Janet Miller

Janet Miller woke up with the sun in her face.  The window was open and there were singing summer birds.  She stretched her legs straight, then moved the duvet and carefully sat up.  She didn’t want to disturb the woman sleeping on the other side of the bed.  Janet liked mornings, preferred to have them alone and knew, from nasty experience, that Barina Andramoni was not a morning person.

Barina was an EU Agricultural Advisor from Northern Italy who spoke questionable English and knew more about anatomy than she did agronomy.  She had confessed to Janet, without much coaxing, that she had indeed lied (maybe una poca) on the EU application to get a free vacation in the UK, improve her English and maybe marry an aristocrat.  Two out of three missions accomplished, when her colleagues threatened to send her home for incompetence, Barina decided to trade down from Lord of the Manor.  Janet saw an opportunity and moved her out the orchard, into the office and into her bed.  The arrangement suited both women.   Janet, however, was not a lesbian; she wasn’t even curious (she’d played field hockey at boarding school, for God’s sake.)  No, Janet was enthusiastically heterosexual and that was the problem: her enthusiasm got in the way of her better judgement.  She’d married early, divorced early, and that seemed to be going on forever.  From there, she’d bounced into the arms of another Prince Charming who wasn’t, cried on Emily’s shoulder when he told her “It’s not you. It’s me.” and woke up the next morning, realizing he was right.  Men came with baggage.  And at that moment, Janet had a job she loved, a life she loved and was too delightfully busy every day to want to spent time carrying somebody else’s suitcases.  However, as we all know, it’s one thing to recognise that, intellectually, and quite another to remember it clearly on a warm summer night when the moon is full, the wineglass is half empty and moist lips and Mother Nature are whispering carnal delights in your ear.  Janet Miller was not made for a cloister.  So, when Barina became available, Janet decided she could bat from the other side of the wicket for a while, just to keep Mother Nature at bay.  And the extra added attraction was when the skies of October turned gloomy, Barina Andramoni would return to her side of the Alps and never give Inghilterra another thought.  (Which is exactly what happened.  A few years later, Barina moved to Milano and married a banker.)

Actually, Janet’s choice of summer lover tells you everything you need to know about her.  She was a pragmatist.  She got things done.  She solved problems.  And that morning, like every other morning for the past year, Janet Miller’s problem was keeping the Duchess of Weldon out of debtors prison.  So she stretched her shoulders, stood up and went off to enjoy her morning and get ready for work.

At first, the management arrangement at Pyraridge Hall had been ad hoc (hit and miss sounds just too unprofessional) but after a few trials and a lot of errors, Janet and Emily had settled on a routine that suited them both.  Estate business was conducted every morning, right after breakfast – Morning Prayers.  Emily told Janet what she wanted done, Janet told Emily what she had to do, and they usually sorted out a middle ground.  Actually, teaching Lady Perry-Turner how to be rich on a budget hadn’t been that difficult except for two serious sticking points – staff reductions and those stupid horses.  Everything else had been a slow and steady struggle to reduce expenses until the Estate could finally produce a decent income.  And that depended entirely on a massive EU Agricultural Grant and a dozen (minus Barina) advisors who were turning a neglected pear orchard into a thriving value-added brandy making business.  Janet wasn’t overjoyed that they’d put all the Estate eggs in one basket, but she had faith in Emily’s vision and was determined to make theirs the most profitable basket south of Hadrian’s Wall.  So every morning, (including Sunday) right after breakfast, Janet Miller walked into the breakfast room, fully prepared to move heaven and hell and bail high water to make certain her friend kept her home.  (She always paused slightly at the door in the one private formality between the two women.)

“Good morning, Miller.  It’s a fine morning this morning.”  Emily raised her coffee cup, “How’s the biscotti?”

“Don’t be cheeky, milady.  I shudder to think of the things you get up to when you’re down in that London.”

Emily gave Janet a knowing leer and set her cup down.  “What do we have this morning?”

Janet sat down and took her pen out of her coil notebook.

“Nothing but good news, I’m afraid.  The installation is ahead of schedule, and the vats are coming in next week.  You have to get on to the council for access through the village before they decide it’ll frighten the chickens and double our transportation costs.  Personal telephone calls, I should think.  Umm.  Samples of the barrels are on their way.” Janet looked up from her book, “God, you’d think they were made of gold — two local, one Danish.  We’ll let the Francoises [there were two of them] decide, but I think we should throw a bone to our European friends.”

“Foreign won’t look good.”

“It will if we have to go back to the EU well, but you’re right: locally, we should just keep quiet about it.”

“Alright, schedule me in, and I’ll let them convince me.”

“I’ll find somewhere else to be that day.”  Janet drew in a breath, “Nothing else immediate from that quarter, but the big news is the second EU payment is in the bank — which means we’re solvent again. The quarterly rents are due on Friday, so we’ll be practically rolling in it for an hour or two at the weekend.”

“The Witherspoons are struggling.”

“An extension?”  It wasn’t exactly a question. And Emily didn’t answer.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Janet said, knowing they would.

“Ninety days?”

“Thirty,” Janet said, automatically.

“Sixty.”

Janet thought about it.

“Sixty … plus interest … and we get first refusal on their eggs and potatoes this year.”

It was Emily’s turn to think about it.  “Potatoes only?”

“Done, but you have to come in from the left on this one.  I’m tired of being the evil queen.”

Emily exhaled, “Have you ever thought of playing poker – professionally?

“I wish.” Janet closed her book, “And that’s it, then?”

“Not quite.  I want to open a studio in London.”

Janet put her pen down.  “And this is in aid of?”

“We both know the biggest drain on the Estate is me.”

Janet interrupted, “We discussed this.  You’re the Duchess, and if you don’t come with all pomp and circumstance, we look like beggars.  And beggars do not get million pound loans from stuffy bankers.  You’re a necessary liability.” 

“I know, I know — but hear me out.  With a studio, I could set myself up as an event planner.  The smart set are always doing charities and galleries and whatnots and what-have-yous.  I know everybody, and they know everybody else.  And all that new money would love to have a Duchess pour the champagne when they’re showing off their collections or raising awareness or God only knows what else.  I could make a fortune just doing opening night parties for bad plays in Soho.”

Janet noticed the change in Emily’s accent and looked wary.  Soho!

“No, not like that.” Emily said, reading her friend’s mind and suddenly speaking through her teeth, “So-o-o-o bored with the Midlands, don’t you know, looking for something fun, just fun.  Top tier.  Our people.” Emily pushed her chin in the air, “Bar and Sandra and Tea-na, you remember Tea-na from school.”

Janet laughed at the mocking imitation.

“Tina’s still around, you know.” Emily said, changing her voice back to normal.

“God, I hope that cow has nightmares.”

The two women looked at each other, recalling a midnight prank that featured cayenne pepper and laughed.  A long, remembered, schoolgirl giggle.

“She probably does.  But seriously, Jans!  These people have money, and we could use some of it.

Janet had already seen the potential.  She didn’t like the idea, but it made sense.  “We can’t afford Knightsbridge.”

“No, but there has to be a storefront property available in Notting Hill somewhere.  I’ll turn it into shabby chic, and have them queuing for blocks.  Two or three a year, and that’ll pay my way, and everything else is found.  I have to be in London, anyway.  We could …”

“Stop.  Alright, actually this sounds good, but I need a real plan with real numbers — today, tomorrow, as soon as.  I’m going to have to skim the EU money to get you started, and that money better be back in the coffers by October one, or you and I are going to go down for fraud.”  It was Janet’s serious voice.

“I’ll dot the I’s and cross the T’s by the weekend.  This will work.  I’ve already got a couple of potentials, and I’m certain Dickie Morton’s got property going begging.  Besides, if it all goes wrong, you and I can always get a barrow and peddle potatoes.”

“Until they catch us,” Janet said, standing up.

“Until they catch us,” Emily replied, widening her eyes.  And both women laughed.

The Slap

I swore I wouldn’t do this.  I said to myself, “Self, don’t you dare!  Walk away!  Just walk away!  It’ll be over soon, and nobody will care!”  But in the end, it was just too delicious to resist, too off-the-wall funny, too hilariously 21st century to pass up.  So here are a few thoughts on The Slap.  (Notice, at a time when Hong Kong politics, Sri Lanka protests and the French election need a few words of explanation, everybody knows what I’m talking about.  Sad but true!)  Anyway:

1 – Since the Oscar altercation, both Oprah and Ellen have offered Will Smith big money – Oprah for an exclusive tell-all interview and Ellen to help with her staffing problems.

2 – I’m pretty sure that if the Rock had been onstage — instead of Chris Rock — none of this would have happened.

3 – Likewise, Wanda Sykes wouldn’t have gone as quietly as Chris Rock did.  Lay a smack on her, and she’d have let loose with a haymaker and put the boots to Smith on the way down.

4 – Plus, co-host Amy Schumer, who was making jokes about it 5 minutes after Smith went all “hands on,” confessed that the next day she felt “physically sick” over the whole event.  Amy, that’s a hangover!

5 – And “physically sick” seems to be the celebrity go-to reaction — although most of them aren’t too sick to get out of their hospital beds, get on a talk show and tell the world how “physically sick” they feel.  Oh, and get a few belated kicks into an A-lister while they’re at it.

6 – And remember these are the same people who clapped and cheered when Smith walked up on stage – the second time – to collect his Oscar, listened attentively while the recent felon gave a thank you speech and clapped and cheered some more when he was done. (Damn that subsequent integrity!)

7 – Meanwhile, B, C and D list celebrities, who were at home eating pizza the night of the Oscars, are suddenly calling Chris Rock, “Chris” and speculating on what drove “Will” to that level of unacceptable mayhem.

So, what have we learned?

1 – A celebrity assault can knock Climate Change, a Pandemic and a War off the front page — which proves, beyond debate, that we’re living in an intellectual, cultural and spiritual Brave New World, and the Betas are definitely in control.

2 – In an age when every celebrity on the planet is lip-syncing gender equality, it would have been a lot more fun if Jada Pinkett Smith had done her own slapping.  Who’s the bad guy now, Twittersphere?

Emily and Sydney

In the back of Sydney’s cab, Emily sat with both hands on the straps of her oversized bag.  She wore a classic English print summer dress and sensible sandals, but the oversized blue/green mirrored sunglasses and scattered patches of smudgy, dyed red hair ruined the fille ordinaire look.  She didn’t care.  She’d grabbed the glasses when she fled the apartment to avoid another encounter with Mrs. Flintstone, and thank God she did because the flashing light and shadows through the window of the moving car were making her sick.

“Can we stop for coffee, Sydney?”

“Certainly, ma’am.”

Sydney had recognized something was wrong the second Emily got into the car, but he also knew that there were times when the best thing to do was keep quiet and let the problem come to you.  So he continued driving to nowhere (Emily hadn’t given him a destination) with one eye on a likely spot to get her a coffee.  On the other hand, Emily didn’t really know what she was doing there.  She’d called Sydney to cover up getting caught breaking into Sinclair’s desk, and it had turned into a convenient way out of the flat.  But now what?  She couldn’t just hide in the back of Sydney’s taxi forever – although, at that moment, the idea certainly appealed to her.  She felt alone.  She could also feel the leather case she’d taken from Sinclair’s desk in her bag — the heavy can’t-go-back weight of it.  She remembered Christopher Martin in the evil red neon night – giving her no choice.  And thought about Dreyfus, halfway around the world, unaware that the wheels of power were turning against him.  Right here, right now, Sydney was the closest thing to trust she was ever going to get.  Out of options, she made up her mind.

“Who do you work for, Sydney?”

It was a strange question, and Sydney glanced back at Emily in the rearview mirror.

“How do you mean?  I work for you and Mr. Sinclair,” he said.

“No, who do you really work for?”

Sydney thought about it.

“Who pays you?”

“That’s a little more difficult, ma’am.  We’re a family business sort of thing, so I don’t actually get paid.  It’s hard to explain.”

“Maybe you don’t get any money, but somebody pays somebody, Sydney.  You’re not a charity.  You don’t look after us out of the goodness of your heart.”

Sydney could hear the irritation in Emily’s voice.  He knew he needed to be careful. “It’s a family business.  My father and uncle handle that; I just do my job.  I don’t know anything about what they do.”

Sydney wasn’t actually telling the truth.  He knew a lot about the family business.  He’d been hearing the family history (ad infinitum) since before he was old enough to understand and knew it by heart.  And as an adult, he was slowly but steadily learning what it took to be a Khatri because, as Harbir Kharti Singh’s youngest son, he would eventually be the Khatri.  And as much as he took a personal interest in the well-being of Lady Perry-Turner, he was not about to discuss all that with her.

“Why does it matter?”

“I need to know.  I need to know who your boss is.  Who do you report to?”

“Nobody.” Sydney laughed, “As long as there aren’t any complaints, nobody wants to hear what I have to say.”  He looked directly at Emily’s sunglasses in the rearview mirror, “So I don’t say anything … to anybody.”

Emily hesitated.  She could still go back, except she knew she couldn’t.  There was only one way out of this mess.  Christopher Martin had made that clear.  Then, suddenly, it was just time to do something — even if it was wrong.

“I have to give somebody something, and I don’t want anyone to know about it.”

“Easy peasy, ma’am!  Give it to me.  It’s as good as done.”

“No, I have to do it myself, and no one can ever know I did.  No one — not even Sinclair.  It can never be traced back to me.  And … I … I don’t know how to do it.”

Sydney immediately caught the “never be traced back to me.”  It was an alarm bell that meant some kind of an investigation, which usually meant … But that didn’t bother him.  What he didn’t like was the ‘not even Sinclair’ part.  But he could hear the desperation in Emily’s voice, so he decided he would decide about that later.

“That’s right up my street, ma’am.  Here, we’ll stop and I’ll get you your coffee, and then you can tell me what you want to do, and I’ll take care of it.”

Sydney stopped the car and wheeled in backwards into a parking spot.  Emily wasn’t sure about this, but she had no choice.

“Come in with me, Sydney?”  She asked.

The coffee kiosk was one of the many scattered along the river walk.  It had a couple of wooden picnic- style tables and large Heineken umbrellas.  The sun was already hot, and Emily sat in the shade while Sydney negotiated coffee.  He came back with two familiar green and white paper cups.

“Black, ma’am?”

“Thank you, Sydney.”

Sydney sat down opposite and dipped at his teabag.  He was willing to wait.  Emily took off her sunglasses.  She’d come this far ….

“Be honest with me, Sydney,” she said. “I need to do this, but if it’s … if you can’t, or you think it too difficult or if there’s something you … I don’t know – uh — I?  Just tell me.”

  “It’s no problem, ma’am.  This is what I do.”

Actually, it wasn’t.  Sydney knew the rules.  Yes, Dreyfus Sinclair was an important client, and he was Sydney’s responsibility 24/7 — no exceptions.  But — and that but was written large and underlined –“We do not get involved, Sajinder.  This man is out of our jurisdiction.”  Of course, Sydney had crossed that line a few times and had carefully covered his tracks (from the parents) when he did, but this was different.  Lady Perry-Turner was a Primrose, a Muggle – definitely not part of the business – and Sydney had no business dealing with her at all.  However, ever since he had carried her, blood-soaked and crying, out of a construction site one cold December night, there had been an affinity between them, and so …

“But I’ll need some information.”

“I can’t …” It was a plea.

Sydney raised his hand and moved it slightly, palm down.

“How big is the item?”

For a second, Emily was tempted to take the case out of her bag and show him, but instead she measured it out in the air.

“And how long will it take you to give it to him?  Is it an exchange?  Is he going to have to examine the contents?”

Emily thought about that.  She hadn’t actually thought about that — the doing of it.  From the beginning, it had been the coldest, clearest part of the problem, but she hadn’t considered the mechanics.

“No,” she said, seeing it in her mind, “No exchange.  And it will take less than a minute.”

“London?”

Emily nodded.

“Where and when?  Has that been arranged?”

Emily shook her head.  “No, but I need to do this quickly.  Tomorrow?  Sunday?”

Sydney brightened.  His world just got a little better.  Sydney knew London. Aside from Las Vegas, it was the most watched city in the world, and an anonymous transfer would not be anonymous for very long — especially if there was some sort of an investigation.  But now that he controlled the where and the when, the CCTV system would work in his favour.  All he had to do was convince the machines that Lady Perry-Turner was somewhere else when she delivered her package, and unless there was some direct connection he didn’t know about, no one would ever come calling. 

“No worries, ma’am.  I’ll take care of this.  Let me make a couple of telephone calls.”  Sydney stood up and pulled his telephone out of his pocket.  “One minute,” he said, scrolling the screen and walking away.

Emily looked around.  It was late morning London: young people, old people, mothers with their buggies, tourists with their telephones, a couple of suits laughing and a woman complaining to her friend about … who knows what?  But ordinary made Emily feel better.  Sydney made Emily feel better.  She wasn’t alone anymore, and that made her feel a lot better.

Sydney came back to the table.

“I’m going to set this up for Sunday?”  It wasn’t really a question, but Emily nodded anyway.  ‘We need to work out the details.  Are you alright to do that now?”

Emily nodded again, but opened her hand and looked uncertain.  Was this really the place for secrets?

Sydney laughed, “It’s alright.  We’re just two people having coffee, ma’am.  Now, can you still handle a motorbike?”

The question caught Emily off-guard, and it showed.

“Like the one I got for you in Paris?”

Emily smiled for the first time, remembering Paris.  “Yes,” she said.

“Good” Sydney smiled back.  He liked to see Emily smile.