6
The Big Smoke
“Just calm down and tell me slowly,” said Sloane into the phone with terrible patience. Linda Allen was an idiot, but she was an idiot with excellent keyboard and reception skills.
Linda explained hysterically that she just couldn’t cope, Sloane, because the Consultant, well, she’d asked her to do this survey of the office records system, ya see, and it meant she was spending all her time on it even though she’d taken some of it home to work on in the evenings—Sloane rolled her eyes to High Heaven—and she was falling behind and not getting the things done in the office that needed doing, and she just couldn’t cope, Sloane!
Linda had been temping in Bracchi, Jenks’s office for nearly three weeks now, and this was the first anyone at RightSmart had heard of any consultant. When she had more or less run down and was just gasping and gulping, Sloane asked grimly who the consultant was. Linda wailed that she was the Consultant, and she’d come in and told her, Linda, she hadda do it! After quite some time Sloane managed, largely reading between the lines, to get the picture. The Consultant, whose name was Jude, Linda didn’t know her surname, had asked Linda to give her an overview of the records management system. Linda, instead of saying that she had been hired to do reception and filing, enter data into the records system, and open the mail, had servilely, nay slavishly, fallen over herself to agree to do this. Subsequently, when Jude had spotted that they had a right one here, slavishly expanding the task so that she was committed to writing up a gigantic and definitive report on the records management system, which the Consultant was now nagging her for, Linda having promised it faithfully for last Friday morning and it now being the Monday. More precisely, 2 p.m. on the Monday: presumably she had been panicking all morning before taking the desperate step of ringing RightSmart, who, as had been carefully explained to her in words of one syllable, were to be rung immediately, at the slightest sign of any problem with her place of work. No, she hadn’t spoken to her manager (blank amazement). Um—no-o... Well, she didn’t know if he knew that the Consultant had asked her to do this work, but— Sloane cut that one off in mid-flow and reminded her what the job specified in her contract was. But— Sloane told her to check with her manager immediately as to what he wanted her to do as her first priority. But— Or would Linda rather that Sloane spoke to him? Because she, Sloane—extra-kindly—would be very happy to do that, Linda: remember that Linda was RightSmart’s employee and it was RightSmart’s responsibility to see that she wasn’t exploited. Gulping, Linda conceded that she could speak to Bill Bracchi. Sloane rang off, extracting a promise from her to ring her back as soon she’d got a direction out of Bill.
This would not, of course, be the end of it: whatever Bill Bracchi said, the minute the Consultant walked in on Linda again, Linda would slavishly agree to do whatever was suggested. If it killed her. Linda was like that. Eager to please? You could put it like that: she had a psychological need to please which in Sloane’s opinion bordered on the pathological.
Half an hour later Bill Bracchi rang Sloane back, very annoyed indeed with the consultant, who, just as Sloane had guessed, was using Linda to do the job for which she, the consultant, had been hired. Which could explain why the bloody woman was never there, and Bill was gonna sack her on the spot, thanks, Sloane. And by the way, could she recommend someone to come in and look at their records management system? This was well beyond RightSmart’s brief but fortunately Gail had a friend who was into records management consultancy, a burgeoning field in an era where managers appeared actually to believe that the more elaborate, expensive and automated your system was, the more efficient you were. Sloane warmly recommended Vaughan Records Management Systems Pty Ltd, gave Bill their fax and phone numbers, and as soon as he’d rung off with grateful thanks, rang Nerida Vaughan to alert her.
She then rang Linda back at Bracchi, Jenks. Ye-es... Well, Sloane was right, of course, only Linda thought that maybe she could manage, she only had a few pages of the report to proof-read— Sloane explained grimly that Bill Bracchi was about to sack the consultant. In fact he was probably sacking her right now, and if Linda wanted to keep the job that RightSmart had put her in there for, she’d stick to what was in her contract. Because that was what Bracchi, Jenks were paying RightSmart to pay Linda for. Linda made confused noises of agreement.
Sloane didn’t feel there was any more she could do: Bill Bracchi was now forewarned. She rang off, and made a sour note on Linda’s file to the general effect of “Too willing to please, unable to prioritise tasks; do not place in sole-charge situations again.” As very many of their office temping jobs were sole-charge in the offices of small firms, managing the phones, the typing and filing, and often inputting to the accounts database, too, this would cut Linda off from a considerable part of what could have been her bread and butter if she’d had the sense of a louse, but by this time Sloane was past caring: Linda had wasted an incredible amount of her afternoon.
When the phone rang again she was just about ready to bite it. Mandy on reception, who was a Find, and they were praying that she wouldn’t leave them for a larger company, said brightly on the intercom: “It’s Mary Windsor at Gloria’s, Sloane: do you want to take the call?” and Sloane, smiling, agreed she did. Mary was also a Find. They were praying that none of the places she temped at would decide to take her on permanently: sensible, capable, reliable: the dream temp, in fact. Gloria’s was a small catering business which specialised in exclusive little dinners. Mary would happily and competently do food preparation or waiting, as required, but she was also capable of, and on occasion had done, menu planning and choice and purchase of ingredients, and, having entered into the spirit of the thing after switching from office temping, had voluntarily gone on a butlering course, so she could do that, too. She explained to Sloane, after a polite exchange of greetings, that Gloria’s had suddenly been offered a third job for tomorrow night, when they were already stretched to the limits with two important dinner parties. It sounded, said Mary with a smile in her calm, well-modulated voice, as if Grierson Gourmet was actually going under, as they’d thought: they’d let this client down badly. Did Sloane think—?
Sloane thought they could. What were Gloria’s prepared to pass on to them?
Gloria in person had said that they’d take a five percent commission and would be so grateful if RightSmart could take over the job completely for them.—Sloane blinked.—Gloria’s simply didn’t have anyone to do it, they’d have to leave it all to RightSmart. Mary named the sum that would be left after the five percent. Gloria’s had simply doubled their usual charges, as it was such short notice.
“That’s all right, then!” said Sloane with a laugh. What staff were needed? Mary explained that Grierson Gourmet had promised the client a uniformed maid to open the door and wait at table. Sit-down dinner for twenty-four. Mary thought two in the kitchen could manage it. Sloane thought silently that one Mary could: it’d be three anyone elses. The client had ordered four courses and had bought in the ducks but everything else had been promised by Grierson Gourmet. Up to and including the place settings and the flowers.
Mary knew of a very reliable florist, if Sloane— Sloane would, but place settings? They knew a reliable firm for the silverware and glasses, but most people used their own good china. Mary revealed that Gloria’s had checked, but the client had become hysterical at the mere mention of china.
Sloane decided firmly it could be managed. It’d be the sort of thing that the place supplied in bulk for wedding receptions, but plain white wouldn’t be too bad. What sort of look did the client want for the table? Mary revealed on an uneasy note that the client had a traditional sort of dining-room: rosewood sideboard, mahogany dining table, pink and silver swagged brocade curtains. Double Bay: quite an old house. Sloane hesitated and then said: “I think it might look good if we used flowery plates for bread and butter plates. Tie it together, y’know?”
“Can you get any?”
“I could buy a couple of dozen… I don’t know. Depends on price. I might ask Melodie to have a look round the sales: she’s not working at the moment.”
Mary agreed, but warned her it could represent a biggish capital outlay. Smiling, Sloane said she’d watch it. And what was the client’s name and address?
Mary read it out carefully.
Sloane wrote it down automatically, plus the exact address and phone number, assured Mary she’d be in touch with Gloria as soon as she’d sussed out the available staff, asked her to thank Gloria for the job, and hung up. Hoping she didn’t sound anything like as shell-shocked as she felt.
The client was Mrs Joyce Burgoyne.
Sloane and the twins had been back in Sydney for nearly a month. As far as Sloane was aware, the Kendall Burgoynes hadn’t yet got back from South Australia. But they must have, and he hadn’t rung her!
Sloane let her rage simmer down, had a cup of coffee, and rang three potential cooks. Of whom only one was available, and she was willing, but needed guidance: the sort who had a warning on her file that she was unsuitable for sole-charge positions, in fact. Damn. She dealt with one new client who Mandy had felt needed passing straight on to one of the partners, and consulted the database for suitable candidates for the new client’s pool and garden care for two months. Why the permanent pool and garden person felt entitled to two months’ holiday over February and March, Sloane neither knew nor cared. Though she made a mental note that it could be worthwhile leaving cards in the neighbourhood and in fact passed this on to Mandy for the Notebook. Mandy had volunteered to manage this when it was clear that Gail and Sloane had more on their plates than they could handle. The Notebook was an electronic one: it listed little jobs that needed to be done as quickly and cheaply as possible. Mandy had herself sorted out a stable of temps who would do this sort of work: a sub-pool of their main pool. If all else failed Mandy’s teenage brothers would be dragged in to help out.
Next Sloane rang Ingrid and Melodie, and arranged for them to come in to RightSmart at close of business today. And Melodie wasn’t to bring Nikki, they needed to talk. But they could meet her later if she liked. Okay? Melodie agreed to this, and agreed that she could do a waitressing job tomorrow night. Was it a big party? –Oh, well, no worries! See ya!
Sloane hung up slowly, frowning. They needed a cook. Not only a cook, but a cook who could organise a kitchen and a dinner. And shop. Damn. Scowling, she re-checked the database. Everyone who could do it was either still away on holiday, or employed. She stared into space for a while. Then she rang Kitten’s current-awareness agency.
“Hullo, Sloane,” said Jay Wong in some surprise. “How are you?”
Sloane replied she was fine. Then there was a short pause.
“Um—Kitten’s still on sick leave,” said Jay very cautiously indeed.
“Mm. Jay, are you busy tomorrow night?”
Jay replied that she wasn’t.
Sloane wasn’t surprised: she knew that Jay had busted up messily with her boyfriend about six months back. He was an Anglo-Celtic Aussie and everyone had thought it had all been going okay, until he’d found out that Jay’s family had married her off when she was sixteen to some jerk of a Hong Kong businessman’s son. Well, possibly the businessman hadn’t been a jerk but his son certainly had. Jay at sixteen had been a simple, obedient Chinese daughter, even though she had been born and brought up in Sydney. She had let her family send her off to Hong Kong to be married. It had taken a couple of years for her to wake up. Then she’d come home, got herself a series of unexciting jobs, and put herself through uni. Evidently she’d neglected to tell Tim, the boyfriend, that she’d ever been married, not to mention that she hadn’t bothered to get a divorce. He had suggested they get hitched. Jay had replied that there was nothing wrong with living together and that anyway she wasn’t divorced. It had been quite a shock, and perhaps understandably he had shouted at her and said a lot of rather bitter things. Jay had, rightly or wrongly, concluded he was just another macho Aussie shit and when he had walked out had shouted from the window that he needn’t bother to come back, throwing an entire rack of his country music CDs out of the window at him for good measure. After two months he had come back, but Jay wasn’t prepared to let bygones be bygones. According to her he had simply never been prepared to listen to her point of view. Most of Kitten’s family silently considered that her friend Jay was awfully like Ingrid, but only Karen had said it, and even she had only said it to Kitten and not to Ingrid herself.
Jay could have got a better job than clipping and scanning, but as they hadn't found anyone else literate in two languages who was prepared to be a Chinese clipper, she was paid quite well, and she did a lot of moonlighting in the evenings and weekends as well. She liked the freedom of a job she could just walk out of with no regrets when she was fed up with it.
“We need a cook for tomorrow,” explained Sloane.
“I can only do Chinese, and spaghetti bolognaise!” replied Jay with a giggle.
“Help,” said Sloane in a hollow voice.
“Get Kitten,” suggested Jay
“She’s sick, remember?”
“Uh—yes,” she squeaked. “I forgot!”
There was a short silence. Sloane knew the agency’s switchboard girl listened in. “Um—could you meet us after work, Jay?”
“Righto. I’ll come there, shall I?”
Sloane agreed, and rang off. She looked at her watch and made a face. Then she picked up the receiver again.
Gail came in just as she was dialling. She pointed to her watch, raised her eyebrows and said: “Looking for a candidate?”
“Not exactly. –Oh: hullo,” said Sloane with a sigh of relief. “Thank God it’s you! It’s me.”
Gail grinned, and wandered out again.
“Hullo, Sloane!” said Kitten loudly and clearly. “How lovely to hear from you!”
She was not only loud and clear, she was using her posh telephone voice. “Is he there?” hissed Sloane.
“Mm.”
“Shit. Um—are you free tomorrow night?”
“Actually, l think we’re dining with some people,” said Kitten in her posh voice.
Sloane stuck her tongue out at the phone. “I need a cook. Sit-down dinner for twenty-four. I’ve only got that idiot Wendy Peters. She needs supervision. Not to say being told what to do.”
“I could meet you for lunch tomorrow, Sloane,” said Kitten politely in tones of bell-like clearness. And in the posh voice. “At a nice little café.”
Sloane stuck her tongue out at the phone again. “Will you be free all day?”
“Make it as early as you like, Hugo’s going to be tied up in horrid meetings all day.”
“Thank God, so you’ll be available all day?”
“Yes, that’s right, horrid business,” said Kitten with a pout in her voice.
“Is he listening?” hissed Sloane.
“Yes; I thought I just said?”
Gulping a bit, Sloane hissed: “How early can you get in to RightSmart tomorrow morning? I need someone to do the shopping. It’s a rush job for Gloria’s.”
“Shopping might be fun, we could do that in the morning,” said Kitten in tones of bell-like clearness. And in the posh voice.
“Is nine o’clock too early for Your Highness?”
“Much.”
“When does he leave the bloody flat, then?” hissed Sloane in despair.
“Oh, quite late.”
“Jesus. Ten? Bearing in mind that we’ve got to find something to go with half a dozen raw ducks?”
“Okay: I’ll see you then!” she said happily. “Bye-bye!”
“Bye-bye to you, too,” said Sloane limply, hanging up. Well, one good thing: at least Hugo Kent hadn’t answered the bloody phone in bloody person.
Hugo Kent had put Kitten into a nice little flat.
Apparently this was his definition—or one of them: Kitten had revealed to her goggling sisters and the goggling Nikki and Jay that he also referred to it, in his more sentimental moments, as “our dear little nest.” There was nothing little about it, the whole flat that the girls shared in Manly could have fitted into its lounge-room. And if a nest by definition had wall-to-wall pale pink all-wool carpet, then okay, it was a bloody nest. It was the top floor of an admittedly not very high-rise building, in Rose Bay. Kitten thought it might have been more convenient a bit closer to the CBD, if you please, though she did not object to the fact that the little nest occupied a whole floor and had a magnificent three-way view of the harbour. The rest of the décor was very much along the lines of the carpet: pale pink, white and silver, and Sloane and Ingrid had privily agreed it must actually have been designed as a place to keep a mistress in, because why else would you condemn yourself to be entirely surrounded by pale pink, white and silver with huge mirrors? Apart from the bedroom, the furniture was mercifully simple, if not exactly attractive: puffy white leather sofas and chairs, glass tables. The bedroom was unspeakably pale pink, with draped swags of silk everywhere, but Kitten had informed them blithely she never looked at it and the girls saw no reason to question this statement. According to Kitten, the flat had been all Hugo’s idea. Nikki had said dazedly: “He must be blind!” but Melodie had immediately pounced. What, exactly, had Kitten said just before Hugo had had the idea of the flat?
Kitten had looked soulful. “He was saying how our time at the hut was nearly up and he couldn’t bear the thought of being in the same country as me and not being able to get near me.”
“And?” groaned the twins.
“Nothing. All I said was, it was an awful pity I only had a tiny room and a little bed at the flat, otherwise he could squeeze in with me and be all cosy,”—Ingrid choked slightly—“and he said, if I could stand him fulltime, would I fancy getting a little flat together?”
After a numbed moment Ingrid managed to croak: “Humbly, would this have been?”
Kitten looked smug. “You could put it like that.”
“How does she DO it?” cried Ingrid wildly. “This man owns huge companies! Grown-up corporate executives tremble at his slightest frown! He holds the fates of thousands in his hands!”
“Male menopause,” said Sloane heavily. “Well, plus her,” she admitted.
Ingrid nodded numbly. But after a moment she said: “Kitten, how permanent is it?”
“What? Oh. He put the lease in my name. A year.”
There was a stunned silence.
“But isn’t he going back to England?” gasped Nikki.
“We’ll see,” she said grimly.
They had left it at that; Nikki wasn’t aware of the full details of the Lallapinda revenge. Though there was no doubt that what she did know would be all over the KRP building before the cat could lick its corporate ear. However, Kitten, on being asked cautiously by Sloane if she minded, had said that she didn’t. So much the better if the whole of Crap knew. And if it got to his wife’s ears, so much the even better!
She had, of course, being Kitten, not burned her bridges, but providently told the agency she was down with infectious mononucleosis. The kissing disease. Yeah, well. As far as the girls knew, Karen and Dick knew nothing whatsoever of the matter. True, they were vaguely aware that their second daughter had spent a few days in the hut with a man she’d picked up at the Lallapinda dance, but this was a far from unusual summer holiday activity for Kitten. They were certainly not aware of who the man was or that the same man had installed their daughter in a pale pink love-nest in Rose Bay. And if Sloane and the twins had anything to do with it, that was the way it was gonna stay! Nikki had been warned stringently not to breathe a word of it round home, but she wouldn’t have, in any case: Mrs West would have given her a harangue about “that Kitten Manning” and Nikki had already had more than enough of those to last out several lifetimes.
Melodie and Ingrid arrived together, five minutes after Sloane had rung Gloria to confirm it was all systems go. Sloane got them coffee while they waited for Jay. Jay was now fully in the picture, because she had certain Hong Kong connections which were extremely relevant to the Lallapinda revenge. Perhaps Kitten and she would have become friends anyway, but the coincidence of one of them being from a family that had been ruined by KRP and the other being from a family that had been ruined by Pointer’s had certainly cemented the friendship.
It was Jay’s grandfather who had been ruined, at least so the Wongs claimed, by Pointer’s. Pointer’s Merchant Bank had first advanced his successful Hong Kong printing business a large sum of money and then, when the business was doing really well, offered a partnership arrangement. Grandfather Wong had not up until this point intended expanding the business, but he had let Michael Pointer of Pointer’s talk him into it. Fifty-one percent to Pointer’s, but the bank assured him they had many of these arrangements, the fifty-one was their normal safeguard, and they never wanted to be more than sleeping partners. He had agreed. For almost four years everything had gone swimmingly and the Wongs had prospered and Grandfather Wong had sent two of his sons to finish their education at Sydney University. Then Pointer’s had decided to sell out of the printing business. It wasn’t where their core interests lay. The deed of partnership specified that either partner should have first refusal if the other wanted to sell out, a point which had been very reassuring to Grandfather Wong. Unfortunately there was no way he could scrape up that amount of capital at short notice. He went to another bank for a loan. No joy. Then he went to another. It was only after six banks in succession had turned him down that it dawned: Pointer’s had put the word round their banking mates. No one was going to lend Mr Wong a Hong Kong dollar. Pointer’s then very kindly offered to buy Mr Wong out instead. Eventually he gave in.
The business owned, besides its goodwill, an amount of paper in stock and its old but willing printing presses, a small, tumbledown building in a grimy industrial part of town. Two months to the day after Grandfather Wong had sold out, the bulldozers moved in, the whole block was razed, and the hoardings went up advertising superior office space in a new multi-storey prestige development. Grandfather Wong was utterly convinced that Pointer’s in general and the charming and helpful Michael Pointer in particular had known about this planned development since the day he’d naïvely walked in and asked them for that first loan.
The Wongs didn’t starve in the wake of losing their business: one of the sons who had been educated in Sydney had done his degree in engineering, and he and his wife were able to emigrate to Australia, subsequently bringing out the two old people. Nevertheless the family was very bitter about Pointer’s. Of course, all this had happened some time back: Jay was born just after the family moved to Sydney and she was now twenty-six: but the bitterness was still there, and had been transferred from Pointer’s to KRP as a matter of course.
When Jay arrived at RightSmart she was given a cup of coffee and they all sat down in Sloane’s little office. And Jay asked with a giggle: “Is this a council of war?” –Jay was a giggler. More so when there were males around. The girls had never worked out whether it was cultural or just Jay.
“More or less,” said Sloane grimly. “I told you we had an urgent job—”
“I thought that was just in case Colleen was listening on the switchboard!” she cried.
“In case?” snorted Ingrid.
“Just shut up and listen,” ordered Sloane grimly. “The client is Joyce Burgoyne.”
Melodie gulped loudly, Ingrid cried: “What?” and Jay gasped.
“Yeah,” agreed Sloane sourly. “They’re back, and the rat hasn’t rung me. –Just LISTEN!” she shouted as they broke into excited and indignant speech.
They listened.
Sloane had decided they’d take the job because not only was a job a job: it would give them the entrée into the house. If they did well and made sure Joyce Burgoyne knew it was RightSmart doing the job and not Gloria’s, then they would be hired again, and after about four or five times—less, in many instances—the client would trust their personnel absolutely in the house with incredible amounts of cash, jewellery and private papers just lying around loose: it happened every time. Why they imagined temporary catering and housekeeping staff should be utterly trustworthy just because they’d been in your house a few times before Sloane and Gail had never figured out; but it was the inevitable pattern. Certainly they personally checked all their employees’ references: but what if they hadn’t? But so much the better: they would be able to find out everything there was to know about the Kendall Burgoynes and then some.
“It’s a pity he isn’t with Crap,” noted Jay.
“You can’t have everything,” replied Sloane grimly.
“Yet!” said Melodie with a laugh.
“Quite,” agreed her twin grimly.
“It’s a start,” said Sloane.
“Yeah—good,” agreed Jay. “Shall I help in the kitchen, then? Or do you want me to do the waitressing?”
Sloane hesitated. “It’s sit-down for twenty-four. The client thought one maid for the table, but I think we’ll need two. Kitten can do most of the cooking and manage Wendy Peters to start with, but I think we’ll need you to help keep an eye on her in the evening: Kitten can’t make it, Hugo Crap’s taking her out to dinner.”
“In public?” asked Jay excitedly.
“Presumably. He doesn’t seem to be bothering to keep it a secret, does he?”
“Perhaps his wife’s the sort that doesn’t care what he does so long as she’s got the ring on her finger and her name on the joint account,” said Melodie gloomily.
“Mm,” agreed Ingrid, looking at Sloane.
Sloane rubbed her straight nose. “I think she must be, yeah. But who’d want to be tied up to one of those for the rest of his natural? Anyway, it’s up to Kitten. Now, listen: I thought Melodie answering the door and waiting on, with me helping her, and you co-ordinating the kitchen, Jay, and giving us a hand with the waiting on. Wendy can cook okay but she’ll go to pieces if she has to be in charge when it comes to last-minute preparation and serving. You and I together should be able to control her, Jay.”
“Yes, but Sloane, they’ll recognise you!” she gasped.
Melodie gave a loud giggle. “No, they won’t! The wig!”
Sloane smiled. “Mm.”
“What?” said Jay dubiously.
Melodie explained gaily: “They had a job where the client was a rich ole bat with a bachelor son and she absolutely insisted the maid had to be middle-aged and plain, and there was no-one available. So Gail and Sloane dressed Sloane up in a horrible greyish wig and a sort of yellowish foundation over a bit of green eyeshadow—on the face, I mean—and a very pale powder on top of it: she looked ghastly, Jay!”
Jay save a smothered giggle and put her hand over her mouth, looking in awe at Sloane.
“Yes; we used a bit of brown eyeshadow round the eye sockets, too. Gail said I looked as if I’d been on black tea, fags and tranquillisers for the last thirty years!”
“The wig’s really good: sort of curly, not her usual look,” added Melodie eagerly. “It makes her look as if she had black hair that went grey, y’know? And they did her eyebrows with black mascara!”
“Her eyebrows?” said Jay weakly.
“Yeah: it made them look much thicker: really horrible!”
“Yes,” said Sloane. smiling. “I don’t think they’ll recognise me. And they’ve never met Melodie. Well, they might have seen her but they won’t remember her.”
“They’ve met Kitten, though,” remembered Ingrid uneasily.
“We’ll disguise her, too. We’ll put her in a shapeless overall—”
“That’ll disguise her, all right!” said Jay with a loud giggle.
Sloane smiled. “Mm. And—uh—maybe a suntan make-up. And a dark brown wig. Maybe with a fringe.”
As Jay had a fringe, with her thick, shiny black hair in a bouncy bob, they all looked hard at her.
“It could work,” she said feebly.
They nodded. “Joyce Burgoyne won’t look twice at a cook, anyway!” said Sloane cheerfully.
“Can I help, Sloane?” asked Ingrid. “I’m free tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, you can help with the shopping. The client’s got half a dozen ducks: we can have—”
“Peking duck!” squeaked Jay ecstatically.
“Shut up. Duck à l’orange. Kitten’s done it for us before. Four courses.”
Melodie began counting on her fingers. “Hors d’oeuvres, the duck, pudding— Blow. Um, hors d’oeuvres, and an entrée, and then the duck, and then pudding?”
Sloane shrugged. “I suppose so. We’ll leave it to Kitten.”
The girls agreed to leave it to Kitten, and adjourned to the pub to meet Nikki.
The next day dawned warm and sultry again. “Help,” said Sloane numbly as Kitten swanned into her office at ten past ten.
Kitten revolved slowly in the pale pink linen-look suit. “Like it?”
It was very, very pale pink. A short, tight skirt, and a plain short-sleeved, long jacket with three self-covered buttons. No blouse. With it she had high-heeled strappy pink sandals that Sloane didn’t think she’d seen before and an exactly matching pink leather clutch-bag: rather a squashy, soft look. And a string of large pearls in the low vee of the suit that Sloane had definitely never seen before.
“It’s disgusting. And where did those pearls come from?” she croaked.
“You sound like Mum. From Japanese oysters,” replied Kitten smugly. “Cultured, but they’re good ones, though.”
“How much is he spending on you?” she said numbly.
“Dunno. Mind you, money’s nothing to him.” She held out her right hand. “Like this?” The middle finger sported—
“Are those diamonds?” gasped Sloane.
“Yes, of course. He doesn’t buy junk. Isn’t it pretty? Estate.”
The ring was a good-sized flower: certainly wider than Kitten’s slender finger. The petals were diamonds, the centre was a good-sized pearl and if you looked closely, which Sloane by some strange coincidence was doing, you saw that surrounding the pearl was a tiny circle of pink, um…
“Those weeny pink stones are only rose quartz, but it’s pretty, isn’t it? Old gold, ya see?”
Sloane sighed. “Yeah. The only part I can’t figure out is how you dragged His Highness into a joint that sells second-hand jewellery.”
“It was in the window.”
“Enough said. You’re gonna look good buying veggies in that lot, but too bad. Come on, we’re running late.”
“It’s all right, I’ve got a taxi waiting.”
Sloane’s jaw sagged. “Let me guess: pocket money?”
“He was very tactful about it. He’s got nice instincts!” she said with a giggle.
“Yeah.” Sloane looked warily at her office doorway, which was now featuring a sardonic-looking Gail Vickers. It was true that Gail and Sloane were also in linen-look suits. Gail’s was a restrained grey-blue, the skirt not short, and not tight. She was wearing a plain white silk shirt with it. Sloane’s was a similar style, in a restrained light brown: a warm shade somewhere between tan and mushroom. Although she was not wearing a blouse, the neckline was not noticeably low and it was most certainly not filled in by an exquisite string of pearls. Gail‘s lapel supported one silvered metal clip. Sloane’s lapel supported one gold metal clip.
“Go on,” said Gail drily: “how did he actually phrase it? No, let me guess: ‘Darling, here’s some pocket money, spend it on frillies or anything your little heart desires’?”
“Not quite,” she replied with horrid calm. “‘Sweetheart, I can’t possibly let you run around the city with only loose change in your purse: anything could happen! Now, take this and promise me you’ll tell me if you need more, mm? And take taxis, little Kitten: those damned buses don’t look safe to me, and we don’t want you standing around at bus stops in this heat.’”
Gail gulped, but managed to say: “What does he imagine could happen in broad daylight?”
“Apparently the dreadful fate of having to wait for a double-decker bus like the rest of Sydney,” said Sloane sourly. “Did you want anything?”
“Only to see what the Prince had decked the Sleeping Beauty out in. Quayte refayned,” she approved, wandering off again.
Kitten made a face at Sloane. “How much have you told her?” she hissed.
“Nothing about the Lallapinda you-know-what. But don’t kid yourself she hasn’t guessed what you’re up to.”
Kitten shrugged. “Are we going?”
“Yes,” said Sloane grimly. “And I hope to goodness you’ve got some notion of what to buy for four courses for twenty-four in that fuzzy blonde head of yours!”
“Yes, I thought it all out last night,” she replied serenely.
Sloane swallowed, and didn’t ask when, precisely.
It was not until the veggies and everything else Kitten needed had been safely bought and they were in the taxi on the way to the flat to meet the twins and Jay that Kitten asked idly: “Who’s the client?”
“Joyce Burgoyne,” replied Sloane tightly.
After a minute Kitten said: “I see. You’d better wear the wig if you’re gonna do it yourself.”
“Yes,” she agreed limply. “That’s what I thought.”
At the flat Melodie and Ingrid displayed the two and a half dozen floral bread-and-butter plates they’d managed to find at the sales, quite reasonably. Ingrid explained unnecessarily that she’d got a few extra in case, and added that she’d arranged to pick Wendy Peters up at one o’clock as Sloane had asked.
“Her car’s broken down: she rang me at home at eleven last night, and just don’t ask,” said Sloane heavily to Kitten.
“I wasn’t gunnoo. I’ve never met her, have I?”
“No. Now get out of that outfit and get into that overall.”
Insouciantly Kitten began to undress in the middle of the lounge-room.
“There’s stacks of time,” said Melodie comfortably.
“Not for her, she’s got to cook,” replied Sloane firmly. “Try on those grey uniforms and find one that fits, Melodie. And the stupid organdie aprons are for you and me. So are the bloody caps.”
“What about Jay?”
“Get on with it!”
Melodie got on with it.
... Jay went into a burst of giggles as Sloane re-entered the lounge-room.
“Yes, but would you recognise me?” said Sloane heavily.
“I think so, but it’d take a while!” she gasped, giggling helplessly. “The eyebrows!” she got out.
“Toleja,” said Melodie smugly. “Now: wait. HEY!” she bellowed.
A short, plump, dowdy figure in a dowdy olive-green overall with a dowdy olive-green cap pulled well down over its dark brown fringe shambled in. The rest of its chin-length, dark brown, straight hair was pushed back behind the ears, which were half-hidden by the cap. It wore ugly tortoiseshell-rimmed specs. Not much showed beneath the overall, but fawn ankle-socks and bulky white crepe-soled shoes were visible.
“Help!” gasped Jay.
“I’d say her own mother wouldn’t recognise her,” said Ingrid detachedly, “but Mum’s capable of walking past any of us in the street.”
“Yeah. How’d ya do it, Kitten?” she said numbly.
Kitten straightened.
“Ooh!” said Jay.
“Yes, it’s the slouch that really makes the difference,” agreed Sloane.
“And the skin.” Jay came and peered. “I can’t see anything,” she said in fascination.
“No. It’s a really horrid dark foundation,” explained Kitten. “First I put a lot on and then I took it off with a tissue. Then I did it again. There’s dark brown mascara on my eyebrows. It takes a while: you have to put it on and separate them and let it dry and then brush it almost out with your eyebrow brush and then put another layer.”
“Yeah,” said Jay limply.
“I hope it comes off okay, Hugo’s taking me to dinner tonight.”
“Of course it’ll come off!” cried Melodie.
“Just so long as it stays on this arvo,” said Sloane grimly.
“Have you actually padded your cheeks, Sloane?” asked Jay cautiously.
“Yes. And my nose. Ingrid got the stuff this morning at a place that specialises in theatrical costumes and stuff.”
“Just don’t eat or sneeze!” advised Ingrid with a laugh.
Jay peered.
“If you looked closely you’d recognise her,” said Ingrid, “but the trick is, not to encourage them to look.”
“That certainly won’t encourage ole Kendall Burgoyne,” noted Kitten. “See her boobs?”—Jay nodded numbly—“She’s wearing one of my bras, padded with cottonwool with the straps let down so as she looks sort of saggy. Good, eh?”—Jay nodded numbly.—“Come on, are we ready?”
They were ready, so they went.
“Good off-ter-noon, Mrs Bur-goyne, I y’am Kirsten Andersen from RightSmart,” said Sloane calmly, in Grandma Andersen’s very accents.
“Where in God’s name have you been?” cried Joyce Burgoyne wildly.
“We did say that we would be here y’at two, Mrs Bur-goyne,” replied Sloane calmly.
“Yes, but they’ve been delivering flowers and silverware and God knows what all day, and I don’t know what to do with it all!” she cried wildly. “And I’ve still got to get my hair done!”
“Please to yust leave it all to oss, Mrs Bur-goyne,” said Sloane, overdoing it slightly. “Everything is onn-der con-trol.”
Joyce ran a hand distractedly through her ginger mop. It needed doing, all right. “I suppose you’d better come in. The kitchen’s through here. –Now what?” she cried as the phone rang.
“Please to let May to answer that for you,” said Sloane calmly, nodding at Melodie.
Melodie stepped forward and picked up the kitchen extension. “Burgoyne residence; may I help you?”
Joyce Burgoyne sagged. “I suppose she knows what she’s doing,” she muttered, leading them into the kitchen.
“May y’is a highly experienced maid and social secretary, Mrs Bur-goyne,” said Sloane soothingly. “If you will yust show me the dining-room and give me any instructions about the napery, I will see to everything else.”
“Yes. –The ducks are in the freezer!” she gasped, hurrying out.
Sloane raised an eyebrow slightly at Kitten. Kitten shrugged, and went over to the freezer.
“Bring in the microwave from the car, we’ll need an extra one,” said Sloane in an undertone, going out in Joyce’s wake.
It appeared that the dinner for twenty-four was all Kendall’s fault and that the absence of suitable china for twenty-four was also all Kendall’s fault and that Mrs Burgoyne was never going to forgive him and that if he breathed one word—one word—about what her new dress had cost—! In short, Kendall was For It. Sloane was not surprised by Joyce’s speaking so freely, nay unburdening herself, to “Kirsten Andersen”: clients did it all the time. They seemed to think their temporary domestic help was a cross between their pet hairdresser and their GP. Tonight’s dinner guests were business acquaintances of Kendall’s whom she, Joyce, hardly knew, and if she had told him once she had told him a thousand times that she would not countenance his asking more than four couples, and she absolutely required two weeks’ notice of any dinner guests and there was no way—no way—she was going to use her good china with this mob! And—viciously—if all Miss Andersen had managed to dredge up was stainless steel cutlery, so much the better!
Sloane replied soothingly that it was, but it had a pretty rose pattern on it and was quite acceptable. And yust to leave everything to her.
Joyce Burgoyne looked at her watch, threw up her hands, and hurried out to her hair appointment. Leaving everything, including the free run of the house, to a cluster of RightSmart personnel whom she’d met for the first time five minutes ago, and who could have been anyone at all. And who in this case were.
Ingrid turned up with Wendy a couple of minutes after the lilac Mercedes sports model had disappeared down the short but sufficiently elaborate drive. Wendy had been present at Sloane’s previous masquerade in the wig, so she took it without a blink. She was, in any case, not given to questioning the whims of clients. Or anything, much. Kitten immediately got her onto preparation. She didn’t ask who she was, so Kitten kindly introduced herself as “Ms Katryn Hansen.” Rather more on the Ingrid Bergman side than the Grandma Andersen, but never mind, Wendy didn’t notice a thing.
Kitten had decided to do vichyssoise instead of hors d’oeuvres, it was easy but impressive and as all the ladies would be on diets they wouldn’t want much. The entrée would be hot: seafood vol-au-vents, Kitten had bought the vol-au-vent cases, and Wendy was more than capable of poaching and flaking some white fish, adding a dozen carefully sliced white scallop parts and some shelled prawns, and cohering the lot in a white wine sauce. The vol-au-vents would go into the oven filled and be heated just enough to cook the seafood, and then a whole prawn, peeled but for its tail-tip, would be added to each. They would then go into the oven again. Could Wendy manage that? And the tails were not to burn! Wendy thought she could. The entrée plates would be decorated with a swirl of the sauce, coloured with the sieved coral of the scallops, and Kitten would make that herself. Could Wendy manage the plates? Wendy thought she could. No parsley, Kitten warned grimly. There was to be one nice piece of houndstooth lettuce leaf and one very thin carrot curl at the side of the plate: she would do the carrot curls herself and they would be in a bowl of ice water in the fridge. Wendy nodded humbly.
Making a mental note to tell Jay to oversee the entrées, Kitten turned her attention to defrosting half a dozen large ducks which by rights should have been slowly thawing in the fridge all night. Just as well Sloane had brought that extra microwave. The ducks would, as Sloane had thought, be à l’orange, and served with small white potatoes, summer squash, because people like Joyce Burgoyne expected to see small, bright yellow, tasteless buttons on their summer dinner tables, and mange-tout peas. Because people like Joyce Burgoyne expected to see snow peas on their dinner tables, whatever the season.
As Kitten sincerely doubted Joyce would know a decent salad if she fell over it there wasn’t going to be one. Nor a cheese course. There was going to be a two-layered chocolate cake heavily disguised as up-market dessert. It was easy: you made the cake and stuck it together with a chocolate filling. Then you cut it into wedges, put each wedge on its side on a plate and carefully covered it with dark chocolate. Before the chocolate had had time to set you quickly added one strawberry, with its stalk on, having previously dipped the pointed end of the strawberry in melted chocolate and allowed it to set. Then the plates went into the fridge to harden the chocolate. She didn’t care what Mrs Burgoyne had her fridge full of, Wendy, she’d need the space for her pudding plates. As a finishing touch you put some up-market long shavings of chocolate and a few blueberries on the side of the plate, either sprinkling them with icing sugar or frosting them, if you had the time. Briskly Kitten turned the oven on and began mixing chocolate cake. Three cakes would be enough: eight slices out of each, easy. Six layers. They didn’t have to be deep layers: with the filling and the chocolate coating, it was really filling: rich, ja-a?
Wendy said it did sound rich and Kitten agreed placidly that she wouldn’t feed her boyfriend on it as a regular thing: she wanted him to live to a ripe old age—ja-a?
The chat then diverged onto such matters as the oddness of men always liking desserts and the even odder oddness of men never being able to resist crème caramel even though (Wendy’s claim) they always said it was a woman’s pudding, and the further culinary tastes of Wendy’s husband, and the bad luck Wendy’s husband had had at his last job, with the factory closing down…
In the kitchen the cooks chatted and cooked and prepared steadily. In the dining-room Melodie and Sloane had put in all the big table’s extensions, so that it could, with a bit of squeezing, just seat twenty-four, and laid it with Joyce Burgoyne’s longest damask tablecloth, which they had had to go and find for themselves. She didn’t have twenty-four matching serviettes or anything like it, but fortunately Sloane had providently ordered two dozen pale pink linen ones from the catering supply company when she ordered the dinner-set. Melodie unpacked the crockery while Sloane set out the cutlery and the glassware. The suppliers’ glassware wasn’t bad but if it had been her table and her husband’s business acquaintances that were going to be sitting round it, Sloane would have used those gold-rimmed crystal creations that were lurking in the glass-fronted rosewood sideboard.
After a while, when they’d got the place settings done, Kitten came in and tried to claim the floral bread-and-butter plates as pudding plates, but Sloane was adamant: they were an essential part of the total look; so she went away again. Melodie began hunting out the Burgoynes’ candelabra and candlesticks—not that Mrs Burgoyne had provided candles: Sloane had bought half a dozen pale pink ones. All sorts of goodies were discovered in the process, including three silver salt and pepper sets which were immediately claimed for the table. Plus two long-stemmed silver vases. The florist had supplied a bunch of pink roses with plenty of gypsophila and some silver-dollar gum, which could be eked out between two or even three vases. Eventually Melodie discovered a crystal vase as well and the bouquet was duly taken out to the kitchen and, amidst screams of “Watch out for my cakes!” split up and distributed amongst the three vases.
Melodie’s touch with flowers was much admired, and the vases were taken back to the dining-room, where Sloane was carefully folding pink serviettes into waterlilies, there being, as she had now discovered, only half a dozen silver napkin rings in the Burgoyne house.
Joyce Burgoyne got back from the hairdresser nearer to five o’clock than four-thirty, to find a house full of the sweet scent of baked chocolate cake, and a perfect, gracious-looking dining room.
“You’ve done wonders, Miss Andersen,” she said limply.
“T’onk you, Mrs Bur-goyne,” said Sloane, overdoing it again.
“Good heavens: candles,” said Joyce limply. “I forgot all about them.”
“Y’it is all part of RightSmart’s service; may I give you our card?” said Sloane smoothly. She had already seeded the house with their cards: two in the hall, one right by the phone and the other on an occasional table near the coat-stand; one propped casually against the larger vase of flowers on the dining-room sideboard; and one by the kitchen phone. She had now arranged with Gloria that RightSmart would bill Mrs Burgoyne direct. It would save Gloria’s the paperwork. Gloria had been so snowed under that she’d agreed without thinking twice about it.
Joyce Burgoyne said distractedly: “Thank you,” and took the card without looking at it, forthwith telling Sloane she was sure everything was under control in the kitchen and rushing upstairs to bathe and change; but Sloane at this juncture hadn’t expected anything else.
She went out to the kitchen. Melodie was leaning back in a kitchen chair eating a raw carrot with her shoes off and her feet up on the edge of the table. Admittedly on a piece of newspaper, but— “Mel—May! What about the client?”
“Relax, Sloane, she’s not the type to come out to the kitchen,” she said tolerantly.
“Five’ll get ya ten she goes straight upstairs to change—ja-a?” said Kitten.
“Yah to you, too,” said Sloane, sitting down with a sigh. “Though you’re right: she has. Where’s Wendy?’“
“Out the back. Smoko,” replied Kitten laconically, dropping the Ingrid Bergman bit for the nonce.
“Oh—right. Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?” replied Kitten. “But I gotta go soon, me and Hugo—“
“We know,” groaned Melodie.
“Where’s he taking you?” asked Sloane, yawning.
Kitten looked critically at the sauce she was making for the ducks. “Somewhere with not very classic canard à l’orange and chocolate gâteau dressed up to look yuppie.”
There was a short silence. Her sisters exchanged doubtful glances.
“What do you mean?” said Melodie irritably.
“Pass me that Cointreau. Whaddaya think I mean?“
Melodie gulped.
“Is this a leg-pull?” said Sloane dangerously.
“N—” Kitten stopped: Wendy had come back inside. “No, but I mosst to go, soo-yern,” she said earnestly.
“All right. Jay’ll be along soon,” said Sloane feebly, giving the empurpled Melodie a warning glance.
“Do you mean I’ve got to answer the front door to—” Sloane’s expression registered. Melodie broke off, breathing heavily.
“Don’t you want to do the front door?” asked Wendy, faint but pursuing.
Melodie took a deep breath. “’Course I do, Wendy, I’m looking forward to it tremendously.”
Next chapter:
https://thelallapindarevenge.blogspot.com/2022/11/gracious-living.html
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