Tag: Emily and Dreyfus

Emily and Janet

Two well-dressed, after work women having a drink together is not an unusual sight in the summer pubs of London.  And these two women, Lady Perry-Turner and Janet Miller, were perfect for the part, sitting in the sun bright window, attracting the eyes of more than a few passersby.  They were old schoolgirl friends and laughingly, happy about it.  And even though they’d gone their own way and hadn’t seen each other since – My God, has it been four years? – it didn’t matter.  They had been so close, so young and had shared so many tender, awkward years that it was as if they’d never been apart. 

“I left him.  I just had enough, Magpie.  I’ve been married for two and a half years, and he’s cheated on me three and a half times.  I had to do something or there’s me in five years, trapped in some Legoland suburb, somewhere, up the duff every eighteen months.”

“Three and a half?”

“I caught him at the point of entry.  Last week in my sitting room.  With Hannah Willard’s sister, no less.”

“Stephanie?”  Emily looked surprised.

“She showed up a couple of weeks ago.  She’s down looking for work — or so she said.  So I offered the guest room.  I should have known.  I was on my way to work and came back for my umbrella, and there they were — both of them — bums to the breeze on the settee.  I wasn’t out the door ten minutes.  But wait, here’s the best bit.  Jimmy’s standing there with his Jolly Roger hitting him in the nose and he says, ‘C’mon, Janey! It’s not what it looks like!’  Imagine!”  Janet laughed, “He actually said that.  Can you believe it?  Well, it looked like divorce to me.  So I packed a bag and left.  And I haven’t been back.”

“Oh, Jans! I’m so sorry.”  But Emily wasn’t.  In fact, she was overjoyed.  And she tucked her head down slightly so the sun wouldn’t twinkle in her eyes.

Janet lifted her wine glass. “Don’t be.  I’m fine.  I’m free.  Stephanie can pay his bills.  If she lasts that long.  But, enough: I don’t have any problems.  I was so sorry to hear.”  Janet’s voice softened in sympathy.  “This is such a horrible time for poor you.  You must have a ton on your plate.”

Emily gave a slight laugh. “You haven’t heard the half.  Daddy wasn’t even cold and mother called in the lawyers.”

Janet looked blank.

“I’m not old enough.  Apparently, because I have a uterus …” Emily put her index finger in the air, “An unmarried uterus, I can’t inherit without mother’s permission.”

“You’re joking?”

“No.  Her lawyers dug it up.  The King James edition – 1612 or something.  The title’s mine.  I’m the Duchess of Weldon.  I don’t need a man for that, but for everything else, until I’m twenty-five, I have to have a husband in tow or a note from mummy.

“You’re going to fight it?”

Emily smiled. “Fortunately, I don’t have to.  The final accounting came out last month.  Mother’s lawyers took one look and advised her to run.  She signed the papers, and I drove her to the airport the next day.  She’s back in Florida, waiting for the annuity cheque.  I’ve a good mind to cut her off”

“You know she loves you?”

“Yes, I know.  And I love her, too, dearly — but I’m more than a bit miffed that she was willing to drag me through the courts when she thought there was a fortune to be had.”

“All’s well and all that, though?”

“Not so much.”  Emily reached down into her bag and pulled out a file folder.  She opened it, took the top sheet of paper, turned it and pushed it across to her friend.  She reached a little further and tapped the bottom of the page with her fingernail.

Janet picked up the page and scanned through the numbers. Her eyes widened and she set it down.

“Holy Hell!”

“Exactly.  And I’ve got two more just like it.” Emily pointed to the open folder, “Death Duties and daddy’s personal debts.  They’re just as bad.”

“Oh, God, Magpie! What are you going to do?”

Emily lifted one shoulder and exhaled. “The bank has given me 90 days to restructure and the name of an estate agent if I don’t.  Vultures!”

Emily took a drink. “But I have an idea.  That’s why I called you.”

“You’re going to sell up and come to London?  We could get a flat together?”  Janet liked the idea.

“No, a better idea.”  Emily took another nervous sip. “You come home.  Come home and work for me.”

There was a pause.

“Generous offer, Milady,” Janet bobbed her head, “And I hate to be a cow about it, but,” she pointed the paper in front of her, “you can’t afford another upstairs maid.”

“No, come home and be the estate manager.”

“What?” Janet tilted her head back, opened her mouth and stared at the ceiling.  She exhaled, shook her head and brought her eyes back down to look at her friend.  The two women stared at each other seriously.

“You’ve completely lost the plot.  You know that?”

But before Emily could say anything, there was a dark loom over the table and a man spoke.

“Excuse me.  My friends and I …” The loom gestured back to a couple of other men at the bar, “Have a wager that you girls are from …”

Without hesitation, Janet snapped her head around.

“Fuck off!  We’re lesbians,” she said through her teeth — with just enough loud to be embarrassing.

The loom straightened abruptly, stammered some sounds, a few sorrys and retreated.

“They always have such impeccable timing,” Janet said, sarcastically.

“And that, Janet Dunford …” Emily raised her wine glass, “Is why I want you to manage Pyaridge Hall.”

Janet raised her glass and touched it to Emily’s. “Miller.  I’m keeping the name just to take the piss.  But seriously, you can’t be serious?  Me manage Pyaridge Hall?”

“I am serious, Jans.  More than serious.  I need you.  I’m not going to let a bunch of Boy’s Club bankers steal my home.  I’m not.  But, I’m not sure I can do it by myself.  But I know we could.”

“You and I?  The grey suits are going to tell us to go back to our paper dolls.”  Janet picked up the page in front of her.  “You owe them millions of pounds!  And you look like their granddaughter, their great- granddaughter.  And I’m a charter member of the Never-Finished-Uni-Because-She-Got-Married Society.  Aren’t we a pair?  According to them, we’re not qualified to make their tea.  Believe me, you’ve never had to put up with it, but I’m in that world every day.”

Janet sat back, a little uncomfortable about being so blunt.

“And here’s your chance to get out.  We can do this.  You know we can.  Just …” Emily shuffled through the papers in her folder, “I’m going to go get us another glass of wine.  Just read this, alright?  And tell me what you think.”

Emily handed Janet a couple of pages and got up to get the drinks.  She knew if she could get one idea in, one that caught Janet’s interest, then she could get two, and if she got two ….

Back at the table, she wasn’t sure until Janet asked.

“You’re going to make brandy?”

“The pear trees are already there.  And we can convert the old stables …”

“And you’re certain about the EU money?”

“In Paris, I shared a flat with one of the Fund Managers’ daughters.  We all holidayed together.  I’ve already got an appointment, and he’s as much as said yes.”

“These labour costs are way out of line.”

“We’ve got three months to wiggle them, but we don’t have money to buy equipment, so it has to be all hands to the mast.”

Janet didn’t notice the “we.”

“And unemployment is so bad at home we won’t have any problem finding people, local people with a vested interest in making it work,”  Emily added and pushed her hair out of her face.

“And if we pay them right, they’ll love us for it,” Janet said without thinking — and she was hooked.

And the two women talked the sun out of the evening sky.  And when evening became night, they went to dinner and their talk turned to plans, and their plans needed another bottle of wine.  And somewhere around midnight, Lady Perry-Turner and the recently separated Janet Miller, two old friends, had kicked off their heels and were sitting on a low stone wall, swinging their legs and singing bits and pieces of the Spice Girls’ Greatest Hits.  And they were ready to take on the world.

You can read more about Emily and Janet in the original, “Christmas at Pyaridge Hall” here

Or, find Dreyfus and the Duchess here

Fiction — Istanbul

Like every vibrant city in the world, Istanbul has its own sound, its own smell, its own rhythm — and if you close your eyes you can feel it.  Emily and Dreyfus, sitting at a table for two on a rooftop restaurant overlooking the Bosporus, had their eyes open.  They were looking across at the late night lights, hearing the drifting shadow sounds of baglamas and davul drums and thinking — whatever that chocolate dessert thing was, they wanted another slice.  And another glass of wine and another hour or so under the stars.

But we don’t always get what we want, do we?  And Dreyfus Sinclair was known in this part of the world.  And more than one organization keeps track of who gets their passports stamped at Ataturk Airport.  And Emily knew the heavy man talking to the head waiter was trouble the minute he gestured toward their table.  And by the time he straightened his tie and started walking towards them, she was already reaching for her enameled cigarette case.  And she was right, and there he was — looming.

“Mr. Sinclair,” the man wasn’t asking, “My apologies.  I’m very sorry to disturb your meal.  My name is Taavi, and I have a matter of some urgency to make a discussion with you.”

“Nothing is that urgent, Taavi,” Dreyfus said evenly, without looking up. 

Taavi leaned forward slightly and Dreyfus casually moved his right hand to the stem of his wine glass and wrapped his fingers around it like a fist.

Taavi lowered his voice and leaned a little closer. “My father.is sometimes called Karga.  He says you are a friend of ours.  And he would be very pleased if you would speak with me.”

Dreyfus turned to look at the man.

“My father also says you have a scar on your arm because you don’t know how to … uh …” he searched for the word, “… put down your head.”

Emily could see the shift in Sinclair’s eyes.  She knew the look.  This was work.  She held her cigarette case up like a prize and pointed to the far end of the roof.  “I’m going over there by the rail on a completely unrelated matter.”  Emily stood up and pushed her handbag across the table.  “Guard the credit cards.”  And she turned and walked away.

Emily didn’t like this part.  It didn’t happen often enough for her to hate it, but even as an occasional side effect of Dreyfus Sinclair, it was a pain in the ass.  She never knew when he was going to get dragged away on business.  But right now, she knew she wasn’t going to get another slice of cake, or any more minutes under the stars, or … she wondered vaguely if Turkish TV had subtitles.  She opened her cigarette case.

A waiter appeared at her elbow and flicked open a flame. “Thank you,” Emily said in passable Turkish, then continued in English. “Who is that man?”

There was no hesitation.  “That is Taavi Bey.  He is the son of Ertan Bey.  They are a family of some importance in our city.” There was a touch of pride in his voice and deference.

“Thank you,” Emily said again, in Turkish, turned and leaned on the rail towards the water.  It didn’t help that Sinclair had talked her into this trip.  She should have stayed home with her trees.  The pears were growing and the bottles needed to be kept dry or there’d be blight.  “There’s always something,” she thought and exhaled a drift of smoke into the night sky.  And now, a family of some importance wanted to talk to Dreyfus Sinclair and that was something else to worry about.

A few minutes later, as the man Taavi left, Emily went back to the table and nearly collided with two waiters hurrying to bring more dessert and more wine and little cups of coffee and ice cream that smelled like orchids.  Emily sat down and looked around.

“You’re doing some serious sucking up here, Sinclair.”

“Nothing to do with me,” he shrugged, and finished one glass of wine.  “Compliments of the house.”

Emily made an approving face.

“But I have to go out later.”

“I knew there was a catch.”

“No catch.  An old friend just asked me to do him a favour.”

“And you owe him, right?”

“No, that’s the beauty of it: he’s going to owe me.”  Dreyfus chuckled and reached the new glass of wine across the table as a toast.

Emily hesitated.

“Karga’s a business man, Emily.  He does a lot of import, export, and he might be interested in importing pear brandy.  Maybe you should talk to him while we’re here.”

Emily’s eyes brightened.  She reached for her glass.

—————

The further adventures of Emily and Dreyfus are available now.  Take a look at Dreyfus and the Duchess here

Fiction – Under The Windows

“I remember these,” Emily said, looking out over the river.  She was nervously answering a question Dreyfus hadn’t asked.  But he was busy searching through the kitchen cupboards, trying to find where Mrs. Flynn kept the serving trays.  He never used them, but for some reason, he wanted the square silver one to serve the drinks on.

Emily turned her head and gestured back at the windows. “I didn’t remember they were quite so big.  This place is huge.”

Dreyfus stopped and pointed to the loft behind him. “You spent most of your time up there.”

“I spent most of my time whacked out on painkillers.”

Dreyfus opened another cabinet door.  Pans.  No luck.  This was getting awkward.  Emily wasn’t sure what to do either.  She looked around, trying to remember things so she’d have something to talk about.  This was not the reunion either one of them had envisioned in the long goodbye at Peterborough train station.

They hadn’t seen each other for nearly a month.  Dreyfus had left Pyaridge Hall a couple of days after New Year to catch a plane for Panama.  The purpose of the trip was to explain supply and demand to a corrupt government official who was demanding a bigger bribe to supply customs clearances for Hudson and McCormick ships.  Normally, Dreyfus loved the tropics (especially in January) but when he arrived, he discovered that Senor Estasfador was arrogant and enthusiastically stupid.  Plus, despite the sun, sand and pina coladas, Dreyfus found he was oddly homesick for the chilly rain of London.  It made him irritable, and after a couple of weeks of failed negotiations, haughty dismissals and hurry up and wait, he decided to solve the problem.  He walked into El Estasfador’s office, pulled him out of his comfortable chair and threw him out the window.  The flight from the first floor and the cuts, contusions, broken wrist and shoulder convinced everyone that there had been a misunderstanding and the bribe was, indeed, satisfactory.  The papers were signed that very afternoon, and the next day Dreyfus was on his way home.

Meanwhile, Emily had stayed on at the estate, to hurt a little and heal a lot and divide her time equally between being an unhappy puppy and a snarling bitch. Eventually, Janet Miller, estate manager and concerned friend, suggested Emily either fly to Panama and get it over with or risk being smothered in her sleep.  Two days later, Emily was on a plane to New York City.  However, unaware of the surprise, Dreyfus was already changing planes at JFK.  They passed each other somewhere over the Atlantic.

Now, maxed out on frustration, they were together again and couldn’t quite figure out what to do with each other.  The simple fact was neither one of them had ever done this kind of thing, and they didn’t actually know how to act.  The ten plus days at Pyraridge Hall had been a full-on love affair, giddy and silly and just a bit dizzy, with enough erotic content to make Aphrodite blush.  But that had been time out of time, hidden in the country — and now this was the real world.  And they were both desperately afraid that the other one had had time to think about it.  

“What are you looking for?”  Emily’s exasperation bubbled over.

“Something for the drinks,” Dreyfus said, defeated. “I’m trying to impress you.”

Emily pointed to the low liquor cabinet across the room. “Whisky?  Glasses?” 

“No, I was trying to find a tray to put things on and …” Dreyfus was embarrassed. “I just wanted everything to be nice.”

Emily turned directly to Dreyfus, who was clearly uncomfortable, and tilted her head sympathetically. “I know what you mean,” she said. “I bought a bikini.”

Dreyfus looked the question.

“At JFK, before you called.  When I was still going to Panama.  I bought a bikini.”

Dreyfus shrugged and opened his hands, palms up.

“I don’t wear bikinis, Sinclair.  Too much Emily,” Emily fluttered her hands and shivered her shoulders, “Hanging out everywhere.” 

Dreyfus, who’d seen quite a bit of Emily over the Christmas holidays, didn’t understand, and his face showed it.

“I bought it for you.”

Dreyfus recognized Emily’s tone and swallowed the adolescent joke.  He exhaled. “We’re trying too hard?”

It wasn’t a real question, and Emily didn’t answer.

“Go sit down.  I’ll pour you a drink.”  Dreyfus gestured to the sofa and went to the liquor cabinet. “There’s a remote on the table for the fireplace.”

Emily walked across the room. “I remember the fireplace,” she said, sitting down. “And the soup.  God that was the best soup.”

“Do you want some?  Mrs. Flynn usually leaves me some.  I could look?”

“Maybe we’re trying too hard?” Emily said, over her shoulder.

Dreyfus agreed to himself and poured two generous glasses.  He went over, handed Emily her glass and sat down on the floor at her feet with his arm on her leg.

 Emily touched her glass to his and said. “Let’s start again.”

There was a ting and they both drank.

“How was Panama?”

Dreyfus shook his head and chuckled. “Nothing special.  I threw a man out of a window.”

Emily nodded. “As you do,” she said solemnly.

There was a pause.

“What about you?”

“Janet threatened to kill me.”

It was Dreyfus’ turn to nod. “How is the indomitable Ms. Miller?’ There was a touch of mock sarcasm.

“Be nice.  She likes you.  Actually, I deserved it.  I’ve been an absolute horror for weeks.”

Emily reached down and pressed Dreyfus’ hand against her leg. “I missed you so much it hurt,” she said, shaking her head and looking at Dreyfus as if it were the first time.

Dreyfus looked up and it was his Emily and nothing had changed. “I missed you so much I threw a man out of a window.”

Emily laughed, bent her head down, “You win,” she said and kissed him, long and deeply.

And the late afternoon became evening and the evening became night, and they talked the hours away and didn’t go to bed until morning.

But that was alright because they didn’t leave the bedroom again for three days.

You can read the original Christmas at Pyaridge Hall here.

Or check out the further adventures of Emily and Dreyfus here.