Read Online Faces in the Pool by Jonathan Gash - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Gash
Tags: Mystery
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Women never recognise the man they’re made for.’
Hello, I thought, was this unrequited longing? I know it, having so much of my own. I eyed Ginny, the waitress. I’d done her a favour when she was evicted from her grotty lodgings after a calamitous affair. I paid her to act as spam, meaning somebody to ask phoney questions about antiques. This is a quick way to identify rival dealers. They can’t resist replying, to denigrate particular antiques, or to suss out other bidders. A spammer is always a she, incidentally. They can easily be spotted if they’re bad actresses.
‘No credit, Lovejoy.’ She swung away.
‘People think,’ Mr Hennell began affably, ‘that marriage has always stayed the same. Not so.’
‘So?’
‘Half of all marriages end in divorce. One mega-famous Hollywood actress even boasts of a marriage that lasted a mere fifteen minutes . Was it Zsa-Zsa Gabor? Now for the history…’
He would have been interesting if I’d listened. Instead, I watched Laura, and thought. We tend to forget that motive doesn’t exist when nostalgia takes over. In May 2003, some Hapsburgs demanded back a schloss, plus 20,000-odd hectares of woodland. The grandson of the last Austro-Hungarian Thingy made a polite request: the nation’s rules say it is compulsory to restore rightful ownership of possessions nicked in the 1930s. Ergo, said blithe legal phrases, the Hapsburgs were victims. Ordinary Austrians were outraged, said it all belonged to the people, so the Hapsburgs could get stuffed. The argument continues. My point: never mind motive. It’s what you do that matters.
A bird I knew was a writer’s wife from Leeds. She was an Aussie publisher, rich and pretty. The writer fell for another woman, – fights, divorce, mayhem. The OW was older and plain as a pikestaff, as folk say. His rich ex-wife quickly remarried back into her own elite circle – you still see her photo in glossies. The writer now drives a Leeds bus, and his OW cleans the village hall. They are happy. But is the beautiful rich lady publisher full of merriment? No. She never smiles in her pictures. So life really is as you see things. I think the Hapsburgs should stop griping. They, however, think they’re victims. A researcher recently counted ‘victims’ defined by Human Rights pillocks, and totalled 109 per cent. Daft, or what?
‘…so, you’ll be divorced the next day, Lovejoy,’ Mr Hennell concluded, finally catching my attention. He saw my confusion and looked his reproach. ‘I just explained.’
‘I’m not marrying anybody.’
Ginny immediately came over to earwig. ‘More coffee?’
‘Yes, please,’ I said firmly. ‘And biscuits. On credit.’
‘Just this once,’ she said, and moved away.
See? As you see things . Malthus touched on the subject and got nowhere.
Hennell’s voice sank to a whisper. ‘How many friends have you, Lovejoy? Twenty, thirty? List them. They could all go bankrupt.’ He smiled as tumult broke out across the square, Sandy at Gilbert and Sullivan’s ‘Ruler of the Queen’s Nav ee ’. Sandy says shame is its own reward.
‘You see, Lovejoy,’ Hennell added kindly, ‘Laura’s scheme is a necessary sham that is vital to her. Just go along, and all will be well. I sprang Tasker’s two sons.’
A gong stunned the world. Two pigeons fainted. People applauded. Mel revved the rheostat. Sandy re-appeared trilling, ‘I am the monarch…’ to guffaws.
Tasker? Breeding yet more psychopaths? Hennell beamed. ‘So Tasker owes me. Your friends? Ruin, homelessness, desolation, Lovejoy. Or…’
‘Or?’ Here it came.
‘Or you get a fortune. Help Laura for a few days, and your sprog Mortimer sails on. Your pretty apprentice Lydia stays alive.’ The swine smiled. ‘And Tasker…’
‘Tasker what?’ I asked, voice thick.
‘Tasker gets told how you narrowly averted some disaster at the tea auction, et jovial cetera. Your little world carousels on.’
‘What’s the connection
Hello, I thought, was this unrequited longing? I know it, having so much of my own. I eyed Ginny, the waitress. I’d done her a favour when she was evicted from her grotty lodgings after a calamitous affair. I paid her to act as spam, meaning somebody to ask phoney questions about antiques. This is a quick way to identify rival dealers. They can’t resist replying, to denigrate particular antiques, or to suss out other bidders. A spammer is always a she, incidentally. They can easily be spotted if they’re bad actresses.
‘No credit, Lovejoy.’ She swung away.
‘People think,’ Mr Hennell began affably, ‘that marriage has always stayed the same. Not so.’
‘So?’
‘Half of all marriages end in divorce. One mega-famous Hollywood actress even boasts of a marriage that lasted a mere fifteen minutes . Was it Zsa-Zsa Gabor? Now for the history…’
He would have been interesting if I’d listened. Instead, I watched Laura, and thought. We tend to forget that motive doesn’t exist when nostalgia takes over. In May 2003, some Hapsburgs demanded back a schloss, plus 20,000-odd hectares of woodland. The grandson of the last Austro-Hungarian Thingy made a polite request: the nation’s rules say it is compulsory to restore rightful ownership of possessions nicked in the 1930s. Ergo, said blithe legal phrases, the Hapsburgs were victims. Ordinary Austrians were outraged, said it all belonged to the people, so the Hapsburgs could get stuffed. The argument continues. My point: never mind motive. It’s what you do that matters.
A bird I knew was a writer’s wife from Leeds. She was an Aussie publisher, rich and pretty. The writer fell for another woman, – fights, divorce, mayhem. The OW was older and plain as a pikestaff, as folk say. His rich ex-wife quickly remarried back into her own elite circle – you still see her photo in glossies. The writer now drives a Leeds bus, and his OW cleans the village hall. They are happy. But is the beautiful rich lady publisher full of merriment? No. She never smiles in her pictures. So life really is as you see things. I think the Hapsburgs should stop griping. They, however, think they’re victims. A researcher recently counted ‘victims’ defined by Human Rights pillocks, and totalled 109 per cent. Daft, or what?
‘…so, you’ll be divorced the next day, Lovejoy,’ Mr Hennell concluded, finally catching my attention. He saw my confusion and looked his reproach. ‘I just explained.’
‘I’m not marrying anybody.’
Ginny immediately came over to earwig. ‘More coffee?’
‘Yes, please,’ I said firmly. ‘And biscuits. On credit.’
‘Just this once,’ she said, and moved away.
See? As you see things . Malthus touched on the subject and got nowhere.
Hennell’s voice sank to a whisper. ‘How many friends have you, Lovejoy? Twenty, thirty? List them. They could all go bankrupt.’ He smiled as tumult broke out across the square, Sandy at Gilbert and Sullivan’s ‘Ruler of the Queen’s Nav ee ’. Sandy says shame is its own reward.
‘You see, Lovejoy,’ Hennell added kindly, ‘Laura’s scheme is a necessary sham that is vital to her. Just go along, and all will be well. I sprang Tasker’s two sons.’
A gong stunned the world. Two pigeons fainted. People applauded. Mel revved the rheostat. Sandy re-appeared trilling, ‘I am the monarch…’ to guffaws.
Tasker? Breeding yet more psychopaths? Hennell beamed. ‘So Tasker owes me. Your friends? Ruin, homelessness, desolation, Lovejoy. Or…’
‘Or?’ Here it came.
‘Or you get a fortune. Help Laura for a few days, and your sprog Mortimer sails on. Your pretty apprentice Lydia stays alive.’ The swine smiled. ‘And Tasker…’
‘Tasker what?’ I asked, voice thick.
‘Tasker gets told how you narrowly averted some disaster at the tea auction, et jovial cetera. Your little world carousels on.’
‘What’s the connection
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