The Deal
by Lise

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Part One

Elizabeth had gone to see a play on Monday night, with a hideously expensive front-row ticket so she could see things better. The friend she was supposed go with had not come, what the play was about was a mystery to her and the evening had just not been very successful.

Her mood was bad when she walked to the parking garage and it did not improve when she saw that her car was jammed in on two sides by vehicles that did not even allow her to open any doors. In fact, she could not even get to the doors and she did not know or care to try if it was possible to get in through the boot. This meant she had to leave the car here for the entire night if she did not want to wait for the owners of the neighbouring cars.

She waited for fifteen minutes, but she got sick of people snickering at her when they saw the situation. They all thought they were original and very funny, whereas Elizabeth was not amused at all. She had not dressed up before going to the theatre and she was wearing her regular work clothes, but her trousers and blouse were neat enough for every other passing man to offer a ride to this seemingly unaccompanied attractive female under forty. But perhaps forty was a bit too generous and they would only ask women under thirty-five, she mused and asked the next one about it when he rolled down his car window. He looked startled and drove off immediately.

She snickered and tied her long dark hair back in a bun. That would reduce the number of offers too, probably. She usually wore it that way, but she had taken the elastic band out of it so she could lean back in her seat in the theatre. Yet she told herself she was not waiting for the perfect offer here and that she had better follow the sensible people's advice and take a bus or a taxi home. But the owners of the cars would pay. She wrote the right one a note, since he had parked very badly on purpose. There was enough space to the right of that car and there had not been any need for it to be parked this way.

You can't park and thanks to your lousy parking skills I'm forced to take a taxi home and to pay for parking until you have left. I expect you to refund the following costs:
- parking from 22:15 till the time I am able to pick it up again (8:30 tomorrow)
- taxi fare home
- taxi fare back here
I have taken a note of your number plate and will take action. If you have not removed your car by tomorrow morning 8:30, I shall scratch your precious paint.

Perhaps she would not damage his car, really, but she was angry enough to consider doing it. She provided her telephone number so the owner could contact her and then she walked out onto the street to see where she was and where she should order a taxi.

The next morning she had not been called yet and she was pretty angry when she took a taxi back to the parking garage. She just knew she was going to find her car free to drive out with no other cars nearby. Whoever it had been would just have read her note and thrown it away. People were like that. They just did not care.

It was 8:26. The vile car was indeed gone and the one on the left side had gone as well. Elizabeth cursed their owners. They had just ignored her.

However, there was a note under her wiper, she saw a few seconds later. She nearly ripped it in two in her eagerness to read it.

You can't be anything but a woman, threatening to scratch my paint. Had you waited five minutes longer, you could have scratched my eyes out.

The mocking tone of the note made her furious, but it continued and she had to read on, wanting some kind of apology.

I understand your plight, knowing that the machine doesn't take any banknotes at the moment. Nobody carries enough coins to pay for a night in a parking garage. Tomorrow morning I'll stop by with a bag of coins and throw them one by one through your right window. It's open to a not-so-tiny crack. You seem to have forgotten to close it (had I mentioned yet that I think you're female?)

"Argh!" Elizabeth cried out, stamping her feet. Male chauvinist pig! And he had to have thought of something she had not considered, the pig! She had not yet looked into her car and to her great surprise the front right seat indeed had some coins on it. This annoying person seemed to have been true to his word, which made him a little less annoying. She opened the door and counted the coins. It would be more than enough.

The note went on even further. It was long.

It surprises me that someone driving a car like yours should be fussing about such a marginal sum. Is it a question of principle, madam? You took note of my number plate, you wrote. In that case you will agree with me that it matches the number that is indicated on the wall right in front of your car. With me it is a question of principle too. I always jam in people who steal my space.

She knew there was a number on the wall, but she had assumed that it applied to some car that used this spot during the day. Things were different in the evening and she had just ignored it. So it had actually been her fault. That was a tough thing to swallow.

Elizabeth had leant against her car for a while, thinking what she should do. She ought to thank this person for the money, male chauvinist pig or not. "Manners, manners," she murmured. The importance of good manners had always been drilled into her by her governesses. Manners first, then the rest. You even had to be polite to the most impolite of people, because then you were above reproach. They had done their work well -- she knew she would not feel pleased with herself if she left here without writing a thank-you note. "Whatever you do, don't lower yourself to their level. Remain superior."

With a sigh she glanced at her plain blue watch: 8:39 and time to get a move on. Rush-hour traffic was tough and she could not linger here much longer if she did not want to be late. She fingered the thin gold bracelets on her other wrist and frowned. Her hand slid into her shoulder bag and took out a small memo book and a pen.

Thank you for the money. While I should offer my apologies, I don't want to contribute to your evident sense of superiority because you were correct in every instance. I apologise. Now laugh at me.

After she had written it, she realised it was really a smart idea to write a note with nowhere to leave it. She looked up at the number on the wall and got an idea. That was a place. She stuck the note partly behind it and then hurriedly drove to work.

At home that evening, she realised that she would never see whether he had read or answered the note, because that parking garage was not a place she ever used. She had only parked there when she had gone to the theatre, but no other attractions were near to it. Maybe she should drive past it one time and check, because she did want to know, really. Then she changed her mind. The whole idea of parking there just to check if there was a note there was absolutely ridiculous and she postponed any decisions on the subject until the next day.

In the morning, she was still curious if there was a reply. She would have to go to satisfy her curiosity, but it was too late now to do that before work. It would have to be during her lunch break.

She came up with a flimsy excuse for why she was not lunching with the group and quickly drove to the parking garage, all the while telling herself she was insane.

It was 13:05 and his car was there; at least, one of the same colour and build. She stopped in her tracks when she saw it, quickly doing the unnecessary number plate check. Yes, it matched the number on the wall. Slowly she approached the car, trying not to look conspicuous. What if its owner suddenly appeared? That would be embarrassing. She glanced at the plate on the wall. There was a note stuck behind it, in a different place from where she had stuck hers, so it was either another one or it had been read.

Elizabeth reached up and then withdrew her hand. It was silly to be doing this. But no, she had to read it. She reached up again, slowly, and took the note. It was folded and she walked to the corner where the lift and stairs were before unfolding it.

Thank you for your sincere apologies.

She had not paid attention to it before, because of her indignation, but now she noticed that he had a decent handwriting, though definitely a man's. It was more than legible.

The reason I didn't call you with my own sincere apologies is because I thought your anger might become just as sincere if I called you that late at night. Your handwriting places you between 20 and 60, and your car narrows this down to 30 and 60, being expensive, meaning you're probably hard-working and going to bed at decent hours.

"Clever, clever, clever," Elizabeth said. He was quite right, again, but only just. She was exactly thirty. He could not know, of course, that she would have been able to afford an expensive car at eighteen. He would be thinking that she had had to work for it. She looked at his car, but she knew too little about cars to be able to say whether it was expensive or not. "Are you going to do a complete analysis of me or what?" she said out loud, looking embarrassed when a fat man came up the stairs.

She wrote the sentence down. Are you going to do a complete analysis of me? Maybe she should do an analysis of him, but she did not know anything. It required more of an answer, but she did not know what at the moment. Elizabeth was loath to abandon the exchange, because there was something about the notes that appealed to her, although it was impossible to define exactly what it was. It did not matter much. I'm still thinking about a good reply, she wrote and left the note in the usual place.

Then she hurried back to work, only to find that she had not yet eaten and she had a meeting. "Damn," she said out loud, shocking a few people, and she ran to the canteen, buying two sandwiches and taking them with her. She stuffed as much in her mouth as she could when she walked back to her office to get her things.

"Where did you go for lunch?" Marie asked when she got to the conference room. It was fairly unusual for Elizabeth to leave them for lunch and if she did, it was always something highly interesting. And this time, obviously, lunch had had to wait because something else had been more interesting. What had it been?

"Wemshumming," Elizabeth lied with her mouth full, quickly taking her place. One would think she was not the boss, if one heard her nosy staff asking such questions, but she did not mind. She did not really feel like acting bossy anyway. She had a different function here, but it did not make her superior to the others.

"What did you say?"

She swallowed the contents of her mouth so she could speak more intelligibly. "I went shopping."

"What did you buy?"

"Nothing," Elizabeth had to admit. She would not be able to show them anything in case they asked. "I just went for a look."

That was odd to say the least. Everyone knew that she disliked shopping intensely. There was something else going on here. "You had a lunch date?" Kim asked with a suggestive look at Marie, Daniel and Frank.

She changed colour. "No!" Not in that way, anyway.

Everyone also knew that Elizabeth was a very bad liar and that she rarely had dates. They were very interested in this unconvincing answer. "Are you sure?" Frank asked.

"Yes, very." Elizabeth reshuffled her paper with downcast eyes. "I am only exchanging notes with a stranger in a parking garage," she said as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

They all gasped at her. "What?"

"What I said," she said with evident satisfaction. She had known that statement would be a little too much for them, but she had wanted to bring it up anyway, because she had been feeling there was something hilarious to it.

"Exchanging notes?"

"Yes."

"On what?"

"On the way he had parked his car." Nothing could sound more innocent than that, she thought. People were forever complaining about the way other people parked their cars.

That had been a severe miscalculation. They all focused on the wrong thing. "He! It was a he?"

She rolled her eyes. "Of course. Otherwise he would have parked decently. Let's start the meeting," she said briskly. Since she was in charge, she could decide that.

Part Two

Frequently Elizabeth worked late because she did not have a family and sometimes she just did not have anything to do at night either. Today was different. Now that the mysterious correspondent kept replying to her notes, she wanted to see what he had written and to see if he had been there already. She finished work at six, quickly bought her groceries and then parked her car two streets away from the theatre. She would have to find a good solution for her car if she was going to keep on doing this, but this was the best she could come up with at the moment.

At work she had written about ten different attempts at notes. None had seemed perfect, but she had brought all of them. The car was not there, but the note had been changed, her nearly-expert eye noticed. He came here a lot. Would he live nearby? She wondered if they were ever going to run into each other. Maybe they had met on the stairs once and neither had known. He could be anyone.

With trembling fingers she took the note. Is it a good thing to be lost for words so early in our acquaintance? I've thought about it and of course I'll give you time to compose a lengthy reply. The longer, the better.

Elizabeth was rather pleased with his answer. She was enormously silly, but fortunately nobody knew. Maybe this man was only teasing her. Maybe he laughed at her at home. But it did not matter. She was still having fun.

She stuck the note in her shoulder bag with the others. Because she could not decide on which note to leave behind, she left all of them in the most logical order she could come up with. He would have more than enough to read.

You're really a male chauvinist pig, did you know that?

I wouldn't have come back if you had called me to say you were removing your car, but I would have been less upset. Maybe.

You write very interesting notes, but I don't, it seems. I'm really trying to do an analysis of you based on your car, but I forgot what it looks like.

Instead of telling me what I'm like, could you tell me what YOU are like, since I already know myself?

What do you do here at night? I went to the theatre on Monday when you couldn't park. Maybe I was a bit irritated because I didn't like the play and my friend never showed up. My mood might have been ruined already. Actually, you can park quite well. Weren't you afraid to damage your mirrors?

You know, I might have climbed in through the boot and then all your manoeuvring would have been for nothing.

She would not have left work early for her father's sake, but now that she had delivered her notes, there was no avoiding the visit anymore. It had been planned months in advance and it was an absolute must.

"…I have found an excellent candidate," her father's voice droned on during their dinner. "His name is Karl-Heinz and he is --"

"Age?" Elizabeth interrupted. Karl-Heinz sounded suspicious in itself, but she preferred to have more reasons to reject his candidature.

"Forty-six."

"Too old," she decided. "Please." Despite her father's suggestion, the food was delicious as always. That was the only attraction here. Single women did not cook as often as was advised by the health boards and good meals were rare even for Elizabeth. "The rest of us are much younger. He wouldn't fit in. And he's a foreigner."

"Girl, your blood is as foreign as his. Only your passport isn't," her father said calmly.

"I don't care," she said patiently. "One's passport is quite a different thing from having to entertain someone who won't be speaking any English and who won't be understanding a thing we talk about. Do I really have to go? I'm working the day after."

"Take a day off and Karl-Heinz speaks perfect English."

"I can't." Of course she could, but she did not want to. She glanced at her mother, who had not said a word so far. There was not going to be any help from that corner. Her mother never dared to contradict her father. Perhaps she even agreed with him. Elizabeth could not blame her, really. She knew full well how hard it was to contradict her father. He had the best of intentions, but his goals did not exactly coincide with hers and she still had great trouble telling him that, always wavering half-heartedly in between disagreeing and obeying. If she had been stronger, she would not have to go through this anymore. She emptied her plate and eyed the baked potatoes longingly. She wanted another helping of those. Damn Karl-Heinz and his perfect English. If her father called him excellent, he would be excellent. How was she going to get rid of him? She knew she was weak.

"Will you meet him?"

"No, I won't. Not yet, anyway." She took another helping of the potatoes. "I won't have time. We've got a big project coming up at work." Why could she not just tell him that she wanted nothing to do with this anymore? Why was this so difficult that she had to resort to bad excuses?

"What is more important?" Her father had his own ideas about that.

"Not a ball, surely," Elizabeth mumbled.

"This isn't just any ball; this is --"

"I know, I know," she said hastily before he would give her the entire story that she had already heard ten times. "But why do I have to go with some old bloke named Karl-Heinz? Why can't I choose my own partner for once?"

"You've always had the freedom to choose."

Elizabeth threw her head back and stared at the ceiling in frustration. Her father was right. She had never been forced to go with someone she had not approved of. Choosing from a group of candidates that her father had already selected was still a choice and it had been an easy way for someone who had not wanted to do the selecting herself. She should have known that sooner or later it would make her end up with some Karl-Heinz. She was just too bloody obedient. "The ball is six months away. Really, I don't think I have to decide on who to take yet. Give me two more months."

She knew her father well enough to know that he would think anything less than four months not enough time to prepare and she needed those two months, either to find another candidate or to muster up the courage to say she wanted nothing to do with the ball -- and consequently the family --altogether. Something had to be done. She was already thirty and she could not go on like this forever.

She did not pass by the parking garage after the visit, but went straight home for a long thinking session in the bath. When the water grew cold, she got out and sat behind her computer in her dressing gown, to see if any of her friends were online to discuss the problem. The nature of the problem required a friend who knew her in real life, because it would be too complicated to explain all the particulars to relative strangers.

Her Messager began to blink instantly. She would not have to go looking for friends; friends were looking for her. It was always flattering.

MIR
HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII LIZZZZZZZZZZZZZZIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!!!!!

LIZ
HI

MIR
Only one i? You depressed?

LIZ
3 words: jubilee ball date, and my father has decided on one Karl-heinz, 46. I'm going to pick my own partner this time.

MIR
So sorry, so sorry…that K-H sounds disgusting. Even worse than Arthur!

MIR
BTW, Liz…

LIZ
Miriam?

MIR
Pick your own partner, you say? *Snickers*

LIZ
Yes.

MIR
Liz…

LIZ
Yeeeeeeeeeees?

MIR
*coughs discreetly* You forgot that you don't know any men.

LIZ
Oh

LIZ
I do!

MIR
Since when? Last week you said you didn't know any. Remember the baby discussion?

LIZ
Well, I met one on Monday.

LIZ
In a parking garage.

MIR
I thought you were going to a play with Franics on Monday.

MIR
Francis, scuse me for butchering the dear boy's name *vomits in bag* But what did you and Francis do in the parking garage?

LIZ
He never showed up.

MIR
Oh, so lemme get this straight. The man you met in the parking garage wasn't Francis?

LIZ
No. I don't know who it was, though, but I do know a man.

MIR
Slow down. I'm missing something. You know a man other than Francis (not that we can call Francis a man, but that's beside the point) but you don't know who it is?

LIZ
Exactly.

MIR
I know hundreds and thousands of such men and I have a term for them. Wanna know what it is?

LIZ
Yes. Tell?

MIR
They're called STRANGERS, woman. STRANGERS, often preceded by the word TOTAL. Does this ring a bell? They're people you see and maybe talk to but don't know the names of.

LIZ
Oh.

MIR
You're in deeper trouble if you take a TOTAL STRANGER to this ball than if you suffer this K-H.

LIZ
but I have not seen or talked to this stranger and I don't want to take him to the ball at all, I just brought him to stress my point that I do know men

MIR
uh huh. Listen, Elizabeth. Have you been drinking?

LIZ
No.

MIR
Yes, you have. If you or I knew any men, we wouldn't be here messaging each other. Go to bed, girl. I have to go anyway, not because I'm not taking you seriously tonight (though I am not). Good night!! Bye!! Byyyyyyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

MIR
Sorry! I have a party. Byyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeeeeee.

LIZ
Don't leave me. I haven't told you yet about

LIZ
the man. Oh well. Bye then.

Elizabeth closed her Messager. It was too much to expect Miriam to be able to follow what had happened to her. While Miriam always called herself just as pathetic as Elizabeth, she was of course far less pathetic. She even had a party to go to and Elizabeth only ever had work. But now the parking garage had come along as an exciting place to go to, although she had left some really stupid messages there this evening. She cringed. What would he think of them? Would he leave an answer? Maybe they were so stupid that he would give up. "End of excitement, bring on Karl-Heinz," she muttered sarcastically.

Part Three

Thursday Morning

Only pathetic people without a life could do this, Elizabeth told herself as at 8:28 she walked into the parking garage. Thankfully there was a different attendant today -- people would begin to wonder if they saw her here all the time. On the other hand… She stopped to glance at his booth. He might know regular customers. Did she want to know? She retraced her steps and knocked on the window. It was a young student who was working today, perhaps twenty years old. He guiltily put down his textbook and opened the door. "Yes miss?"

"I was wondering if you knew any regular customers. Are you here a lot? I wanted to ask you about somebody."

"I'm here once a week, on Thursdays. From six till two. I only remember customers if there's something wrong with them."

"Oh, so you wouldn't recognise people?"

"Not yet. See, if they pay their tickets properly, the barrier opens properly and they're out of here in a second, so I don't get much of a look at them. I might just recognise nice cars."

Well, that was a problem then. Elizabeth had no idea how to describe his car. "Have you ever seen a blue silver one?" He would have seen thousands.

"I don't think so. What make?"

"Gee." She shrugged. "I never look at that."

"Sorry, I can't help you then."

"Thanks." So there had evidently never been a problem with Mr Mysterious on Thursdays, nor was it likely that he was here on that day before two o'clock. He seemed to come at night. "But what about the people who have their own spaces?"

"Oh, those. They don't arrange it through me. They arrange it through the head office and I only hear about it if someone new reserved a space because then they give me a number plate to hang up."

"Wouldn't it take away too much space from the public?"

"They rent out a maximum of maybe ten percent of the places," the boy shrugged. "It's never full here anyway."

"What sort of people do that? Do you know?"

"Some live around here, some work around here. I don't really know."

"Thank you." Elizabeth walked away. She supposed she could ask at the head office, since she had his number plate, but how would this help her? She would know his name -- if they told her. But she did not want to know yet. She was curious, true, but it was also nice to keep guessing about him. It would take all the fun out of it if she got the entire picture right now.

She felt a thrill when she approached the spot. His car was not there, like she had expected after her talk with the parking attendant, but he had found her notes last night. There was something else stuck behind the number plate now. She smiled at the sight of the note.

There were a few cars going past, looking for a space to park. Elizabeth was standing in his space, looking at the cars. They had to be gone before she would dare pick up the note. One car wanted to park where she was standing and it impatiently flashed its lights at her because she was in the way. Elizabeth shook her head to signal that it could not park here.

"Get out of the way!" the driver shouted at her after rolling down his window.

"This is my husband's space. He's reserved it. You're not allowed to park here."

"Says who?" the man challenged.

His attitude did not impress her. He was already backing off, but he had to keep up appearances for his wife. Elizabeth remained calm. "Says that number over there." She pointed at the wall. "Find another spot! My husband wants to park here in a second."

The man glared at her and drove on. Elizabeth took a moment to recollect her senses. Her husband? She shook her head and giggled. She was undoubtedly insane, but it was tremendously good fun. When there were no other cars in sight, she grabbed the note.

I have a friend with me who thinks I'm insane, but I won't let that spoil my fun, even though he thinks you're secretly a man. I don't: you called me a male chauvinist pig before you crossed that out (and thanks for that.)

I'm sorry to hear you didn't like the play on Monday. Can you say why? I know what it's about and I know it might be a bit inaccessible. It's not a bad play, though.

Were you upset with me because of your friend (m/f?), because of the play or because of the way I had parked? (Although you wrote that I parked quite well.)

What should I tell you about myself? And do you really mean you cannot conclude anything about me from my car? If you see it, wouldn't you class its owner as being between 30 and 60 as well? I could tell you, of course, but I'd like to hear your guesses first.

And why didn't you climb in through the boot? Even this is something to help one along in the noble art of guessing. I'll show you how to do it. You'd have to be on the lower end of the 30-60 scale to even consider climbing in through the boot. I can't imagine my aunt doing it (you deserve this free-of-charge clue for your many notes -- use it.) And you're not fat. That's the way to go about it. Something else I deduced from your frequent visits is that you have plenty of time, but you could accuse me of the same thing, considering how early I was here on Tuesday morning.

Elizabeth smiled as she read it, especially at his free clue. It seemed to mean he was not old. If his aunt was on the other end of the 30-60 scale, she was near sixty and so would his parents be. Why had he not taken his mother, but his aunt? His mother was probably over sixty, though not by much if his aunt was not. It would make him around her age, well, anything between twenty and forty. Since he had mentioned thirty and sixty, she could narrow that down to: between thirty and forty. She could do it too, thanks to his free clue!

She took out her notebook and pen and a reply was quickly written.

I would never call you insane, don't worry, and I'm not secretly a man. Tell your friend that, but it appears friends have a hard time following this. One friend thought I was drunk.

I don't think Monday's date is worth my anger, but I was a little irritated with him for getting me stuck in an artsy play all by myself. I haven't got a clue what it was about. How did you find out? It wasn't in the programme.

Thank you for your generous clue. I used it: 30-40, I'd say. Am I correct?

I'm going out of town for 3 days, but I'll be back on Sunday night unless it proves to be really interesting (but those courses never are.) Oh, before I forget and in case someone bothers you about it: I defended your parking space very valiantly today. Someone wanted to take it and I had to call you my husband to get rid of them. Sorry about that!

It was with a heavy heart that she put the note in its place. She would not be back here until Sunday night, thanks to that rotten course. It was not really a welcome trip at this moment. He might become bored with the exchange if she stayed away that long.

At work that day, she kept worrying about it, but it could not be helped. She really had to go, although she wished that she had never promised Miriam to go with her to "Self-Promotion for the Self-Employed." Miriam had received an invitation for the course, but she had not wanted to go alone. Elizabeth, who was not very good at self-promotion, had thought it could never hurt to go. Maybe she would learn something from it.

Before she left to pick up Miriam to go to the introductory dinner somewhere in the countryside, Marie and Kim asked how the thing in the parking garage was going. "Have you got a blind date with the fellow yet?"

"No!" Elizabeth was appalled. How fast did they think she worked and what did they think her objective was? Her eventual goal was not a date.

"Don't do it," Marie advised. "He'll turn out to be a really old pervert. It's always like that."

"You've had blind dates with really old perverts?" Elizabeth asked sceptically. "You never told us." Marie had probably read some story somewhere.

"If Marie had any dates, ever, it was in the previous century and way before she came to work here," Kim said with a wicked grin.

"It didn't happen to me personally," Marie explained. "But I have a friend who had a blind date with a person she met on the internet. He had said he was twenty-five, but he turned out to be at least fifty."

"I'm glad you're concerned, Marie, but I'm not going to have a blind date with him," Elizabeth spoke very calmly and decidedly.

"But we want you to go out with him, so you can tell us about it," Kim revealed. "You need to go out with someone some time. You're leaving it completely up to us to provide all the gossip. What's the name of the leaflet guy? He likes you. He only wants to come if you are here."

Elizabeth laughed. "That might be because I'm the boss and he has to do business with me." She did not think there was any special significance to it. What was his name again? Harry? She had never paid much attention to Harry. "And it might look that way, because I'm nearly always here. He can't miss me."

"Exactly!" said Marie. "You're here far too often. The only men you meet are delivery guys, since most of the business is handled over the phone by me." She did the administrative work at the office. "I'm sure your father would disown you if you came home with a delivery guy." Kim and she both knew what Elizabeth's father was like. They had never met him, but they had heard enough about him to be able to draw their own conclusions.

Elizabeth shook her head slowly with a wistful smile. "He can turn dirt into gold if needs be. He wouldn't be pleased, but he could twist a delivery guy into something amazing. It would take a little more than that to get me disowned." It was, perhaps, worth exploring just what that little more might be.

Part Four

Thursday Evening

Elizabeth had picked up Miriam at Miriam's flat and they were now driving to the countryside. "I'm hungry. Do you think we'll get a decent dinner?" she asked.

"Not too much wine for you, though," Miriam warned. "Or else you'll start talking nonsense about men again."

"I never talk nonsense about men," Elizabeth protested. "Do you mean that one time when I told you about the man I met in the parking garage?"

"Exactly."

"But he exists. He's very nice."

Miriam would have put her hands on her hips if she had not been in a car. She recalled Elizabeth saying that she had never seen or talked to this man. Really, then how could one know if somebody was nice? "What does he look like?"

"I don't know."

"Well, how did you…meet? How do you know he's nice if you've never met?"

"I stuck a note under his wiper and he replied." It all sounded very normal to Elizabeth. It could have happened to anyone, not that something like this had ever happened to her before. She stuck her nose up defensively.

"It's…original," Miriam managed. "But I hate to imagine what the loser looks like."

"I don't want to know." It might be disappointing and therefore it was more fun to keep things as they were. On the other hand, she was the other party in this exchange and she was not ugly, so he might just be perfectly normal-looking. "How was your party?"

"Grand…"

"That's all?"

"Yeah…it wasn't that much fun. Your friend Francis was there. I asked him how the play had been." Miriam looked at Elizabeth. She could easily say this without causing an outburst of anger. Most people would be very angry, but Elizabeth allowed people to get away with far too much.

"Oh! What did he say?" Elizabeth was curious to hear his excuse, if he had one. She had not heard anything from him since Monday, not having bothered to call him to ask where he had been. She disliked conflicts and she would not like to have to accept lies.

"He said it was grand. What do you say to that?" Miriam asked indignantly. "Dump him!"

"I'm not even going out with him."

"He's a loser."

"I know, but he can be fun," Elizabeth said indulgently. No man was perfect and if she was too critical she would not have any friends left and she would only ever be able to go anywhere with women.

"Is he a good lover?" Miriam inquired impertinently. Elizabeth had better not have any opinion on the subject. She was not stupid, but she was completely incapable of saying no to anyone.

"I don't know. Try him out," Elizabeth suggested.

"Nah," Miriam waved, feeling relieved. One really had to watch over that girl. "He would only forget which one of us he was working on at the moment, just like Robert."

"I don't think Robert forgot."

Miriam laughed. "I was only gauging your current naiveté. It's the sort of thing you would think. No, he didn't forget -- probably."

"Let's forget him anyway." Elizabeth was not proud of that, especially not since Robert had cheated on her with her best friend or vice versa, but it had given them many agreeable opportunities to bash him together.

The course was being held in a big house called Merscombe Hall. It was surrounded by a lawn, but there were no flowerbeds or plants anywhere. The house itself looked a little run down, which was a pity. Elizabeth liked the look of it. Presumably its owners were forced to rent it out to vague organisations that held course weekends here. Its upkeep must be too costly without such events and they had to minimise on gardening as well. Lawns were very cheap. She was proven right when she saw a few sheep. They could not even afford a lawn mower. She did not disapprove -- she loved the sheep. It was a cute solution.

Inside it was a little better, although Elizabeth's expert eye noticed that the carpet was threadbare and the walls were empty. It was nothing like how some of the big estates could look. Undoubtedly most ornaments had been sold. She looked around herself regretfully.

An ugly little man called Marcus welcomed them. He was in charge during the weekend and he showed them up to their room, which was pretty basic. Elizabeth felt the same sad feeling here. This room too had seen better days, but someone had tried to make the most of it.

"Modern art," Miriam nodded at a painting that hung over the bed. It was some abstract drawing in primary colours. "I hadn't expected that here."

"Local kindergarten is more like it," Elizabeth smiled after a glance at the painting, bending over her bag to take out her hair brush. She began to like these solutions more and more. It nearly made her forget about that ugly dark stain on the wallpaper.

"You just don't like art, Liz."

"Want to bet I'm right?"

"What makes you so sure?"

"The sheep," Elizabeth said immediately.

"What do sheep have to do with this?" Miriam asked in confusion. "Liz, I even have a hard time follow you when you're trying to explain things, but now you're not even trying. Have some sympathy. What sheep? Where?" She stared at the painting and frowned. There were no sheep in it at all.

"The fact that they don't seem to be able to afford any frills here -- hence the sheep instead of a lawn mower -- and kindergarten drawings come cheap. Probably for free."

Miriam frowned at the painting. She was sure Elizabeth was wrong. What sheep? She had not seen any sheep. "You're so pessimistic. You barbarian. It's art, I tell you."

Elizabeth jumped onto the bed and took down the painting. She turned the frame around and studied the back of it.

"What are you doing?"

"Proving that I'm right." She knew she was right and she took off the back of the frame.

"Ha."

"Don't be smug," Elizabeth said smugly, seeing what she was looking for. "Here! Stacey -- age four. Was I right?"

Miriam stuck out her tongue after she had inspected it. "Alright. You were right. Still, I think it's modern art. Stacey could have made a fortune."

Some idiot had decreed that every participant should wear a nametag to make life easier for the others. Elizabeth and Miriam were seated at a table with a Felix, a Hannah and a Fred. Of those three, only Felix, a journalist, was remotely amusing. The others, though friendly, were rather dull. The rest of the crowd was a mixed bunch, anything between twenty-five and sixty by the looks of it.

Their table was in luck. After Marcus's introductory speech, he joined their table. However, they could not enjoy his sparkling conversation for long, because he received a call on his mobile phone. "Yes, Lord Merscombe. No, Lord Merscombe. Yes, Lord Merscombe. Of course, Lord Merscombe. As you wish, Lord Merscombe."

It made Elizabeth snicker. "Who the heck is he talking to? What kind of general is that?" she whispered to Miriam.

"The owner, I think."

Elizabeth imagined a grey old potentate in a wheelchair calling from his parlour upstairs and she quickly brought her napkin to her mouth to hide her smile.

Marcus put away his phone and apologised. "Lord Merscombe has mixed feelings about our presence."

"He dislikes the self-employed?" Elizabeth asked politely, referring to the target group for the course.

"He does not like strangers in his house, but he has no choice and we're paying him a good price," Marcus revealed.

"That's because you're asking us a good price," Miriam nodded innocently. She was sure there was a discrepancy between the cost and the quality of this weekend.

"They've recently raised their prices," Marcus apologised. "We have to do so too to keep up with them -- and we have to maintain the high standards of our product," he added as an afterthought. "I'm sure this applies in your professions as well."

Everybody nodded very seriously, except Elizabeth. She must be missing the relevance of his words for her profession. Oh well. She was wondering if she could have the remaining piece of French bread or if someone else might want it, when her phone rang.

Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to you!

"Is it your birthday?" Felix asked her when she was pulling out her phone with a red face.

"No, I have a message." She really ought to change that tune, she thought as she pressed the buttons to get to the message. The tune was embarrassing. Elizabeth gasped when she read the first words and then quickly pressed down to see more of it.

2825439239235467: Your husband> Thank you for defending my space. See you Sunday. >mtnsms.com

She leant back in her chair to recover, staring at her phone stupidly. Yes, he had her number -- she had put it in the first note -- but this was wholly unexpected.

Part Five

Thursday Evening

Elizabeth was stunned, so stunned that she did not realise the entire table was gaping at her. When she looked up, she saw them stare and she coloured even deeper. "I received an SMS," she clarified unnecessarily.

"Yes, dear. We noticed," Miriam said. "An interesting one?"

"Yes." Elizabeth put the phone away with hands that still trembled from shock. She could not help smiling. The French bread in the basket was forgotten. She no longer wanted it. She had been fed enough.

"You're not going to reply?"

"I can't reply. He did it through a website." That was a pity, but on the other hand it dragged the whole thing out a little longer. Elizabeth played with her knife as she tried to imagine why he had sent her an SMS. It could have been to reassure her, to make sure she would return to the parking garage on Sunday. Yes, it was probably that. It was flattering that he thought of her.

Miriam cornered her after dinner when they all went into a large sitting room. Elizabeth had spoken very little throughout dinner and she had given a very good impression of being shallow, only smiling all the time and giving answers that made no sense. "Are you in love?" she asked bluntly, keeping Elizabeth from entering the sitting room. She had to know.

Elizabeth turned her eyes towards her friend in surprise. "No. Why do you ask?"

"Because you were gone after that SMS. You had no clue what we were talking about."

"Yes, I did. I just didn't have anything to add." Discussions on banning nuclear missiles had never appealed to her. It was true that she had lost interest very soon and that towards the end she had really had no clue.

"Go and talk to Felix for a bit," Miriam advised her. "He knows who you are anyway." And he liked the sight of Elizabeth. She could tell. Talking to a real man would do the girl more good than exchanging notes with a creep.

"How do you know?"

"Because he asked me if he was right. I told him he was. He's a journalist. They're supposed to know," Miriam shrugged.

She did not have to go to Felix. He approached her when she was standing in front of the table with the drinks. "What are you having?" he asked.

"Nothing special. Just orange juice, I think." Elizabeth got a glass and poured herself some orange juice. "And you?"

"A beer." He turned the bottle around in his hands and looked at her. "Can I call you Liz?"

Elizabeth had just been looking at what else was on offer and she looked at him in faint surprise. "Sure."

"Elizabeth is so long."

"Yes," she smiled and studied him. He was a few years older than she was and he had white-blond hair and a reddish complexion, but he was not ugly.

"Shall we take a walk outside in the park?" Felix pointed at the French doors leading onto the terrace. The evening was mild and it would be pleasant to be outside.

"Sure. In the park," she said with a laugh. "There isn't much of a park." There was only a lawn, but that did not matter. She glanced around the room to see where Miriam was, but she was talking to a group of people.

They stepped outside, not the first to do so. There were already another few people standing or sitting there. "You were right, about the park," said Felix when he was faced with an endless stretch of lawn. Between the house and the trees in the distance there was nothing but grass and a few sheep. "Right then. Shall we walk around the house?"

There was a gravel path, nearly overgrown with grass and weeds, that led around the house to the front. Elizabeth looked up at the flaking paint of the windows, where it could still be seen under all the ivy. It all looked neglected. "It's such a pity," she sighed. "I suppose the owner doesn't have any money to take care of it properly." She could not imagine someone willingly let his house fall apart like this.

"The taxes do them in nowadays. And I think the owner is an old man."

"It's still a pity," she said and spotted an overgrown flowerbed near the wall. There were no flowers in it anymore. They turned a corner and it was much the same there. Her hands itched to do something about it. "Do you think Marcus would notice if I didn't attend our classes tomorrow?" she asked thoughtfully.

"What are you planning? Do you want to leave?"

"No, I don't want to leave," Elizabeth replied as she stared at the bad condition of the woodwork. "But I only came because Miriam didn't want to go alone. I'm not really self-employed…I have people working for me, so I don't suppose I qualify."

"Do you?" Felix asked interestedly. "I thought you didn't work."

"Oh, best kept secret of the country, I'm sure. My father doesn't like it much. He'll make sure people don't advertise the fact."

"What do you do?"

"Translations. We have enough work, so I don't need to use my name to advertise." Elizabeth shrugged. "I like it that way. It wouldn't mean I was better at it, you see."

Felix nodded. "I see. But what do you want to do if you don't want to follow the programme?"

"I'd like to work in the garden," she said with a dreamy look, visualising what the flowerbed might look like on Sunday. There would definitely be a change.

He was intrigued. "But you paid…" Why had she come here?

"I have enough," she said indifferently. If she enjoyed herself in the garden, the money would not have been misspent.

That was right. She had enough. He had forgotten that for a moment. She had enough money, but maybe not enough friends. He glanced at her and wondered if that guess was right. "You wouldn't get to know anyone if you kept yourself apart from the rest of us." And he liked her so far, so he would not like it if she spent all day digging in a flowerbed.

Elizabeth thought about that. It might be awkward during meals if she was the only one who did not know anyone. "That's right. I'll just participate then." The course would not keep them occupied all day, she guessed. There would be enough time off to do what they liked, like right now.

"Don't do that because I say so," said Felix, a bit surprised that she would change her mind so soon. It was no wonder that Miriam had been able to persuade her to come here. He had been curious about these weekends and he had only come to one to find out why people came here and to write an article about it. So far the people he had talked to seemed to have come only because their friends had advised or asked it or because they wanted to meet women.

"I'm not doing it because you said so, but because you were right."

"Okay." He took a sip of his beer. It should really be enjoyed sitting down, but there was nowhere to sit. When they came to the front of the house, he saw the steps. "Shall we sit on the steps?" They would have the last rays of sun of the day coming from the side.

Elizabeth agreed and they sat down. She looked down the gravelled drive. There was only one car parked on it -- their cars were parked on the other side of the house, near the stables. Her eyes made out a large animal on the edge of the lawn, where the woods began. It was a bit too far to see it well, but it appeared to be grazing calmly. "What's that?" she pointed. "A deer? But it looks like a cow."

"I think it is a sort of cow."

"Another lawnmower." She took out her phone to see if she had perhaps not heard another message come in. For lack of new messages she reread the one that had come in earlier that evening. It still made her smile.

Felix studied her silently. Something about that message was really exciting to her. Her mouth was curling up at the edges. He wondered who had sent it. "Another message?" he asked.

"No…" Elizabeth put away her phone. "I wanted to read that one again."

"Was it a nice one? It seemed to shock you when you first read it." But right now it made her eyes sparkle.

"I hadn't expected it. I can't tell you about it, you know. You're a journalist," she teased him lightly.

But he did not write about that sort of thing. Felix looked a bit put out. The people who did were no journalists. He did not want to be equated with those. "I write on other matters and even if I didn't, I wouldn't write about anything you told me in confidence."

She instantly looked guilty. "Sorry," she mumbled, casting down her eyes.

Again he was surprised at her uncertain reaction. In some ways she seemed uninterested and indifferent -- almost arrogant, not asking him any questions at all -- but on the other hand she was very insecure about what she said or did and how other people might view this. It was really peculiar and because she was pretty, he wanted to know more about her. "It's alright."

"It's just that Miriam thinks I'm insane to be excited by such a small thing, but I only like the small things. Which is why it's remarkable that I came to a course on self-promotion," she smiled self-deprecatingly. But it might be exactly what she needed. She remembered her resolve to think about how she could become disowned, but she could not think of anything until she had decided she really wanted to be disowned. Would it be worth it? Nothing might change. She might still sit here, having to be careful about what she said to other people.

Felix watched her think. He wished she would tell him some more of what she was thinking. He noticed her glass was empty. His bottle was nearly empty as well and he finished it quickly. "Shall I run around the house and get us another drink?" Then they could sit here for a while longer.

Elizabeth took her eyes away from the cow in the distance and looked at him. "Yes, please. But I think it might be quicker if you went in through the front door." She had just been considering what she wanted. There was a way to combine this with getting disowned, but she was not sure she wanted to go that way. It was all very well to consider it theoretically, but practically it was a completely different matter. It seemed so simple: getting pregnant by an undesirable man she was not married to would both get her a baby and get her disowned for certain.

He looked over his shoulder at the front door. "You might be right." He held out his hand for her glass and got up.

Elizabeth watched him go inside. Things were never as simple as theories would have it. There was the matter of the undesirable man for one. She could not see herself become involved with an undesirable man, nor with a stranger. Perhaps she could seduce Felix or some other man here this weekend for that purpose, but then she gagged. Her morals forbade such a thing -- she was too much a child of her father's. Or was it not her morals but the fact that she kept having her husband on her mind? That would be her morals protesting as well, she decided. She would be betraying him, even though all they had done was exchange notes. She definitely had different ideas from other people about what was right or wrong, exciting or boring, Elizabeth thought and sighed. She read her SMS again.

Part Six

Thursday Evening - Monday Morning

As Elizabeth was waiting for Felix to return, two men came out of the front door, Marcus and an elderly man with a cane. "I shall transfer the money as soon as possible," she heard Marcus promise. This had to be the penniless Lord Merscombe.

"Tomorrow," said the old man warningly.

She watched as he walked to the car slowly and with difficulty. Surely he was not going to drive? He looked about ninety. But she had not noticed that there was someone waiting in the car. A much younger man got out when Lord Merscombe approached. He helped the old man into the car, gave Marcus and Elizabeth a quick glance and then got in himself. He looked interesting, but he obviously did not want anything to do with Marcus. Perhaps he was merely a driver.

"That was the owner," Marcus said unnecessarily.

"That's what I thought," Elizabeth said as she watched the car drive away.

"Bothersome old man, really."

She did not quite agree, but she did not say so. The man had every right to ask for his money, especially if he was hard-pressed.

"If you only knew what they were charging me for the use of this old ruin!" Marcus complained. "It's outrageous. They don't even have proper heating and yet they think they can make demands."

Felix returned with the drinks. "Someone said Tom wanted to ask you something," he said to Marcus.

"Thank you," Elizabeth said when Marcus went back inside. "I think I'm on Lord Merscombe's side anyway."

"Of course. Because he's a Lord, right?"

"No!" she cried. "I hadn't even considered that." They sat there for another half hour talking about heating systems for large houses and then she went to bed.

After breakfast the day's programme began. It was pretty boring. Elizabeth did not know if she could stand this uplifting chat for two and a half days, but at least the group assignments were remotely amusing.

At four they were done for the day. Most people were going for a walk or tour around the village, but she sneaked away to check out the stables, which were the likeliest place to hold garden equipment. Her guess had been right and she set to work. Some of the other guests passed her curiously and some watched for a while, but they did not offer their help. They probably thought she had been hired to do it.

Elizabeth worked until fifteen minutes before dinner, when she went inside to wash up. She had cleared one large flowerbed and she felt very satisfied. Miriam, of course, thought she was crazy and Marcus was afraid she was going to get him into trouble with Lord Merscombe. Elizabeth gave him one of her cards to give to the old man should he have anything to say.

She did another little bit after dinner, with Felix looking on. He did not help, but instead he told her how his article was coming along. She did not mind and talked to him while she worked.

Felix discovered it was quite easy to converse with someone like Elizabeth about subjects that were not personal -- with the personal ones he still sensed a barrier -- but he wondered if he was perhaps more surprised that she was taking care of someone else's garden. The ease and fluency immediately disappeared from her speech when he remarked on that and asked if she liked gardening.

"Er…I never do it." She felt caught and did not say whey she was doing it now. It was difficult to explain.

When Sunday came around and it was time to go home, Elizabeth walked around the house one last time. She had been to a garden centre the day before and one of the flowerbeds was now full of flowers. She was proud of her work. It looked very colourful and cheerful now. Maybe the owner would feel inspired to do some work of his own when he saw this.

Everybody said goodbye, especially those who had become friends. Felix kissed her cheek softly and gave her his phone number. She liked him, but she was eager to go to the parking garage. She had been nervous all day and both the parking garage and the gardening had been more important in her mind than Felix. He had not been able to make her forget either thing.

Miriam had to be dropped off first, but then she could finally see whether there were any notes, something she had not been able to tell Miriam for fear of being laughed at. The nearly four days that she had been away caused an almost unbearable feeling of excitement and she was out of breath when she reached the parking space. It would be such a blow if there was nothing here now, but fortunately there was. And so was his car, she saw a split second later. Her eyes had solely been focused on the plate on the wall.

She dropped the note three times as she tried to unfold it.

Did you get my SMS? I couldn't resist. I hope your course wasn't too boring. From the very little I know about such courses I'd say they're just a trick to make money. What sort of course was it?

If I said the play was about a family torn apart because they lost their most prized possession, would that help you a little? I hope it does.

By the way, someone I know asked me when I had got married. Apparently someone told him not to park on her husband's space when he wanted to park where he always parks when I'm not needing it. He never got my permission, so I didn't bother to help him out there.

Elizabeth put her notepad on the bonnet of his car so she could write better. She had a feeling her reply was going to be longer than three lines and she wanted it to look neat. On no account should it appear perfunctory. He might give up then, although his last lines seemed to say the opposite. He seemed to like having a correspondent. It made her smile.

You nearly killed me with that SMS. I got it during dinner and people were looking at me strangely. I didn't tell them who had sent it, because some people happen to know I'm not married.

The course was on self-promotion for the self-employed, which I'm not, really, nor am I desperate to promote myself, so it was rather boring. Your opinion of such courses is probably correct. These people paid a large sum to hear things they might have come up with themselves.

But I worked in the gardens to amuse myself. Everything was so neglected there that I couldn't help it. The borders were overgrown with weeds and I pulled that all out. I put in some new flowers in my spare time and it looked much better when I left.

The person in charge was afraid the owner would be upset, but I'm not going to send the man a bill, so why should he be upset that I looked after his garden? I did it for free. He seems to be short on money and far too old to marry a rich woman.

Thank you for telling me what the play was about. Maybe I should go and see it again. I understand it a little better now. Could this happen if people lost their house? I can't help but think of where I've just been and I forgot what the prized possession in the play was.

I could write more, but I don't want to bore you and your car is here, so you might appear any moment and that wouldn't be fun at all. What if we don't like each other?

She went back to her car and sat in it, rereading the note in her mind. Somehow she had it memorised. It was Sunday and she had nothing to eat, nor could she buy anything. She would have to get some takeaway anyway, so she might as well do that now and then go back to check the parking garage.

It was amazing that they never met. His car was gone now and she had not stayed away that long. Nevertheless, he had come and gone and written her a new note as well. She flew towards the number plate and tore the new note away.

How are you employed, if I may ask?

And let me get this straight: you bought flowers for a garden that isn't your own? You must be very fond of gardening.

If the owner didn't marry a rich woman, his family might indeed be torn apart like in the play, assuming the house was the centre of their lives. But you say he's too old and rich women are rare anyway; at least, those willing to marry poor old men who'd only want them for their money. What's in it for them?

About your last line: are you really afraid of that? By the way, I tried to get that acquaintance of mine to describe you, but he said I ought to know what my wife looked like and he wouldn't tell me. I can deduce from those words that you don't look like someone who would never be my wife. Bit confusing?

There was something about his note that required a long answer and some thinking before she wrote it. It was not the last bit, although that could give her enough food for thought if she liked, but it was the bit before that. Taken note, reply forthcoming, she scribbled hastily and went home.

Other things had to be done there first. She had been away for three days and there was mail to look into, laundry, plants to be watered. And Wednesday's dishes, she realised when she went into the kitchen, but she could think while she washed those, so it was not a bad thing. She taped the note onto the wall behind the taps.

His first question could be answered easily. It was more difficult to explain why she worked in someone else's garden if she was not particularly fond of gardening. Could she just say she liked the house and she was concerned about its fate? Or would that be strange? She did not really know what her motives had been either. It was not like she did this all the time.

His last subject was the one that had made her postpone an answer. She was a rich woman. Would she marry a poor man? Sure. Why not? His wealth would not matter. However, if he only wanted her for her money, he had better have something that she wanted as well. Otherwise he was right -- what would be in it for her?

Had she not asked herself that question with regard to having a baby? What would be in it for the man?

Unless they made some deal that would be beneficial to both. To combine both matters, money in return for a baby? Elizabeth looked thoughtful. Still, she would not make such a deal with just anyone. Certainly not with Lord Merscombe. He was far too old. He was ninety and he walked with a cane.

The idea would not leave her alone, however, and although her mother rang at an inopportune moment, the thought returned right after her mother had hung up. It stayed with her all night and she got up early to write a reply.

I needed some time to think about your note, because it touched on something that has been on mind lately -- must be my age. I have the same problem as the man in need of money (except that I want something else): what's in it for the man who gives it to me? It is always imperative that the provider has some attractions as well. Of course it's never solely "money" or whatever that you want, but there's always some deeper motive. It's not fair to ask someone to give you something that will only be a means to an end for you. You will be wondering what I want. I haven't told anyone but my close friend so far, so forgive me for not telling you yet unless you desperately wish to know and I find a good way to explain it.

As for your other points: I'm not particularly fond of gardening, but I felt I had to. I couldn't sit idly by while this garden was growing wild and the paint was flaking, because I liked the house and the sheep and the kindergarten drawings.

I employ people, does that answer your question? Don't worry: only 4.

I'm glad you didn't hear what I look like, because you'd have an advantage over me. I couldn't say if you were right with your guess that I don't look like someone you'd never marry; I don't know your tastes!

She read what she had written. Maybe he would understand her anyway, even if she had not mentioned babies anywhere. She folded the note and was resolved to drop it off before work.

Part Seven

Monday Morning

Elizabeth felt that the attendant at the parking garage was looking at her. Perhaps he wondered what she came to do all the time. She clutched her handbag with the note in it and walked on with her eyes on the ground. It was none of his business what she was doing here and how long she stayed.

The car was not there and she caught herself looking up at every sound of a car approaching. If it was remotely the colour and shape of his car, she looked at the number plate, but it was never the right one. She had not expected to see it either and so she was not disappointed.

Perhaps it was silly, but she studied every man she passed when she was walking back to her car. Any one of them might be her…what was he, anyway? But most of them would not be him. She knew that and yet she could not stop looking.

As if this was not bad enough, there was a silver-blue car a few cars ahead of her when she drove to work, but she could not see its number plate. When she had finally caught up with it, it was the wrong number plate and there was an old woman behind the wheel. Elizabeth could not really make up any theories about why people would have their number plates changed, so she assumed that it was a completely different car. Nevertheless, all this acting like some kind of detective was enormously entertaining but also enormously silly when one woke up and was confronted with reality. She felt slightly embarrassed for having followed the wrong car into a completely different part of town. She would now have to brave rush-hour traffic for a bit longer to get back to where she ought to be.

It was not surprising that she arrived at work more than half an hour late. She barely dared to face Marie, who would be incredibly curious. She slipped past Marie, but she knew she would not get off so easily. Marie would undoubtedly come to ask her something insignificant and by devious twists bring the conversation onto her lateness. Why did Marie think she led an exciting life? She did not. Elizabeth unloaded her bag with a slight feeling of despair.

Marie waited a few minutes, long enough to make it appear as if her question had nothing to do with Elizabeth's late arrival, but her voice was not as brisk as it would have been with an ordinary business question. "How was your course?"

"Pretty boring." Elizabeth could even smile at this all too obvious interest. She took her papers from her bag and placed them on the table. Then she turned on her computer.

"Oh."

"Why? Had you thought it would be interesting?"

"Hmm…well…I don't know." Marie shrugged nonchalantly. "I thought maybe you had met a cute fellow and stayed the night with him and got lost trying to get here from his house."

Elizabeth was speechless. She really did not know where Marie got those ideas and how Kim could have known when to appear so she would land in the middle of an interesting conversation. She was now facing two curious people and she blinked, trying to find her voice. It was difficult. "Why don't you get Daniel and Frank?"

"Here we are," Daniel piped up from around the corner.

"Yup. Tell all," Frank added.

"There's nothing to tell," Elizabeth said despairingly. She wanted to laugh, but then they would really think she was hiding something. "You people are awful." She fell down on her chair and rested her elbows on her desk, hiding her face from them.

"We're curious. Go on. Tell us what happened," Marie said encouragingly. They spread out through the room, leaning against cabinets and sitting on tables.

"No, no, no," Elizabeth banged her head against her desk. "Ouch!" she said when she did it too hard.

"No, you're not telling?"

"No, nothing happened!"

"But you were late and you're never late. And Miriam called at 9 to ask if you'd be at work at 10 or if you were going to see that bloke because she'd seen you drive the opposite way," Marie revealed.

"What?" Elizabeth raised her head. "What bloke?"

"Well, we thought you'd know," Kim said suggestively. "We weren't there with you. We don't know what happened between you and this bloke, but something must have, obviously."

"I certainly didn't do any exciting things with blokes this weekend," Elizabeth cried.

"But at other times…" Daniel said.

"Excuse me," said a new voice from the door opening. Nobody had noticed that they had a visitor and they all gaped at him except Elizabeth, whose face was too flushed to show it to strangers.

"Is it him?" Daniel inquired boldly, studying the stranger. It was a handsome man of about thirty-five. That would suit Elizabeth perfectly -- or Marie or Kim, who were already studying the man with interest. "Are you Elizabeth's bloke? Just curious."

Elizabeth did not raise her head. She wanted to dive under her desk. If this was a client, and what else could he be, what would he be thinking of them? He was probably dying to get out of here, not trusting these idiots to translate his important documents for him.

"No, I'm not," the stranger said politely. "I might have work for you, but by all means carry on. I'll wait until you've finished your coffee break. Or I could talk to the boss around here?"

Daniel pointed at Elizabeth with a solemn face, which she did not see, as she was still hiding her face. He gestured at the others that they had better make themselves scarce. They should leave their boss alone with this potential client. Business came first. Silently they exited the room, the last one pulling the door shut behind them.

The man stood silently just inside the door, waiting until the woman slumped over the desk would notice him. She had not looked at him once so far and he wondered if she even knew he was there. And this was the boss? Amazing. "Geez," she said suddenly, raising her eyes and then exclaimed, "argh!" when she noticed him. Her face was already red, but the colour seemed to deepen. He felt embarrassed for her sake, being the boss and all.

Elizabeth pulled herself together, not thinking about what opinion he might have of her now, and stared back. "I'm sorry about that. Is there something I can do for you?"

"Er…well…maybe," his confidence seemed to fade along with the amused smile that had been on his face. "I have something that I maybe want to have translated."

She nodded. He did not want to have it done here anymore. They had misbehaved. "Into?" It had to be a language they could do, so this was an important question. Despite advertising which languages they could do, they still had people asking for exotic ones anyway.

"Er…" the man seemed to be making up an answer that instant. "French."

Elizabeth frowned slightly. He did not seem to be very sure of that and she had just realised that in all consternation she had forgotten to introduce herself. It would be strange to do that now, but he must be thinking this was a weird place. "It costs money," she reminded him. "If you're not sure it's French you want and you find out halfway through that it's Polish, you still have to pay…"

"No, it's French. I'm sure of it."

Things were not going well this morning, she reflected. First she had been late, then everyone here was making a fool out of her in front of a client who turned out to be very strange indeed and who possibly wanted something translated into French, which meant that this uncertain job was for her and not for one of the others. She rubbed her eyes, trying to remember how she always continued from here. The entire scenario seemed to have slipped her mind. She tapped her fingers on her desk impatiently and looked at them, as if they could produce the ordinary phrases one tried to secure a client with. "Ahh…you pay per word," she came up finally, knowing this was not the first thing she ought to have told him, but unfortunately she still came up with a blank for the rest.

He nodded expectantly.

Elizabeth looked at the ceiling. "And…er…you…-- is it a lot?"

"Fifty pages."

"Okay," she managed to say. "It can be done. Is it a specialised text?" If it was some medical or technical hocus-pocus it was going to cost him more.

"No, it isn't."

That was good then. She looked a little relieved. "And you're absolutely sure it's French you want?"

"It'll have to do," he answered.

She rested her head in her hands again and sighed in frustration. "I hate the day already." They usually had clients who knew exactly what they wanted or maybe she was just messing up everything today.

Part Eight

Monday Morning

Elizabeth searched her desk for a leaflet to give to the potential client. Harry the leaflet man had brought a new pile and she should have some somewhere, but where? This was so frustrating. She glanced at the man, but he was studying his hands. Finally they had a handsome client here and he had to be odd and she had to be disorganised. "Grrr," she said, out loud by accident. "I was looking for a leaflet with our information and fees, but I can't find it."

"That's alright. I'll just pay whatever you ask." He was still standing.

"Have a seat," she said quickly, blushing in embarrassment for forgetting her manners. She might as well make up for the other oversight as well. "Elizabeth…W-Williams," she said, holding out her hand. It was not her real last name, but merely the one she used in business. She usually did not have trouble producing it during introductions, but she was completely off balance at the moment.

He gave her hand a firm shake. "James…er…Stanton," he said, as if he was not sure about his last name either.

Elizabeth dove back under her desk to see if the leaflets were there. Her life was taking a turn for the bizarre. Where did all these men come from so suddenly? She had seen this one before, but where? And he was handsome. Too bad he was a bit fishy, not knowing what he wanted and not knowing his name. Finally she located the pile of leaflets on the floor near the cabinet. She crawled there and got him one. "There you are."

"Thank you."

"Could you tell me some more about the text you'd like to see translated?" she asked, taking a notepad to take notes, anything to keep her eyes off those blue eyes.

"Not at the moment," Stanton answered.

Why did handsome men have to be so frustratingly fishy? She stared at him. "I thought…" she began, sensing she was about to lose her manners. "I thought you wanted to have something translated, Mr Stanton."

He shifted in his chair and looked uncomfortable. "Well…"

Elizabeth leant back and placed her hands on the table with the palms down. "You're not sure? We misbehaved. You don't trust our abilities because we misbehaved."

"No, no. That's not it." He fingered his watch. "I was sent here, but not necessarily to get something translated."

She pushed herself up from her chair. "This is too much for me," she announced and fled the room. It was not even ten o'clock yet and the day had already been too much for her. It could only become worse. He was sent here? Why? Suddenly she knew. Her father had sent him. That must be why he looked a little familiar. Her father did not approve of her job, but that he would send an undercover person to check it out was really the limit. She paused in the corridor, looking back at her office.

He was standing in the door opening, somewhat stunned.

Elizabeth walked back. "You can tell the old man that I do what pleases me and that he cannot do anything to change that, not even by sending you here to check up on me." She thought it sounded pretty vicious, but the opposite was true.

"I'll tell him that, Miss Williams," Stanton said, looking even more stunned.

"Do you still want to have anything translated?" she asked.

"I'm not sure I'd survive it," he said dryly. "This doesn't seem to be your day. If I'll ever have anything that needs a translation, I'll come back. Have a nice day," he said with a polite but baffled smile.

James Stanton shook his head as he descended the steps two at a time. He wondered if it was polite to call that woman insane. He would tell Lord Merscombe that. It would explain why she had been messing with the flowerbeds. No further explanation was necessary.

But how had she known about the old man? That was curious, although it proved that it had been her and not one of the two other women in that office.

And she would be adorable if she were not insane.

Less than a minute after Stanton had left, the other four tumbled out of their offices. "Who was that?" Marie squealed breathlessly.

Frank was pretty sure he had been Elizabeth's bloke. He was even so certain of that fact that he did not even feel compelled to mention it.

"He was a spy," Elizabeth said gravely.

Both Kim and Marie held their breaths and then let it out with a deep sigh. "What was his name?"

"James --" she began, but she was unprepared for what followed.

Two high-pitched shrieks pierced her ears. "James Bond! He did look like James Bond!"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes at the two men. "Don't you start as well. It was not James Bond." Although they did have a point about his looks and she had always had a weakness for whoever played him.

"James Bloke," Frank said at last.

"Nooooo," Elizabeth protested. "Gahh. I've had enough of it. I'm going to get some work done." She backed into her office.

"Did you scare him away? I thought he had work for you," Kim said.

"He didn't. It was just an excuse to check up on me."

"Why protest against being checked up on by someone who looks like James Bond?" Marie wondered. "I would get him to --"

"I don't want to know what you'd do," Elizabeth said hastily. Actually, she should have seduced James -- whatever his last name was -- and seen what her father said about it then. But she was not really smart enough to think of that on the spur of the moment. She sat down behind her desk, trying to get rid of such bad thoughts. She was a good girl, really, but life was not being kind to her at the moment. Life was sending her too many men in all kinds of forms, but none complete. It was really their fault that everything was going wrong today. And now her father would call her, she was sure, to ask what on earth went on in this office.

The rest of the day passed relatively quietly, although it took Elizabeth a full hour before she could concentrate on her work. After that, she frequently took breaks to recall the events of that morning. She now regretted that she had not been friendlier to James Stanton. It was not his fault. Maybe she could call him to apologise, but of course there was no one by that name in the phone book, not even the second time she tried.

And then Francis appeared close to six o'clock.

"Hello Francis," she said with the appropriate amount of reserve. They were alone in the office now, after all. Robert had always known what to do in such a case. She regretted that now, although nobody could avoid the young and stupid stages in life.

"Lizzie," he said, leaning over her desk.

She buttoned up her cardigan. "Yes?"

"You're so beautiful."

"No, I'm not. What do you want?" Flattery was not going to work on her. She used the wheels under her chair to roll it back a little.

"A kiss."

"No," she said in determination. There were at least three people who would get kisses before he would and even those people would have to work for it. No one was going to bowl her over anymore. She was older and wiser now. "Cut it out. What do you want?"

"I want to apologise for not going to the theatre with you last Monday."

Had hell frozen over? Elizabeth stared at him in surprise.

"It was a rotten thing not to show up," Francis said penitently. "I feel very bad about it. Can I take you out to dinner to make up for it?"

She wanted to believe him. She always wanted to believe that people never lied. And he looked genuinely regretful. He might be hurt if she said no.

Part Nine

Monday Evening

Going out to dinner with Francis meant that she would not be able to check the parking garage tonight. She had more things to do than just work this evening. The choice was simple. A little fib was forgivable. "I'm working late today." He would not be aware of her regular Monday schedule anyway and he would not know that her Mondays were reserved for sports and that she had given that up last week to go to the theatre with him. He would not be aware of that at all. No. She could just tell him anything.

"We can ring for pizza," Francis suggested.

Elizabeth doubted his mental abilities for a second, but then she realised that Francis was very much the centre of his own life. It would not occur to him that people might have things to do that went before entertaining him if he felt like being entertained. "You don't understand," she said tersely. "Working is working. I don't have the time to entertain people if I'm working. I'm not just sitting here. I'm doing something." His refusal to realise that irritated her.

"But you'll have time to eat, won't you?" Francis pressed. "You've got to eat."

He meant that he had no one to eat with. "Are you lonely or something?" Elizabeth asked. "I won't have time to eat." On regular days time was hard to find, but today it seemed even more impossible. She glanced at the door when a movement there caught her eye. She ought to be embarrassed to see James Stanton standing there, but instead she felt relieved. "I have a client, Francis. Will you just bugger off?"

Francis turned his head and studied the man suspiciously. This was not the sort of client he wanted Elizabeth to have, not the sort of man he wanted to lose out to, in other words. "A client, eh?" he said. Elizabeth could not have clients like that. He had always assumed she worked in an upscale niche of the market, although he had never really given the matter much thought, only seeing her off work. While the client looked as if he might be upscale, looks-wise, his clothes definitely were not. The poor fellow did not appear to have heard of fashion and Elizabeth worked for these kinds of people? It was a bit of a shock to Francis, who was safely ensconced in his upper-class little world.

"Yes, a client." Stanton's blue eyes grew quite icy as they mustered Francis's appearance. Francis was decidedly overdressed and his hair was a tiny bit too long. Besides, that kind of shoes was only worn by incredible snobs.

Elizabeth was secretly thrilled at the almost tangible hostility between the two men and she felt bad about it. She glanced down at her hands demurely. She was sure it was really bad to be on the side of the man she knew least well, but the expression on his face -- or rather, in his eyes, for his face was impassive -- made her look at Francis with new eyes. Francis did look like a bit of an idiot. Maybe she should not give Stanton the impression that they were friends, because Stanton looked far more interesting and he would not whine if she spilled something over his clothes, which would undoubtedly happen if she was left alone with him. It did not occur to Elizabeth to wonder why she never spilled anything over Francis, or to realise that she hardly ever spilled anything at all save several things that morning. And why was she considering spilling anything over Stanton in the first place? It was a rather domestic thought.

"Oh well, I know when I'm not wanted," Francis said with an elegant shrug. "See you at your father's hunting party, Liz." Mr Client would be really impressed by hunting parties.

"That's the first I hear of any hunting party," Elizabeth answered with a frown. "And I wouldn't go anyway." She did not like them and she did not like the people that attended them.

"Oh. You'll have to work?" Francis asked sarcastically.

"Probably." Elizabeth coloured at his tone. Francis left and she looked at Stanton. He had better not deduce anything from that kiss Francis had blown her. It meant nothing. "Can I help you?"

His face was still impassive. "I found something I need a translation of."

"Into French?" she asked politely, trying not to screw up her face into some odd look. She wanted him to betray what he was thinking, but right now she could not tell at all. He should not be thinking Francis was her boyfriend.

"That would be grand. I hope you're still working at this hour," he said hesitantly.

"I have nothing to do," she answered. His sudden awkwardness was infectious. She had tons of stuff to do, but for some reason she said the opposite. "I hadn't thought you'd be back."

"Briefly. I have to…go somewhere in a few minutes, but I wanted to…" Instead of looking at her, he glanced around her office and looked at what was on the walls. It was mostly shelves with dictionaries and reference works. "Well, I wanted to see, I suppose, if your day was still as bad as this morning."

She had been doing alright, but things were taking a turn for the worst again, she felt. "The others thought you were James Bond," she blurted out.

That took him by surprise. "James Bond?" It was clearly beyond him why anyone could associate him with James Bond.

"Yes, I don't know why," she said hurried. She should never have said that. "Maybe you look like him." Maybe? No maybes here. He would be perfect, blue eyes, dark blonde hair and nice figure. Oh dear. This was not going well. She tied her hair in a new knot although it was not necessary and then looked at him again.

He smiled, slightly embarrassed, but not displeased, by the looks of it. "It's the James bit, I suppose."

If she said yes, she would be lying and she never lied, so she said nothing. "James," Elizabeth said after a few minutes of waiting for him to speak. He seemed more interested in studying a poster on the wall and if he referred to himself as James, he could have no objection to her addressing him as such. "Where is that thing you might possibly want me to translate into French?" He had said he was staying only briefly. He ought to get down to business soon or else she might begin to think it was not business he had come for.

He was not carrying anything and he knew it. "Can I email it to you?" he asked after some deliberation.

"Email it to me?" She was really confused now as to what he wanted. She would have known had he presented her with some text right now, but he was postponing it yet again.

"Yes."

"Of course. But I don't understand…" She had called him James once and he had not protested or looked as if he minded. "James…"

"Yes?" He did not mind the familiarity.

"Why did you come if you didn't have it with you -- oh." He could only have come to see her and that thought was enough to make her blush and stop talking. Maybe that was best, because the conversation was not exactly sparkling. He was cute, though, and maybe they did not need conversation for this still to be an agreeable meeting. And that was a really bad thought.

"I…er…forgot to bring it. I'd better go," he said.

"No!" Elizabeth protested.

"I have to and I'm making a complete fool of myself," he said in disgust.

"No!" she protested again. The privilege was all hers. "But maybe you're right."

"See?" he said in a sad voice tinged with humour. "I'd better go."

"Me too then." If he did not call her a fool, he was a fool himself, but she liked his tone.

"No, that was…" he smiled, not wanting to say he had thought it amusing, or perhaps sweet.

"Alright, you're a fool," Elizabeth decided. "And you probably don't have my email address either. Will you stop by tomorrow morning to ask for it?" she inquired in amusement.

"Yes, I do." James felt in his pocket and showed her a card. Her card. "You left this at Merscombe Hall."

"Oh." Elizabeth stared at him. Merscombe Hall? Her assumptions had been so wrong. Instead of spying for her father, he was spying for Lord Merscombe. Not that she minded being spied on by him. He was nice.

"What is it?"

"I thought you were spying for my father."

James raised his eyebrows. "Why would your father spy on you? No, don't tell me. I really have to go," he said, looking at his watch regretfully. "Tell me some other time." But instead of leaving, he began to read an announcement on the wall.

Elizabeth wondered if he was going to come back some other time. He was foolish enough to do so and she would like it. She smiled encouragingly. "Take your time finding something for me to translate." She was nearly certain that he did not have anything yet.

James looked caught. "Er…yes. You're too clever. But do you mean you would translate it?"

"Yes, if it's French you want."

"I thought you were the boss."

"Bosses occasionally work." Elizabeth contemplated her situation. Here she was with James Stanton, tolerably good-looking -- it was best not to get too enthusiastic yet -- reasonably well-dressed, with a voice to die for if only he said more, but he kept staring at the walls as if they were really interesting. She supposed it was too much to expect that a handsome man would return to her office to see her again. Really, it was far more logical to assume that he had taken a fancy to her walls. It was a situation only she could land in and she would have believed it had there been nice things on her walls and not shelves and posters. "Are you always like this?" she asked after a while. One should not ask a stranger that, but if he behaved out of the ordinary, so could she. He was definitely not an ordinary client and he was far too uncertain to tell her off in case he did not like the question.

"No."

"Good."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

That answer seemed to do him good, because he smiled. "Good."

"Why?" She had to ask.

"I guess I should reply that I don't know, but I really have to go. Really. People depend on me."

"Then you should not keep them waiting." She smiled. Francis would not care about people who depended on him. She liked it that James did. Perhaps he only said so, but Francis would not even do that. Why did she keep comparing them? Probably because they were the last two men she had seen today.

James seemed to make up his mind about bringing up another subject before he left. "Actually, Lord Merscombe wants to get to know you."

Elizabeth was very surprised. "I beg your pardon?" She wondered if this had been the real purpose of his visit. If it was, he must have had great difficulties bringing it up.

"He wants to know if you like Merscombe Hall."

"I do, but…" Why did Lord Merscome want to see her? Could he know who she was and did he want to marry her for her money? Surely not at his age! He had to be far into his eighties.

"He's old," James stated understandingly. His eyes twinkled.

Elizabeth began to wonder if it had been James she had seen with the old man. That would explain why she sometimes felt as if she had seen him somewhere before. It could be, although she could not really remember what the companion had looked like. She did remember Lord Merscombe, however. "Yes, he's old."

"There's no danger in it." Now that he had come to the purpose of his visit, he was more self-assured and he could laugh at her. "He's ninety."

She remembered her musings about poor men and rich wives and looked doubtful. "Still…" Lord Merscombe was definitely on the poor side.

"No danger at all." James's boyish grin nearly split his face in two. "He's already got several heirs."

She coloured deeply. How could he have known what she meant? She had not said anything. How could he read her mind?

James looked at his watch again. "I have to run." He grinned at her again, still amused by her reaction and the fact that he had guessed her thoughts correctly. "I'll be back."

Part Ten

Monday Evening - Tuesday Morning

Elizabeth was speechless when James left. This was a very strange day. It had started badly, but it had ended better, though still strange. James Stanton was strange too, trying to set her up with Lord Merscombe, but she liked him.

Her mind was not really equipped to deal with thoughts about both James and Mystery Man at the same time and she wondered if she should go to the parking garage tonight. Maybe she should save that for tomorrow morning when she might have recovered from replaying the conversation that had taken place just now. She should save some good feelings for tomorrow morning. She also wondered why these things had to coincide all of a sudden, but she supposed that men were something like the proverbial bad things that always came in threes.

She would think about what James had said tonight and then tomorrow morning she would go to the parking garage and see if there was an answer. Perhaps it would help her to decide what she should do about Lord Merscombe, although James had not told her exactly what the old man wanted.

A long weekend away never went unpunished, so after training she did some more work at home, eating dinner as she worked. All these microwave dinners and takeaways were bad for her figure, especially since they were becoming a habit and it was completely the fault of the men. It was a good thing that she trained regularly, but that too prevented her from having any time to cook a proper dinner.

She liked being alone, because she liked having the opportunity to make strange sounds. Other people might look at her oddly if they heard, she reflected as she found herself hissing at the text she was translating. Or perhaps, thinking positively, she was only hissing because there was no one to talk to and humans had an innate need to make sounds. Elizabeth liked that explanation better and kicked the legs of the chair she was sitting on. That made a sound as well. Yes, see? It was only to break the silence and it was less of an effort to hiss than to kick. She was very ordinary. People just had the need to make a noise.

Except, perhaps, James Stanton, who could stare at a wall intelligently for minutes on end without saying anything. She wondered about that. He had to have deep thoughts, because it could not be the posters that kept him thoughtful for so long. Or maybe she had grown used to them and could no longer think of them, but other people might. That was possible too.

"Tsssshhhh," she hissed. "Prrrgghhh." It was so lovely that she could do that, being all alone. She took the parking garage notes out of her handbag to read them again. Mystery Man was eloquent enough, but he had to be, because if he kept staring at the wall she would not be able to read anything. She should not like James too much, because she also liked Mystery Man. And with that thought she was back at the beginning: the confusion and strangeness of it all.

Elizabeth hurried the parking garage in the morning, as if the note was taken away if she did not come to get it quickly enough. She knew rationally that there was absolutely no hurry, because it might have been there since some time yesterday, but she could not help herself.

There was a note. She could see that from afar, used to peering at the number plate as she was by now. The car was there too, which was surprising. Perhaps she had been wrong about his usual routine.

I think it depends on how you treat the man who gives you the nameless 'it' (but it cannot be named until it's born, can it? or am I wrong in thinking it is something that can be born?) I'm sure it would be possible to come to some mutually beneficial arrangement in which both parties contribute something and neither party has to feel guilty about using the other. The only question then is whether both contributions are of equal value, although there are people who would give you what you want in return for a beer (no sarcasm here.)

I'd only worry about your employing more than 4 people if you had trouble controlling them. Which wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing, personality-wise.

Your notes make me think. Maybe you want to know what I'd do, but for that I'd need to know what your ultimate goal is if 'it' is a means to an end and not an end in itself.

Elizabeth read it again with a frown, seated on a concrete ridge. It was not very comfortable, but it looked less dirty than the ground. She wondered if it cost him as much time as it cost her to write a reply. Her notes made him think, so probably yes. Her hand with the pen hovered over her notebook. She would start at the beginning.

I wouldn't do it for a beer.

No, she would not, she thought as she reread the line. At least, she did not think so. She chewed her pen and thought of what to write.

I agree with you about the equal (emotional) value. You wouldn't do it for a beer either, I'm sure. Perhaps you would disagree with my ultimate goal and say this is not the way to go about it, although it's rather a combination of two things I want. I know it would help you if I told you the whole story and it's not even complicated, but I can't tell so I should. I'm weak. I'd rather present them with a fait accompli than having to argue my way out of the family.

Come to think of it, I might some day be so desperate to leave that I would accept a very generous and kind-hearted person's request of simply a beer. One more fixed date might do the trick.

She folded the note in an absentminded gesture and walked to his car to leave it behind, wondering how far things would have to come until she would do something like that. She slowly stuck it under the wiper, looking into his car for the first time. That might be able tell her something more about him. It was clean and rather tidy from what she could see. There was nothing on the front passenger seat and only something that looked like a sweater in the back, with a piece of paper peeping out from under it. She circled the car after an anxious look around. There did not appear to be anyone nearby who could see her.

It was hard, because the piece of paper was small and the parking garage was a little dark. Elizabeth squinted through the window and tried to make out what was written on it. There was only a small part sticking out from under the sweater. It seemed to be a dry cleaning bill. She could clearly read the bit at the top, which was the name of the dry cleaner's, but written below it was the name of the customer in a bad scribble. JSHeuley 6/6/01 it read. Elizabeth whispered it with a frown. Heuley? Henley? Heuley?

She used her hands to push herself upright. It had to be Henley. Something clicked in her brain. Henley was familiar. Well, it had not bee familiar until she had gone to see that play. The name had been in the programme. "Oh God," she muttered to herself, wanting to die. She had been abusing a play to the playwright. No wonder that he had known what it was about. It was a miracle that he had kept replying.

After standing there indecisively for a minute she decided she would not tell him about this discovery. It would mean she had to tell him she had been snooping and she did not want to do that yet. She would try to look him up on the internet, however.

Around the corner from the parking garage two things happened at once. Her mobile phone rang and she saw James Stanton and Lord Merscombe, suddenly a few paces away. Elizabeth stood frozen and did nothing. They looked in her direction, of course, because her phone was still ringing and everybody was giving her irritated glares. James had recognised her alright and the old man had too, but in a different way. She mouthed a mute greeting at James.

"Your phone's ringing," he said.

With a snap she was capable of action again. "Oh, right." Her hands fumbled in her shoulder bag. She could see it was her father calling. "Hello," she said reluctantly, because she did not want to talk to him right now. It was going to take long. It always did.

"They should ban the damn things," Lord Merscombe grumbled. "The terror!"

"But you can send nice text messages with them," James protested mildly.

Elizabeth was listening to her father with one half of her brain and with the other half she was wondering why James did not mention to the old man who she was, considering that Lord Merscombe wanted to meet her. And she had to listen whether Lord Merscombe told James anything. "I don't want to go with Karl-Heinz," she hissed into her phone when her father brought the jubilee ball up again.

"Why aren't we moving on?" Lord Merscombe demanded of James, who was standing still.

"One minute," James told him, looking interested.

"A woman," Lord Merscombe realised as he glanced at Elizabeth. "It's no use looking at women until you get a proper job, James."

James and Elizabeth swapped facial expressions. It was his turn to look embarrassed now. "I have a job."

She was interested in this bit and forgot to listen to what her father was saying. It was exactly the sort of thing her father might say and she might answer.

"I said a proper one."

"I do have a proper one."

"Not proper enough to be able to support her, Jamie," said the old man, pushing James ahead.

Part Eleven

Tuesday Morning

"And we don't let women support us," Lord Merscombe continued in a proud voice. "Our kind doesn't."

"Don't be such a grumpy old man," James said indulgently, resisting the push. He was stronger anyway. "What do you mean? I know her."

"We all do," was Lord Merscombe's mysterious answer.

It puzzled James and he stared at Elizabeth, but she was paying attention to her father's story about a charity event. "I don't want to go," Elizabeth was saying. "May I please decide such things for myself? I you keep insisting, I'll go into a different kind of charity." She was not uncharitable. She would give this old man all her money to prove it if her father kept insisting.

"You've always been a foolish boy," said the old man to James. "I don't know why I'm taking you with me."

Elizabeth tried to follow both conversations, but it was difficult. Yes, James could act like a foolish boy, but she would not say he was doing it at the moment.

"Not your class of women," Lord Merscombe commented.

Elizabeth heard James mumble something about class distinctions. With her free hand she caught his sleeve and held him back, not sure what she was going to say, only that she was going to say something. He looked embarrassed because of what his companion was saying, but he should know that she understood. The old man was probably senile anyway. People today were far less impressed by class distinctions. "Shall we meet some time to talk about being bullied?" she asked James, lowering her mobile phone a little.

He smiled at her, a smile that widened into a grin when he saw Lord Merscombe readjust his hearing aid because he had not heard it properly.

Elizabeth's smile faded quickly when it turned out her father had overheard her question. "I saw someone I know!" she explained hurriedly when he demanded an explanation. Your mother and I are very worried about you, Lizzy. We don't like it that you keep such a distance. Tears welled up in her eyes. She knew what that meant -- do more, come more often, be a good girl, because right now you are not.

Lord Merscombe poked James with his cane. "Get moving, you lazy good-for-nothing. We have an appointment."

James allowed himself to be pushed ahead. He gave Elizabeth's upper arm a quick squeeze and mouthed at her to take care and then they were off.

She was late for work again, having spent some time in her car, crying. She did not want to disappoint her parents, but following their wishes did not make her happy, just like following her own wishes did not make them happy and consequently made her unhappy as well. What could she do? The problem was entirely hers, but she did not know if she could stand it much longer.

A nice clean break might be the only solution, but breaks were not often nice and clean. Usually they were messy, long and painful. Was it really to be preferred to increase her suffering for a prolonged period of time just so she might possibly enjoy peace and happiness? And her suffering was not even real suffering, but merely dissatisfaction, depression and irritation, things one could live with, really.

When she got to her office she was resolved not think about that anymore. It would only depress her. Briefly she thought about James. He would not have introduced her to Lord Merscombe because she had been on the phone. That must be it and he was probably the old man's secretary of sorts. It was a little beyond her comprehension why this was not a proper job, but she decided that it must have something to do with his wages. A penniless employer could only pay very little and someone who was paid very little would indeed have some trouble supporting a woman, not that Elizabeth felt women had to be supported. She had a job herself, but Lord Merscombe was ninety and perhaps in his days women did not work. And he knew who she was. Perhaps he thought she would not work.

She thought about Mystery Man's note. Employing more than four people was only bad if she could not control them. She could only barely control four -- sometimes. They were again asking her where she had come from. "A tryst," she said, knowing they would not believe her, because she would never admit such a thing. It worked to let them leave her alone.

Elizabeth put her feet up on the desk as she waited for her computer to start up. Maybe she should just donate all her money to Merscombe Hall in return for a beer and then tell her father she had no money to buy a ball gown, so she could not attend the jubilee ball. She contemplated the likeliness of Karl-Heinz accepting a dance partner in trousers. Somehow it seemed unlikely. Unfortunately there would be some relative with a bulging closet of ball gowns who would have one to spare and all scheming would have been for nothing.

She looked J. S. Henley up on the internet, in different variations of spelling and punctuation, but there was not much about him -- or her, because his sex was never specified and she only had his word for it. His name was mentioned a few times as the author of the play she had seen, but there was no personal information available anywhere, let alone a picture.

After this fruitless search she tried to do a little work, but she had got very little done when Miriam stopped by for lunch. "I went out with Felix last night," she said with a yawn as she perched herself on Elizabeth's desk.

"Was he that boring?" asked Elizabeth, referring to the yawn.

"No, he was kind of alright." Miriam played with one of Elizabeth's pens. "We went to a play," she said, looking at her friend cautiously. While Felix had liked Elizabeth, she was not so sure that Elizabeth had liked Felix enough to be jealous.

Elizabeth was only surprised, not jealous. "I didn't know you liked him." Or that Felix liked Miriam. She had got the impression that Felix liked her herself.

"Oh, I've given up on being too picky," Miriam murmured. "I'm thirty-two. Oh! And Francis thinks you have an illicit affair with a maintenance man, because you didn't want to have dinner with him last night."

"A maintenance man?" Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. "Did he say why?" Where had he got such an idea? She did not know any maintenance men.

"My guess would be because you fancied the maintenance man."

It was ridiculous. "No!"

"Maybe it's the same guy who does the maintenance in that parking garage," Miriam suggested. "That would explain why he's got his own space there." Elizabeth had told her a little about her adventures.

So Francis had thought James Stanton was a maintenance man? But she had said he was a client. Why would he not say that to Miriam, though? And Miriam had to bring it up, of course. "Will you stop it?" Elizabeth laughed sourly.

"Okay, I will, but it's very good that you turned Francis down. He's a weasel."

"Speaking of Francis and Felix and plays, which play did you see?" Elizabeth asked suddenly. She was not ready yet to admit that one of her friends was indeed a weasel. Was he a friend?

"The same one you went to last week."

"Did you understand it?" If Miriam understood it, she would feel very stupid. "I had to be told."

"Not all of it, but the greater part, yes."

"Now I feel stupid -- I didn't." How could that be? Miriam was no smarter than she was. Anything Miriam understood, she had to understand as well.

"Thanks for the compliment," Miriam said dryly. "If even Miriam gets it, it must be so simple. Who told you what it was about?"

"I'm corresponding with the author. I think."

"You're not sure?"

"He's never told me his name."

"And, let me guess, you don't know what he looks like either," Miriam commented. "He's your Mystery Man or do you have several of them?"

"You'll ridicule me, but I think he is, though."

"Why?"

"Because he always parks in the parking garage near the theatre."

"A-haaaa," Miriam said slowly, screwing up her face in concentration. "Mystery Man parks in that parking garage and therefore he wrote the play? Makes perfect sense, Liz. Was this play a joint effort by those hundreds of people who park there?"

Elizabeth had an ace up her sleeve and she looked unperturbed. "And his name is Henley. J. S. Henley."

Miriam recognised the name as well. She looked more serious. "How do you know?"

"The dry cleaning bill in his backseat," Elizabeth said promptly.

Miriam whistled and got up from the desk. She stared down at her friend in mock incredulity with her hands on her hips. "Lizzyyyyyyy…. Wow, girl. His backseat, eh?"

Elizabeth gasped. "Nooooo!" They both burst into giggles. "I looked in through the window and saw the bill."

"Damn. I thought I was onto something. It would be just the sort of thing famous and decadent people do, wouldn't it?" Miriam sat down again. "I could just see the headlines. What a pity." She scratched her leg reflectively. "Why would he be at that parking garage every night, though? Surely he doesn't need to do rewrites for every performance?"

Part Twelve

Tuesday Afternoon

"I don't know," Elizabeth replied as she considered the matter. Would a playwright attend every performance? Surely not, unless he was extremely proud of his work, but in that case he would have bragged about it to her. But Mystery Man would at least know J. S. Henley if he had that dry cleaning bill. That was a fact. "It's all so mysterious," she sighed with a thrilled look. "Let's go and see if he replied."

"Right now? What about lunch?" Miriam preferred solid food to chasing ghosts. And so should Elizabeth. She eyed her friend critically. No normal person would call Elizabeth fat or even chubby, but she had nevertheless always been referred to as the chubby one, to distinguish her from her four sisters. It had been perfect nonsense and Miriam knew her friend had suffered under people's cruel judgements. Nowadays the roles were reversed -- Lizzy would be the thinnest if it should ever come to a comparison and she had exactly the same figure as before. Until a week ago, that was. Miriam studied the sharper contours of Elizabeth's face. "You're losing weight."

"We'll eat something on the way," Elizabeth suggested. "I've done that before."

"I can see that. I'll tell you what -- we'll find a place near there, you can go pick up your love letters --"

"Not so loud," Elizabeth warned. "If Marie hears you…" She would have no peace if Marie heard that, whether Marie believed it or not.

"-- your correspondence, then. And then we have lunch and you eat properly."

Elizabeth took the note back in her pocket, with one hand on it so it would not accidentally drop out. She was dying to read it, but she would wait until they were seated. In case he should come back in the meantime, she had left a short note. Gone to lunch with friend who says I'm losing weight. Hope she'll let me return to leave a reply.

Miriam had asked why she could not simply give Mystery Man her email address, but that would take away the thrill of going somewhere where she might run into him.

James Stanton dejectedly left the office of the most patronising bank clerk they had encountered so far, Lord Merscombe behind him. It was so degrading to have to beg for money. No one would give a ninety-year-old such a massive loan. This had been his last resort. He would have to sell now, to some crazy American who would offend the spirits of the house.

He knew full well that this might be the nail in the old man's coffin. He placed his hand on the frail shoulder and it was not even shrugged off. This was the beginning of the end. His Lordship had always said that he would not live to see Merscombe Hall in alien hands and he was a man of his word.

James' head hung low when they came out in the street again. If only he had not been so stupid. He could see one way out, but he did not have the guts to take it. He led Lord Merscombe to the nearest pub and ordered stiff drinks for the both of them. They needed it.

Nothing was said. It was not necessary. They both knew how things stood. James thought of the bitter irony of discussing business deals thinking she was overreacting to even consider them an option, when he was now in serious need of one himself. Life punished you for that and for not asking her for a confirmation when he had been almost a hundred percent certain it was her. What would she say if he told her now? He had been deceiving her.

But she was also the only one who would understand his predicament. Maybe he should just risk her anger and ask her advice. James gulped down his drink and ordered another for courage. Life was not yet completely hopeless as long as there were still options open. He would be a murderer if he did not try to talk to her. The old man would not survive this blow if nothing was done about it. He would have to do it as soon as possible. Not knowing where she was, he phoned her.

Hello. Her voice was tentative. No wonder, because she would not recognise his number.

"Hello. It's er…James." She would kill him, he was sure of it, provided she realised that he was not supposed to have her mobile number.

There was a brief silence at the other end. You don't have my number, James. She merely stated the fact.

Why did she have to be so quick-thinking? He sighed audibly and crossed his fingers superstitiously. "You…er…gave it to me, but you didn't know it was me." Could he sound any more stupid than that?

And how did you know it was me, if I didn't know it was you? She simply sounded curious.

It reassured James somewhat. Elizabeth did not seem to mind that he had the number. "It was a coincidence. Can you come here? I really need to talk to you."

Can't you come to my office after lunch?

Well, that would be possible too. Or not. "I can't drive. I've just had two whiskeys."

Are you…er…drunk? Elizabeth inquired cautiously.

"No, just at my wits' end. Please?" He told her where he was and she promised to come, inferring from the urgency in his voice that it was serious.

"Emergency," Elizabeth announced to Miriam. They were still standing in front of the lunchroom. "I've got to go see James."

"Who's James? Your dentist?" Miriam asked. She had never heard of James before.

"No, a client."

"Why do you have to go and see a client?"

"Because he asked me to. He's in a pub, so we can have lunch there." She walked to her car.

"Why can't he come here?" Miriam followed her reluctantly. Things were definitely wrong with Elizabeth. No lunch, strange men calling her and ordering her to come over, and the most amazing thing: that she actually went. Miriam was inclined to have her reservations about this James.

"He's been drinking."

Miriam shook her head in surprise. She spoke when they got into the car. "Liz, you're a translator, not a social worker. It doesn't make sense for you to go to clients who have been drinking."

"I want to know where he got my phone number."

"You could have asked him when he phoned you." But it was just like Elizabeth to wonder and not to ask.

"I'm going to."

"Want me to go home?" Miriam asked. There was obviously a lot more going on that Elizabeth had not told her about. Maybe she wanted to talk to James in private. Who was James anyway that he could start Elizabeth running towards him just because he had been drinking?

"We had a lunch date. I can't just tell you it's off because James is in a crisis."

"Especially since I can't fathom why you'd run to this James I don't even know." Miriam agreed, hoping this would make Elizabeth tell her some more about him, but it did not.

Miriam thought James had at least one thing going for him and that was his looks, assuming he was the younger one of the two men Elizabeth walked to. The other one was a lifeless old man. James looked pretty lifeless himself, but he revived a little when he saw Elizabeth. Deep crisis, Miriam concluded when she saw the despair in his eyes. And nothing romantic. She was less curious now. "Liz, you don't need me." Elizabeth looked hesitant, as usual. She could never send anyone away. From that glance at the old man Miriam concluded that they did not need him either. She could be generous for once and keep him busy. "You go talk to James, Liz," she said as she sat down. "At another table."

Elizabeth gave her a relieved look. "Thanks Miriam." She studied James carefully as they went to another table. He was not drunk, but he only looked desperate, guilty and uncertain. "What happened?"

"He has to sell the house. He failed to get a loan."

The he in question was Lord Merscombe, Elizabeth supposed. She now understood why he looked so desperate. The house meant everything to the man and James' tone indicated that it would probably be his death to sell. It filled her with sadness and she looked back at James with wide eyes. "What are you going to do?" And how was she going to figure in this? Would he want her to translate something for French real estate agents?

"What would you advise me?" He kept his eyes on the table.

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"Why me? I don't know anything about such things."

"One, you've been to the house. Two…" he paused. "You are in a similar position."

Elizabeth frowned. "How?"

He would now have to tell her that he knew. "You want to break with your family, don't you? And you're willing to go to great lengths to accomplish that."

Elizabeth stared at him again. "Are you psychic?" Had he concluded that from her phone call alone or did she give out signals or something?

"You wrote it to me," James said patiently, but with an anxious look.

"To you?" She could not believe it. She had only written that to Mystery Man and not to James.

"Yes." He cast down his eyes again. "Sorry."

It implied that James was Mystery Man. "But that is…"

"Rotten of me not to tell."

"No! I was going to say it's unbelievable. It's too much of a coincidence." But how else could he know she had been writing to someone? She had been writing to James. It was amazing.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you as soon as I found out," he said contritely. "But that was only yesterday and I couldn't believe it."

She was still stunned. "Tell me about it later. Why are you telling me now?" He had a problem that had to be solved first.

"I need money for the house. How do I get it? It has to be me. He's too old. And yet I can't see myself cold-heartedly swindling someone out of their money in return for a beer. How had you thought you would go about achieving your goal?" he asked.

At first Elizabeth had thought he was going to ask her for money, but maybe he did not know she had it. Lord Merscombe did, but he was in some kind of stupor and he had not seen her yet. "I haven't found a good way yet," she said hesitantly, wondering if she had just found it. "Have you got any moral objections to fair business deals and exchanges of near-equal value?"

"A little and besides, I don't know what could be of near-equal value. I have very little to offer," he said morosely.

"Oh…" Elizabeth said reflectively. "I don't agree. If you'll give me a child, I'll give you some of my money." Her heart beat in her throat. It was scary, making such a proposition, but this was the closest she would ever get to making it.

"That's very sweet of you, but we're not talking about small sums here," he warned her.

"Money is not a problem, but it's a bad deal," she realised with a sigh. "You'd just be an intermediary between me and Lord Merscombe. You wouldn't be getting anything out of it."

James shrugged. "Am I important in the grand scheme of things? What do you mean, money is not a problem?" Money was the root of the problem here.

"I have money," she said quietly.

"I doubt that you have as much as we need."

"It's very wrong to doubt," Elizabeth said with a small smile. "And don't look at me as if you think I have no notion of the value of money. I can grasp quantities as well as the next person. Believe me when I say I have money."

James looked at her doubtfully. He was not yet completely convinced.

"Lord Merscome is welcome to most of it and no, I don't want his child. If he is too proud to accept money just like that, let him send you to me and I'll take you to a fertility clinic."

He was opening his mouth to mention that he could not have bastards running around, but then he closed his mouth again. It was better to have a bastard than to lose the Hall. "Alright. It's a deal."

Part Thirteen

Tuesday Afternoon

His problems were solved for the moment -- if Elizabeth indeed had that kind of money -- and James pushed his objections against illegitimate children aside. There would be enough time to do something about that. He was glad she had talked about a fertility clinic. It would limit his emotional involvement and maybe lessen his reservations.

They sat there for a while, each thinking about the immediate consequences of this deal. James gradually cheered up. He could stop worrying now. Elizabeth watched him relax and she smiled. It had been a good decision.

"You have no idea how relieved I feel," he said. "Thank you."

"I can guess."

"It's so good to be relieved of all those worries."

She had told him to come to her house later that afternoon with his truckload of bills and she had said that jokingly, but it was really an interminable pile of bills that had to be paid on Lord Merscombe's behalf and this was not even counting the bills that James and other people had already paid for him, he said. He was a bit shocked by the huge number himself, but to his great surprise Elizabeth was not daunted at all by the undoubtedly large sum she was going to have to pay, nor by the long time it was going to cost her to sort it all out.

James noted that she was quick and efficient doing business, no sign of the clumsy girl of the day before. She did not drop any bills on the floor and she did not lose anything. She had said he could watch some television, but he wanted to do something in return and figured he might as well start calling fertility clinics. Who was he to question what she wanted? She would have thought of the consequences. She had not mentioned the second part of the deal again and so it would not be as if she were buying a child. His grandfather had taken the news well, being past caring where the money came from as long as it came, but James had wisely not mentioned Elizabeth's wish. He could understand it was an effective way to upset one's family -- it would work on his own as well, though perhaps not as drastically.

The reason why she had not wanted him to sit beside her was that her bank account was in a different name from the Elizabeth Williams she had introduced herself as. So far James had not asked if her family was criminal or aristocratic, but she did not think he had known her long enough to bear the real truth. It might cause him to treat her differently.

It was a bit difficult to find fertility clinics in the Yellow Pages, but eventually he found some phone numbers on the internet. "I have a friend who wants my baby. What can you do for us?" he asked the first one.

Elizabeth nearly giggled. If someone called her with such a question, she would laugh. She listened in suspense.

"Infertile? I haven't got a clue," James said with a puzzled grimace. Are you infertile? he mouthed, but she could not read lips. His mouth fell open when he continued listening. "No, not yet…Oh thank you, that hadn't occurred to me yet. Bye."

"What did they say?"

"They said we ought to try to have a child the natural way first."

She had thought they would say something like that. It was the natural thing to do. "You could call back and say I'm a lesbian," she suggested.

"To that woman?" He shuddered. "No way. I'll tell the next one." He looked up the next number. "I have a lesbian friend who wants my baby. What can you do for us?" He listened and then pulled a face. "No! I'm not lesbian. I'm a man. Do I sound female?" He saw Elizabeth raised her head from the bills and he grinned at her. "My friend is a lesbian and she wants a baby…My baby, so how do we…No! She finds sex with men revolting and I can't say I disagree." Elizabeth grinned at that too and he stuck out his tongue. He took care to speak suitably shocked. "We won't…we want it the artificial way…No, she's not in a relationship. Oh, okay." He hung up again.

Elizabeth really giggled now. "They thought you were female?"

James pulled another face at her. "They only cater to lesbian women who are in steady relationships." He tried another few numbers, but either the clinics had a long waiting list, or they required exploratory interviews, about which he consulted Elizabeth, but she was against interviews.

"We hardly have a sound story," she said. James had come up with some amazing stories during his phone calls, each new one better than the previous one. It had been very amusing, but no decent clinic was going to take them seriously and put them at the top of the waiting list.

"What do we do now?" James asked.

"Lie back and think of Merscombe Hall, James," Elizabeth teased. "Just kidding. I'm continuing with bill number sixty-seven." She bent over the bills again.

"Sixty-seven?" James was impressed. He tried to calculate the average amount on bills times sixty-seven. "Can I do anything? I hate it that you have to do this, Elizabeth. It's so much money." But he supposed she had enough, living in an enormous house like this all by herself, with good-quality furniture, though not overly expensive.

"I know some people who think subsistence level is several hundred thousands a year," she shrugged. "With that nice suit you're wearing you could play my butler or something and make us a good dinner. I've only got halfway through the pile and I'll be busy for another while." She was taking a note of all the bills there were, lest she should pay one twice.

James did an inventory of her refrigerator and her cupboards, but it looked like Elizabeth never prepared dinner here. He shook his head and wondered what she would do if she had a child, but with all that money she seemed to have she would probably give up her job. He went out to buy some food, real food, not takeaway. She needed a good dinner for once.

Elizabeth had been working fast and so she had not really paid attention to whom the bills were addressed to, but suddenly she saw one addressed to a Mr J. S. Henley. In all the consternation she had completely forgotten about J. S. Henley and his dry cleaning bill and she had not asked James if it was a colleague. In fact, she had not even wondered what James had been doing at the parking garage. She stared at the bill. Who was J. S. Henley, other than the author of the play?

Looking at some other bills she saw J. S. Henley lived at the same address as Mr J. F. R. Stanton, Mr James Stanton, Jams Henley, J. A. M. Stanton, James F. R. Stanton- and Mr James A. M. Stanton, which was Merscombe Hall. James lived with J. S. Henley?

She gasped. James was gay?

James was gay. This proved it. It was Mr J. S. Henley and Mr James Stanton. They lived in the same house. That was why James would occasionally transport J. S. Henley in his car. It was very logical, actually, now that she knew why. It was a shock, that was all and maybe a slight disappointment, because this proved that old cliché that all handsome men were gay. It was not as if she would suddenly stop liking James. He was still nice and his sexual preferences did not matter for artificial insemination anyway.

But she clearly recalled him saying She finds sex with men revolting and I can't say I disagree. So how should she interpret that? Could it have been a private joke? It must have been a private joke.

And she could not ask him anything. He had gone out to the shops.

Part Fourteen

Tuesday Evening

Elizabeth was still wondering about the problem when James returned. She studied him closely from her place at the table. He was quite cute and she could not blame J. S. Henley, really, and she hoped they were really happy together. However, things being as they were, James should have jumped at the chance of meeting a woman who wanted to have his child. Science had not progressed so far as to make J. S. Henley capable of doing that.

"What number are you at?" James asked, taking off his jacket. He was wearing a suit and tie, in a failed attempt to impress bank clerks.

"S-S-Sixty-eight." Elizabeth had spent more time thinking than getting along with the work.

He raised his eyebrows. "I recall you saying sixty-seven just before I left." She should not have to defend herself. He was only being curious.

"Actually, I'm at sixty-nine right now," she defended herself.

He snickered a little and took the bag of groceries into the kitchen. Maybe it was advisable to do the dishes first, so he would have a little more space. It was a rather comfortable feeling to be in the house of someone who had not been expecting him and who had not let fifty cleaners loose on it. The environment was much more natural this way and he would not have to be so extremely careful of making a mess himself. But he did not really feel like doing any dishes, so he merely piled them up.

Elizabeth came to see what he was doing. "Do you need any help?"

James snickered again. "From the state of your dishes I doubt that you'd be of any use to me."

"Grr." She returned to the bills, but paused after writing down the details of number seventy. Would J. S. Henley not care to know where James was? She went back to the open door, making no sound with her socks. James was slicing a leek. "Isn't it cool to have a man prepare your dinner?" she asked. He would agree.

He looked up. "That would depend on whether he is good at it."

"Are you?"

"Good enough for myself and I 'd almost say better than you, but I don't think you actually ever prepare anything, do you?"

"Can you deduce that from the state of my kitchen?" Elizabeth wondered.

"It's the layer of dust on your pans."

"Oh." She stared at them. "Yeah, that could be. I usually have too much to at night. Hmm. How can you have time? And why do you go to the theatre every night?"

"Not every night," James answered, depositing the vegetables in a pan. "Only Monday, Wednesday and Friday."

"Why do you go?"

"Because I'm an -- well, because I have a small role in the play you saw. Couldn't really say it was acting this time. Some people don't call it a proper job."

Elizabeth looked very surprised. "You're in that play? I didn't see you."

"Because I'm dressed up and I'm only on for about five minutes," James laughed.

"I thought you had to go there because of J. S. Henley," she said cautiously.

"Sort of. What do you know about J. S. Henley anyway?" James asked. He had not told her anything and he thought it was hard to find out.

"That he's your…" She waved her hand.

"Alias," he supplied. "How did you know?"

"Alias?" she exclaimed in surprise. "He's you?"

"Yes."

"Ooohh…I thought he was someone else living in your house…because of the bills…"

"Oh, the bills," James nodded.

"They're addressed to different people all living at the same address."

That was what you got if your name was too long. James looked amused. "I see, but it should only be my grandfather's bills and mine. I left the others at home, even though there are many more people who have that as their postal address, but they take care of their own mail. I look after my grandfather's mail."

"Who's your grandfather?" Elizabeth was now more confused instead of less.

"Which names did you find?" he asked with a smile.

"Stanton and Henley."

"And which initials?"

"All J."

"That's right. My grandfather's name is James as well. He's J. F. R. and I'm J. A. M."

"And who's James Henley then?"

"That could be either of us," James grinned at her. "Are you very confused?"

"Yes!"

He stirred one of the pans and then felt in the pocket of his jacket that was hanging over the back of a chair. He took out his driver's license and showed his nicely hyphenated last name. "It's a bit long and conspicuous for ordinary purposes, wouldn't you agree?"

Elizabeth rounded her lips in a mute o as she read the name. She understood it now and she understood why he had done this. Had she not done something similar? "And I…"

"I find it very amusing that you didn't catch on, because you did nearly the same thing. I know." James put his wallet back.

"How?"

"There aren't that many families who fit the profile of being very old-fashioned and very rich, who have daughters called Elizabeth whom we all know, according to my grandfather -- except me," he laughed. "I didn't figure it out until you acted as though you have endless resources."

"Not endless, but enough," she corrected him. "But what do you think of me now?"

"We seem to have some things in common, so I wouldn't have a bad opinion of you." James glanced at her earnestly. "But it would seem to me that now that we know who we are there's also a problem that we didn't have before."

"What's that?"

"Before I knew who you were, I could easily assume that having a stranger's child would get you into trouble with your family, but considering that your family kicks on pedigree, I'm not so sure that having my child wouldn't accomplish the complete opposite of what you're striving for."

"Bahh, is that some elaborate way of telling me you're Lord Merscombe's grandson?" Elizabeth asked. She let out a giggle. "I thought you were his secretary. What did you do to my brain? I'm usually quite bright." She studied James critically. He was probably right. The family would kick on good-looking young men that had grandfathers called Lord Merscombe. Actually, she did too. "Why didn't they ever put you forward in some capacity or other? For a ball or something? They always give me tons of people like you to choose from. Would they not look that far away from the title or would they know you were on the stage?"

"Has more to do with my saying that I wasn't interested one time a few years ago."

"Oh. So they did kick on you one time. Hmm. I needn't tell them it was you," she suggested brightly. In that case there would not be any problem at all.

"Oh yes, you do." James turned his back to her to stir both pans.

Elizabeth did not quite understand that. "Why?"

"Because we'll have to get married eventually."

"Why?"

"Because I want legitimate children."

"Why?"

"Because I just do. Now you can shock your family all you want, as long as you marry me before the birth. And then you can divorce me again. Maybe I should have told you before you promised to help me out financially, right? But I didn't know that I'd be marrying someone whose family I'd turned down a few years ago." James wondered if one of them was going to suggested the deal was off now. He would leave it up to Elizabeth to say that.

"I wouldn't have to tell them about the marriage," Elizabeth realised.

He looked at her. "You wouldn't have to?" he asked hopefully.

"No, of course not and we could keep it a really brief marriage, if you want." There was no need to cancel their deal this way and she smiled at him.

Part Fifteen

Tuesday Evening

This was, James reflected, not the most grown-up decision he had ever made, but in his defence he could say that most people did not think he was grown up yet. It was probably something to do with not having a steady and respectable job, because James associated being grown up more closely with having a sense of responsibility and he did have that, he thought. He was quite concerned about a rich young woman living here all alone and that was surely a sign of responsibility.

Outside the kitchen door the garden looked dark and spooky, with God knew how many burglars lurking in the shadows. It was probably because Merscombe Hall had been burgled once when he was a small boy that he did not feel very comfortable about it. He had been the only one home and he had been very frightened. What must a single woman be feeling?

"Listen, Elizabeth," he said when they had just started on their dinner. "I'm always a little worried about women living alone." Although everything around here looked perfect, so she could cope on her own. Living alone had not prevented her from hanging up shelves and putting bookcases together. Perhaps she carried a poker to bed too. Still, it might be dangerous, being rich.

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. "I shouldn't have crossed that bit about male chauvinist pigs out." Women living alone had no problems and they could really do without men, even though she could not cook nearly as well as he could, but it was best not to tell him about that.

James looked as if male chauvinism had nothing to do with it. "I beg your pardon? I thought it might be dangerous."

"I can be dangerous, yes."

He did not believe that for a second. Elizabeth and dangerous were just two concepts that did not go together. Her most dangerous action was a glare. "You might be burgled." And all those other things he did not want to think about.

She stared at her plate. She would not be dangerous now. He was merely concerned and he did not deserve a bad reaction. "I thought you were going to say I'd be living in the dark until some man came around to change my light bulbs, but I can do that myself and I can also phone for assistance if I've got a bra jamming the washing machine."

James could not visualise that, but he was willing to believe her. He had always though bras were only vile things if they were on a body, but he did not suppose Elizabeth fit into the washing machine along with them. "But do you at least have an alarm?" he asked.

"No. I figured an alarm wouldn't put anyone off if they were set on entering the house. Do you have one?"

"Not in my flat, but I haven't got anything worth stealing there."

"And I do?" she looked at him quizzically. Apart from the usual household appliances, she only had a computer and a television set, hardly stunning nowadays.

"The difference is," James said patiently. "That nobody is going to want to rape me."

"You never know," Elizabeth said immediately, but she stared at him thoughtfully. 'But you're right, I suppose. You scared me now."

"That wasn't my intention. It's just that everyone I know has become really paranoid."

"Being paranoid is not a guarantee for safety," Elizabeth said wisely. "You're just making your own life miserable. I'm not inviting burglars in and what's this subject got to do with my shelves anyway?" She had caught his long look at them and she could guess.

"Nothing."

So it did have something to do with the subject of a woman living alone. "What kind of women do you know?" The weak, complaining kind, no doubt. "They can't hang up shelves?"

"I've had to hang up shelves for more than I can remember."

Elizabeth looked amused. She could guess why women asked him and she bet all her money on the fact that it had nothing to do with the inability of the women to hang up shelves themselves, nor with James' skills as a handyman. "Hmm. Did anything ever happen when you did so?" She would get back at him for being a male chauvinist pig again.

"I don't understand what you mean. You mean if they came crashing down again?"

"Yes. Don't be obtuse. Such as crashing down onto the bed."

"The shelves weren't always over the bed." James looked puzzled.

"The women," she articulated clearly. "Did they ever throw themselves at you?" Either he was terribly naive, or she was terribly cynical.

"Er…well…" He looked uncomfortable.

"Well?" She wished he would say they had and that he had not taken advantage of it.

"How do you know?"

"Ha. Any woman can hang up shelves, you see, so if they ask for your help it's just an excuse."

"For what?"

"For having it off with you, but I'm sure morally upright men who have serious objections against bastards would either not notice or turn the offer down, now wouldn't they?"

"Are you mocking me?" James asked uncertainly. She had not spoken all that kindly. He had not thought she would disapprove of morally upright men. "Who hung up your shelves?"

"I did, initially, until some man told me they weren't straight, so he took them down and re-hung them."

"Did you throw yourself at him?" he asked, interested in the answer.

"No, he was old." She smiled. "It's not my style anyway. You never answered my question. Did you turn them down? Did you even notice?"

"Well, you'd be a fool not to notice helpful women in tiny bikinis," he said dryly. "But there might have been some who were more subtle. I don't know."

"Well?"

"I'm not as scandalous as you'd like, maybe. How do you know women do this if you don't?"

"I found out one time after I'd made the grave mistake of asking someone to hang up shelves in my bedroom." She laughed at her own stupidity. "We had a little misunderstanding about the fact that he expected me to go out with him afterwards."

"You kicked him out?"

"No, I gave him a cup of coffee." She saw James' expression. "He couldn't quite fathom me either, because I began to ask him all these curious questions about how it had gone the previous times. So that's how I know. He was so amazed that he told me all about it. Heh. Normal people would feel instead of think rationally -- or feel appalled instead of curious, I suppose."

"Hence the fertility clinic," James said with a nod. "Instead of saying 'James, will you…"

"You wouldn't," she said promptly.

"No, but you didn't even try, if it occurred to you at all as an option."

"Alright, alright. It's me who can't loosen up. Well," she said after a moment. "How about trying with a bottle of wine?"

"How?"

"Drinking it to see if we can do it without calling any more clinics."

"We might have to call a different clinic if we do that," James remarked. An anti-alcohol unit, or something like that. It seemed to him that they would need several bottles of wine and then some stronger stuff, but having felt rather awkward calling clinics, he consented.

Wednesday Morning

The only thing the wine seemed to have led to was a deep discussion about Greek philosophy and as the bottles emptied gradually, about Greek mythology. While it was very amusing, it did not lead to anything else except extreme and instant fatigue once they had drunk it all and Elizabeth woke up on the couch fully dressed. After taking her bearings she realised nothing must have happened. "It didn't work!" she cried and she was late for work too, probably. She squinted at the clock. Yes. Very late.

They would want to know why and she might have to mention James. She looked around and saw he was on the floor. What was he doing there, lying curled up like a little baby? Had something happened after all? But he was fully dressed as well. "James! James!" she called.

"Shut up!" he rasped, obviously out of sorts. He had an enormous headache. "Don't screech!"

Elizabeth did not have the kind of voice that could screech and she knew it. Something had to be wrong with his ears. "James, nothing happened. I've still got my clothes on."

James groaned loudly, so she would know he felt bad, very bad. "At the moment I'm not interested in you, with or without your clothes."

"And you weren't interested last night either," Elizabeth commented brightly. She counted the bottles. Three. Oh dear. Was she still drunk or could she really drink that much without feeling anything? She had never drunk more than half a bottle before. "Have you got a hangover?" she asked quite superfluously.

"Yes and why don't you?" James replied viciously, feeling stiff and sore from lying on the floor all night. Why had he not had the sense to seek out a couch? He tried to sit up to go to the toilet, but that was not a good idea. Something hammered against his skull from the inside. "Bring me a potty," he said pathetically.

Elizabeth did not quite see why. She stretched and sat up. That went alright, but standing was more difficult and stepping over James' legs was impossible. "Whoops." She steadied herself by placing one hand on his shoulder. "Do you feel very rotten?" He looked as if he did.

"Yes and it was all for nothing, wasn't it? I don't suppose I dressed you up again like that. Or myself. I'm not doing this again," he said, leaving it unclear whether he meant drinking wine or sleeping on the floor. "Damn your scholarly attitude to having children." He groaned again.

"And damn yours," she said calmly. She sat down on the floor next to him. "You went along with me, remember? And nobody told you to lie on the floor."

"I don't think I'm capable of witty answers right now," James winced. She was absolutely right, of course. It took one to know one and otherwise he would have termed her attitude cold.

"No need. Why did you want a potty?"

"Try three litres of wine."

"One and a half, rather."

James got to his feet, swaying. "Bah, bah, bah. Everywhere workmen are always on breaks, but those in your head always keep going and they're not even getting paid for it." They were still hammering against his skull.

Elizabeth followed him, not really understanding what he was going on about. "I'm late for work."

"You're the boss. Nobody cares. I have a matinee at two. Glad it's not a speaking part."

"Enough time," she said reassuringly. And he was overdoing it anyway.

He paused in the hall. "Where is your toilet?"

"In here," she showed him. Walking was alright now and her dizziness had only been temporary. "When was the last time you went? Last year?" she asked when he finally emerged. He had been in her house since yesterday afternoon and he had never used the toilet?

"Yesterday."

Elizabeth resisted the urge to straighten his tie and his shirt. He looked quite silly but she supposed he would have to wash up anyway. "The bathroom is upstairs."

"Assuming I can still climb the stairs," James grumbled, but he knew he had no choice. She was hardly strong enough to carry him upstairs.

"Now don't feel bad about anything. Only I witnessed it and I was just as…" Stupid? Pathetic? She would make them some coffee while he showered.

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