get stuffed, he thought, gulping down his drink.
“Perhaps you should see an analyst?”
“There’s something I want out of the bedroom, if you don’t mind?”
“Go right ahead.”
Mortimer avoided looking at the unmade bed. He dug right into the bottom drawer of the dresser and pulled out the strongbox with the combination lock. His army documents. The medal. At least she and Ziggy would not have this to mock.
Safe in his hotel room again, Mortimer poured himself a brandy, unlocked the strongbox and, for the first time in years, confronted his war trophy, his throat tightening. The phone rang, startling him, the ringing reaching out of the terrifying past, making his hands shake.
Dig Jones again. No, Mortimer said, he appreciated the higher offer, but money wasn’t the issue. He wasn’t interested in appearing on Dig’s new show.
“What did he say?” Ziggy asked.
“He said no.”
“Shit.”
“Not to worry,” Dig said. “He’ll come round.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Once more Dig fingered the photostats Ziggy had brought him.
“Because I haven’t made my best offer yet.”
“Money won’t tempt him. Like he isn’t hip, you know.”
“Not to worry, man.”