he would invariably find her attempting to resolve herself over six or eight different pairs of earrings.
He went in search of her and found her in the drawing room, stretched out on the sofa and surrounded by a mound of green and gold shopping bags whose logo he only too well recognised. Suffering the agonies of a woman who consistently disregards common sense in the selection of her footwear, she was an eloquent testament to the rigours involved in the simultaneous pursuit of bargain and fashion. She had one arm crooked over her head. When he said her name a second time, she groaned.
“It was like a war zone,” she murmured from beneath her arm. “I’ve never actually seen such a crowd in Harrods. And rapacious. Tommy, the word doesn’t even do justice to the women I had to fight through simply to get to the lingerie. Lingerie, for heaven’s sake. One would think they were battling over limited half pints from the fountain of youth.”
“Didn’t you tell me you were working with Simon today?” Lynley went to the sofa, uncrooked her arm, kissed her, and replaced the arm in position. “Wasn’t he supposed to be up to his ears preparing to testify for…What was it, Helen?”
“Oh, I did and he was. It’s something to do with distinguishing sensitisers in water-gel explosives. Amines, amino acids, silica gel, cellulose plates. I was positively dizzy with all the lingo by half past two. And the beastly man was in such a rush that he even insisted we go without lunch. Lunch , Tommy.”
“Dire straits indeed,” Lynley said. He lifted her legs, sat down, and rested her feet in his lap.
“I was willing to cooperate till half past three, working at the word processor till I was nearly blind, but at that point—faint with hunger, mind you—I bid him farewell.”
“And went to Harrods. Faint with hunger though you were.”
She lifted her arm, gave him a scowl, lowered the arm again. “I had you in mind all along.”
“Had you? How?”
She gestured weakly towards the shopping bags that surrounded them. “There. That.”
“There what?”
“The shopping.”
Blankly, he looked at the bags, saying, “You’ve been shopping for me?” and wondering how to interpret such unique behaviour. It wasn’t that Helen never surprised him with something amusing that she managed to ferret out in Portobello Road or the Berwick Street Market, but such largesse…. He examined her surreptitiously and wondered if, anticipating his designs, plans and inductions she had laid herself.
She sighed and swung her legs to the flo or. She began rustling round in the bags. She discarded one that seemed filled with tissue and silk, then another containing cosmetics. She burrowed into a third and then a fourth and fin ally said, “Ah. Here it is.” She handed him the bag and continued her search, saying, “I’ve one as well.”
“One what?”
“Look and see.”
He pulled out a mound of tissue, wondering how much Harrods was contributing to the inevitable defoliation of the planet. He began to unseal and then to unwrap. He sat staring down at the navy tracksuit and pondered the message behind it.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Helen said.
“Perfectly,” he said. “Thank you, darling. It’s exactly what I…”
“You do need it, don’t you?” She rose from her prowl through the shopping bags and emerged triumphant with a tracksuit of her own, navy like his, although relieved with white piping. “I’ve been seeing them everywhere.”
“Tracksuits?”
“Joggers. Getting themselves fit. In Hyde Park. In Kensington Gardens. Along the Embankment. It’s time we joined them. Won’t that be fun?”
“Jogging?”
“Of course. Jogging. It’s just the very thing. Exposure to fresh air after a day indoors.”
“You’re proposing we do this after work? At night?”
“Or before a day indoors.”
“You’re proposing we do this at dawn?”
“Or at lunch or at tea. Instead of lunch. Instead of tea. We aren’t
He went in search of her and found her in the drawing room, stretched out on the sofa and surrounded by a mound of green and gold shopping bags whose logo he only too well recognised. Suffering the agonies of a woman who consistently disregards common sense in the selection of her footwear, she was an eloquent testament to the rigours involved in the simultaneous pursuit of bargain and fashion. She had one arm crooked over her head. When he said her name a second time, she groaned.
“It was like a war zone,” she murmured from beneath her arm. “I’ve never actually seen such a crowd in Harrods. And rapacious. Tommy, the word doesn’t even do justice to the women I had to fight through simply to get to the lingerie. Lingerie, for heaven’s sake. One would think they were battling over limited half pints from the fountain of youth.”
“Didn’t you tell me you were working with Simon today?” Lynley went to the sofa, uncrooked her arm, kissed her, and replaced the arm in position. “Wasn’t he supposed to be up to his ears preparing to testify for…What was it, Helen?”
“Oh, I did and he was. It’s something to do with distinguishing sensitisers in water-gel explosives. Amines, amino acids, silica gel, cellulose plates. I was positively dizzy with all the lingo by half past two. And the beastly man was in such a rush that he even insisted we go without lunch. Lunch , Tommy.”
“Dire straits indeed,” Lynley said. He lifted her legs, sat down, and rested her feet in his lap.
“I was willing to cooperate till half past three, working at the word processor till I was nearly blind, but at that point—faint with hunger, mind you—I bid him farewell.”
“And went to Harrods. Faint with hunger though you were.”
She lifted her arm, gave him a scowl, lowered the arm again. “I had you in mind all along.”
“Had you? How?”
She gestured weakly towards the shopping bags that surrounded them. “There. That.”
“There what?”
“The shopping.”
Blankly, he looked at the bags, saying, “You’ve been shopping for me?” and wondering how to interpret such unique behaviour. It wasn’t that Helen never surprised him with something amusing that she managed to ferret out in Portobello Road or the Berwick Street Market, but such largesse…. He examined her surreptitiously and wondered if, anticipating his designs, plans and inductions she had laid herself.
She sighed and swung her legs to the flo or. She began rustling round in the bags. She discarded one that seemed filled with tissue and silk, then another containing cosmetics. She burrowed into a third and then a fourth and fin ally said, “Ah. Here it is.” She handed him the bag and continued her search, saying, “I’ve one as well.”
“One what?”
“Look and see.”
He pulled out a mound of tissue, wondering how much Harrods was contributing to the inevitable defoliation of the planet. He began to unseal and then to unwrap. He sat staring down at the navy tracksuit and pondered the message behind it.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Helen said.
“Perfectly,” he said. “Thank you, darling. It’s exactly what I…”
“You do need it, don’t you?” She rose from her prowl through the shopping bags and emerged triumphant with a tracksuit of her own, navy like his, although relieved with white piping. “I’ve been seeing them everywhere.”
“Tracksuits?”
“Joggers. Getting themselves fit. In Hyde Park. In Kensington Gardens. Along the Embankment. It’s time we joined them. Won’t that be fun?”
“Jogging?”
“Of course. Jogging. It’s just the very thing. Exposure to fresh air after a day indoors.”
“You’re proposing we do this after work? At night?”
“Or before a day indoors.”
“You’re proposing we do this at dawn?”
“Or at lunch or at tea. Instead of lunch. Instead of tea. We aren’t
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