Mr. Flood's Last Resort(11)

“I could do your roots for you and sort out your eyebrows, a little makeover. Put yourself in my hands.”

“If I were mad I would.”

She sighs and shakes her head. “You could do so much with yourself; you are really not as plain as you look.”

This is true. Physically I am small with a negligible chest and commonplace backside, although I’m a great catch for a leg man, for I have a pair of those. My face is pale with an overly strong jawline and a habitual look of confusion. Eyes are standard-issue with a tendency to squint. My hair is long, thick, and wayward; a romance novel would describe it as my chief beauty. Sometimes I plait it like Mona Darkfeather. And my ears are small, inordinately sweet, and neat to the sides of my head. With training and effort I could be a siren.

“Would it kill you, darling, to put on a little lipstick?”

“No makeup. I can’t risk inflaming my clients,” I say.

Renata wrinkles her nose. “Balls.”

“Have you forgotten old Mr. Polya’s stroke event? That was the day I went to work wearing a push-up bra.”

“Pervert.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Touching himself?”

“Usually.”

Renata shakes her head. “And still refusing to wear pajamas?”

“Always. Although that’s largely due to his sweat-induced eczema: his daughter refuses to buy him cotton.”

Renata looks thoughtful. “He’s a marked man. Why would his daughter waste her inheritance on new pajamas?”

“It would be a waste, with him being not long for the world.”

“You see why it’s better not to have children?” she says. “For one day you will be worth more to them dead than alive.”

“It’s likely.”

“It’s inevitable. Pretend to be dead in the chair and they are happy. Pretend to wake up . . . disappointment.” Renata pulls a disappointed face.

“They’re delighted when you trip on loose stair carpet.”

“Gleeful when you break your hip on greased linoleum,” adds Renata.

“Before your rigor mortis sets in they’ll be arguing over your premium bonds.”

Renata looks smug. “I am glad I have no vultures waiting to strip me.”

“What about Lillian? She’ll be in here with her elbows out.”

“Before they’ve even swathed me in my shroud. Just look at all I have.”

I glance around the room. There is a wide-screen television, a sideboard with a built-in cocktail cabinet containing at least six half-empty bottles of Advocaat. There is a bookcase full of crime novels and a Moroccan leather pouf. Above the fireplace there is an ugly picture of two fighting cockerels made from string. On the opposite wall there is a mirror in a gilt frame and, next to it, a glass cabinet full of rock samples.

“Your moon rock alone is worth a fortune,” I say.

“My rocks are yours. All of them.” She wiggles her fingers and her fake diamonds reflect the light.

“Thanks. Change your will, then; I don’t want your sister coming after me.”

She smiles. “Mr. Flood will get you first.”

“Don’t even joke about that.”

She studies me with a mournful regard. “I don’t know why you do it, Maud; you’re such a clever girl.”

“I’m hardly a girl. I’m slaloming towards forty.”

“Nonsense. You’ve barely cleared thirty. Besides, you’re very young-looking.”

“Thank you, back at you.”

Renata’s smile is munificent; either an even greater compliment is coming or a shining ingot of wisdom. “You look after all these people because you think you’re a bad person.”

At the words bad person St. Dymphna emerges from the chimney breast. She moves out across the carpet, treading slowly, carefully, as if she’s testing every step with her pale, sandaled feet. She holds her face like a martyr, with her mouth pursed and her eyelids heavy.

“Your job is a kind of penance,” says Renata, who is happily oblivious to the saint trailing through her coffee table.

At the word penance St. Dymphna glances over at me meaningfully.

I frown. “Let’s change the subject.”

“I’m right though, aren’t I?” Renata frowns. “You always say you are a bad person. You, bad, really?”

St. Dymphna drifts over to the corner, where she stands with her hands tucked up the dim sleeves of her robe and her head drooping piously.

“I can’t believe you have anything to atone for, Maud.”

St. Dymphna shoots me a scathing look from under her veil.

I choose my words carefully. “There’s always something to atone for.”

Renata leans across and pats my arm. “Go easy with the old man. You can’t save them all; you’ll break your heart trying.”

“You get me wrong. I don’t set out to help anyone; I’m in it for the money.”

“That is not true. Look how kind you are to all people, even spiders,” she says in a soft kind of voice. “You’ve helped me so much in my life.”

Detecting a note of impassioned daytime television confession, I dive for the remote control and the blessed distraction of Inspector Morse.