a standard precondition. Instead, he added --
before she had the chance for a retort -- "That can't have been what you
were looking for! There must be something you're good at! Some talent
you've always wanted to turn into a career! Something! "
With elaborate casualness, making believe she was not in this exposed and
vulnerable setting, she tore and slowly folded sheets of paper from the
roll and wiped herself. Not looking anywhere near him, she said finally,
"I want to be a designer."
"What sort of designer?"
"Textiles. Wallpapers. That sort of thing. I think I've got it in me. And
I've always thought how marvelous it would be to walk into somewhere --
a four-star restaurant, some rich person's home, a set in a film studio --
and see my work all over the walls!"
Her voice was taking on the color of genuine enthusiasm.
"And not just on the walls. On the floor too, perhaps. The carpets or
the tiles. The curtains, the furniture, the clothes!"
Godwin gave a thoughtful nod. Yes, this one was going to take. It was
an absolutely flawless combination. One push in the right direction --
the investment, as he had estimated, of about forty-eight hours' worth of
his time -- and the job would be complete. Of course, there was the usual
matter of convincing her about her new reality, but that was Hermann's
problem, not his, and after that it would be plain sailing.
Once again he found himself hankering after something at least a trifle
more demanding. But that was pointless.
She had flushed the toilet and was stepping into the shower. Checking,
she glanced back.
"You must think I'm an idiot. Don't you?"
"No, if you've got it in you, it can start tomorrow. Or even today."
She curled her lip at him.
"No, I'm serious."
He was sitting in a chair with splayed metal legs; if he tilted it far
enough back, he could open the nearer of the wardrobes. At full stretch
he slid its door aside.
"When you've finished showering, you can take your pick of this lot.
Do you like the idea?"
She was staring in disbelief. "But -- but aren't those terribly expensive?"
"What makes you think so?"
"Well, they look like . . ." Eyes wide, lips wet because she had
unconsciously licked them, she hesitated. "They look like the latest
fashion."
He jerked a brown tweed coat off its hanger and held it where she could
read the label. It said Peasmarsh. Her eyes rounded.
"I'll take you to see Hugo & Diana later on and get you a complete new
outfit."
"You know them?"
"I know a lot of people."
"But I can't possibly afford -- !"
"There are always more things." This time he said it with the platitudinous
flatness of a self-evident truth.
"I still can't afford -- "
"Who's asking you to? Get in that shower and make the most of it."
Still she lingered, her eyes fixed on the ranked clothes. He said
after a while, "You have exactly three choices. You put on your rags
and tatters, stained with vomit, and return to the whorehouse you came
from. Or you do the same and go whining and begging back to your mother,
or the school she sent you to, which amounts to the same thing, because
you said last night your mother will be in America for at least another
week. Or you can do as you like for the rest of your life, which will be
long and healthy. It's up to you. But I shall in any case leave here in
approximately five minutes, and whether I go where I'm next going on my
own is for you to decide. At all events I shall certainly not let you
stay here by yourself, even if it means putting you out in the street
with nothing on. Is that clear?"
He spoke with deliberate harshness. She drank in every word, and the
moment he had finished, walked toward him and laid her right hand on
his arm, smiling.
"Do you know something?"
"What the hell is it this time?"
"I've never told anybody this before. Never in my whole life. Not my
best friends."
"Then it probably isn't worth saying. Get on and have a shower like I
told you!"
She stood
before she had the chance for a retort -- "That can't have been what you
were looking for! There must be something you're good at! Some talent
you've always wanted to turn into a career! Something! "
With elaborate casualness, making believe she was not in this exposed and
vulnerable setting, she tore and slowly folded sheets of paper from the
roll and wiped herself. Not looking anywhere near him, she said finally,
"I want to be a designer."
"What sort of designer?"
"Textiles. Wallpapers. That sort of thing. I think I've got it in me. And
I've always thought how marvelous it would be to walk into somewhere --
a four-star restaurant, some rich person's home, a set in a film studio --
and see my work all over the walls!"
Her voice was taking on the color of genuine enthusiasm.
"And not just on the walls. On the floor too, perhaps. The carpets or
the tiles. The curtains, the furniture, the clothes!"
Godwin gave a thoughtful nod. Yes, this one was going to take. It was
an absolutely flawless combination. One push in the right direction --
the investment, as he had estimated, of about forty-eight hours' worth of
his time -- and the job would be complete. Of course, there was the usual
matter of convincing her about her new reality, but that was Hermann's
problem, not his, and after that it would be plain sailing.
Once again he found himself hankering after something at least a trifle
more demanding. But that was pointless.
She had flushed the toilet and was stepping into the shower. Checking,
she glanced back.
"You must think I'm an idiot. Don't you?"
"No, if you've got it in you, it can start tomorrow. Or even today."
She curled her lip at him.
"No, I'm serious."
He was sitting in a chair with splayed metal legs; if he tilted it far
enough back, he could open the nearer of the wardrobes. At full stretch
he slid its door aside.
"When you've finished showering, you can take your pick of this lot.
Do you like the idea?"
She was staring in disbelief. "But -- but aren't those terribly expensive?"
"What makes you think so?"
"Well, they look like . . ." Eyes wide, lips wet because she had
unconsciously licked them, she hesitated. "They look like the latest
fashion."
He jerked a brown tweed coat off its hanger and held it where she could
read the label. It said Peasmarsh. Her eyes rounded.
"I'll take you to see Hugo & Diana later on and get you a complete new
outfit."
"You know them?"
"I know a lot of people."
"But I can't possibly afford -- !"
"There are always more things." This time he said it with the platitudinous
flatness of a self-evident truth.
"I still can't afford -- "
"Who's asking you to? Get in that shower and make the most of it."
Still she lingered, her eyes fixed on the ranked clothes. He said
after a while, "You have exactly three choices. You put on your rags
and tatters, stained with vomit, and return to the whorehouse you came
from. Or you do the same and go whining and begging back to your mother,
or the school she sent you to, which amounts to the same thing, because
you said last night your mother will be in America for at least another
week. Or you can do as you like for the rest of your life, which will be
long and healthy. It's up to you. But I shall in any case leave here in
approximately five minutes, and whether I go where I'm next going on my
own is for you to decide. At all events I shall certainly not let you
stay here by yourself, even if it means putting you out in the street
with nothing on. Is that clear?"
He spoke with deliberate harshness. She drank in every word, and the
moment he had finished, walked toward him and laid her right hand on
his arm, smiling.
"Do you know something?"
"What the hell is it this time?"
"I've never told anybody this before. Never in my whole life. Not my
best friends."
"Then it probably isn't worth saying. Get on and have a shower like I
told you!"
She stood
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