Read Online Wicked Women by Fay Weldon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Fay Weldon
Tags: General Fiction
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Relations is a piece of cake.”
The phone rang. Elaine let loose the bedpost and answered it.
“Hello,” she said. “Yes, as it happens, someone called Weena is in the house. An Eloi. We’re just Morlocks.”
“Is that Mrs. Desmond?” asked Hattie.
“Lady Drewlove to you,” said Elaine. “Who ever wanted to be married to a mere commoner?”
“Lady Drewlove! Wow!” said Hattie. “I thought you were just a Mrs. It was you I wanted anyway, not Weena. I need to warn you. Weena’s no well-wisher. I know: I’m her friend. She’s after your husband. She’ll drive you out, suck him dry, spit him out as a husk. I can’t go on, because you’re out of town and this is my friend Bob’s phone. One of the husks I’m talking about. There are hulks and there are husks.”
“She’s writing my husband’s biography,” said Elaine. “She seems to be plumping him up well enough, making him rich and famous again: I see no sign of any husk—”
Downstairs, Weena said to Defoe, as she helped herself to raspberry mousse with a meringue topping, done to a turn overnight in the Aga’s plate-warming oven, “As soon as she’s gone, call the locksmith, change the locks. Then she can’t get in without breaking in, and you can call the police if she tries. Communicate only through lawyers. Accuse her of violent behaviour. She’ll’ soon give up and go away and leave you in peace, to be yourself at last. I’ll be here to help you; it’s all going to be just fine!”
Defoe’s head was clearing. The fronds of Weena’s shorts were beginning to separate out, lie still; had ceased writhing and weaving round her leg.
“Wasn’t that the phone?” he asked. “Not any more,” said Weena. Defoe picked up the silent instrument to hear Hattie’s voice.
“Weena’s got no commission to do Defoe Desmond’s biography. She tried but she failed. There’s no Sunday newspaper serialisation. All that’s for your husband’s benefit. A commission just acts as a pregnancy used to, when a girl wants a man and a home. When she’s got what she wants, the baby, the commission just somehow fades away. She has a miscarriage: the editor changes his mind. She’s installed, though. She’s okay. Too late for the guy to go back. It happens to the good guys, not the bad. Don’t give up on your husband just because Weena’s around.”
Defoe put the receiver down. The words might have been real, or they might have come from heaven. He did not recognise the voice, but the statements made were the more convincing for that. His hand tightened round Weena’s thigh.
“You’re hurting me,” she protested. “I bruise so easily. I’m Weena the Eloi. My mother named me after the girl in The Time Machine, did I ever tell you that? She wanted to diminish me from the moment I was born.”
“I’m the King of the Morlocks,” he said, picking up the bread knife, “and I’m going to eat half of you for lunch, and the Queen shall have the other half for tea.”
The knife was at her throat and she was on her feet in an instant.
“Get out of here now,” Defoe said. “Just out.”
“I’ll tell everyone,” Weena said. “I’ll tell the press. I’ll tell them you raped me. I’ll tell them everything.”
“Tell away,” he said, “because who’s interested? No one. It’s the end of the line, Weena, for you and for me, and you’re lost and I’m saved.”
“Take me now,” Weena pleaded, thrusting out her chest at him, but the T-shirt seemed unerotic, the breasts pointless. “This is so exciting! I’ve never wanted a man so much—”
“It won’t work,” Defoe said, brandishing his knife, pursuing her.
“It worked once, it worked twice; three times and you’d have me. Serpent! Slimy, cold creature. I’ll cut your head off!”
And Weena turned and ran out of the house. He followed her to the door and flung her green leather bag after her, and the bread knife after that, so it glinted in the air and almost got her:
The phone rang. Elaine let loose the bedpost and answered it.
“Hello,” she said. “Yes, as it happens, someone called Weena is in the house. An Eloi. We’re just Morlocks.”
“Is that Mrs. Desmond?” asked Hattie.
“Lady Drewlove to you,” said Elaine. “Who ever wanted to be married to a mere commoner?”
“Lady Drewlove! Wow!” said Hattie. “I thought you were just a Mrs. It was you I wanted anyway, not Weena. I need to warn you. Weena’s no well-wisher. I know: I’m her friend. She’s after your husband. She’ll drive you out, suck him dry, spit him out as a husk. I can’t go on, because you’re out of town and this is my friend Bob’s phone. One of the husks I’m talking about. There are hulks and there are husks.”
“She’s writing my husband’s biography,” said Elaine. “She seems to be plumping him up well enough, making him rich and famous again: I see no sign of any husk—”
Downstairs, Weena said to Defoe, as she helped herself to raspberry mousse with a meringue topping, done to a turn overnight in the Aga’s plate-warming oven, “As soon as she’s gone, call the locksmith, change the locks. Then she can’t get in without breaking in, and you can call the police if she tries. Communicate only through lawyers. Accuse her of violent behaviour. She’ll’ soon give up and go away and leave you in peace, to be yourself at last. I’ll be here to help you; it’s all going to be just fine!”
Defoe’s head was clearing. The fronds of Weena’s shorts were beginning to separate out, lie still; had ceased writhing and weaving round her leg.
“Wasn’t that the phone?” he asked. “Not any more,” said Weena. Defoe picked up the silent instrument to hear Hattie’s voice.
“Weena’s got no commission to do Defoe Desmond’s biography. She tried but she failed. There’s no Sunday newspaper serialisation. All that’s for your husband’s benefit. A commission just acts as a pregnancy used to, when a girl wants a man and a home. When she’s got what she wants, the baby, the commission just somehow fades away. She has a miscarriage: the editor changes his mind. She’s installed, though. She’s okay. Too late for the guy to go back. It happens to the good guys, not the bad. Don’t give up on your husband just because Weena’s around.”
Defoe put the receiver down. The words might have been real, or they might have come from heaven. He did not recognise the voice, but the statements made were the more convincing for that. His hand tightened round Weena’s thigh.
“You’re hurting me,” she protested. “I bruise so easily. I’m Weena the Eloi. My mother named me after the girl in The Time Machine, did I ever tell you that? She wanted to diminish me from the moment I was born.”
“I’m the King of the Morlocks,” he said, picking up the bread knife, “and I’m going to eat half of you for lunch, and the Queen shall have the other half for tea.”
The knife was at her throat and she was on her feet in an instant.
“Get out of here now,” Defoe said. “Just out.”
“I’ll tell everyone,” Weena said. “I’ll tell the press. I’ll tell them you raped me. I’ll tell them everything.”
“Tell away,” he said, “because who’s interested? No one. It’s the end of the line, Weena, for you and for me, and you’re lost and I’m saved.”
“Take me now,” Weena pleaded, thrusting out her chest at him, but the T-shirt seemed unerotic, the breasts pointless. “This is so exciting! I’ve never wanted a man so much—”
“It won’t work,” Defoe said, brandishing his knife, pursuing her.
“It worked once, it worked twice; three times and you’d have me. Serpent! Slimy, cold creature. I’ll cut your head off!”
And Weena turned and ran out of the house. He followed her to the door and flung her green leather bag after her, and the bread knife after that, so it glinted in the air and almost got her:
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