beastly to Martha.
The only answer when the champagne started to flow after take-off was to get drunk again. One of the freebies handed out by the airline was a pack of cards. Getting into conversation with a foxy smiling Irishman beside him, Lysander discovered a fellow drinker and poker player.
By the time they reached Heathrow Lysander had managed to lose the Tiffany pen and most of Martha's ten thousand dollars, but he had enough left to buy a slab of Toblerone for Jack the dog, Fracas for Dolly and a bottle of whisky for Ferdie, his flatmate.Before landing, the blonde across the gangway vanished into the lavatory for ages and emerged looking even more stunning obviously
tarting herself up for someone meeting her. Then, as she passed, Lysander's pleasure turned to pain. For a second he couldn't locate it. Then he recognized her scent: Diorissimo. His mother had never worn anything else.
When he'd first gone away to prep school he was so distraught she had drenched a handkerchief with it to comfort him at night. Now he leant back in his seat trying to handle the appalling feeling of desolation. Instinctively on landing he would have nipped into a telephone box to reassure her he was safe.
'I'm only happy when all my children are back in England,' she used to say, but he'd always known that his return made her happiest of all.
The post-champagne downer, plus a dank, dark, cold January evening did nothing to improve his spirits. As he slid through customs out into the airport, there was a firework display of camera bulbs exploding and cries of: That's him', 'Over here, Sandy'.
Fortunately Lysander was fitter than any of the paparazzi. Escaping them was a doddle compared to shaking off Elmer's guard-dogs.
'Can you drive like hell to Fountain Street in Fulham,' he gasped to a taxi driver, 'and can I possibly borrow your Evening Standard?'
Only when he'd finished the racing pages did Lysander turn to the front of the paper to find another vast picture of himself and the headline: mystery streaker a brit, SENATE CALL FOR PUBLIC INQUIRY.
Digesting the details, Lysander had to leave the backseat light on all the way into London.
'You better charge me extra for electricity,' he said, handing back the Standard.
'Worf it for a fantastic bird like that,' said the driver, as the taxi jolted over discarded vegetables littering the North End Road.
Thank Christ Dolly was still in Paris. London was at its most tatty. Most of the shops had sales on, the bitter east wind was rattling frozen litter along pavements and gutters.
'Fink we've lost them,' said the driver as he turned into Fountain Street.
Fountain Street was a charming Victorian terrace lined with cherry trees. Number 10 had been taken by Ferdie for a low rent because it was on the market and would sell better if lived in. Ferdie had repainted the bottle-green door and tied back the red rose which swarmed up the pink-washed front of the house. Ignoring the empty dustbins by the gate and the frantic waving of the two gays opposite, Lysander let himself in. Among the leaflets for decorators, window cleaners and minicabs I was a postcard from Dolly saying she missed him and! would be home tomorrow. There was also a mountain of brown envelopes which he didn't open. Thank goodness he was starting his new job with Ballensteins in March. His father had fiddled it for him as a quid pro quo for taking Rodney Ballenstein's son into his smart public school. The good-luck cards from all Lysander's old office cronies were still up in the drawing room.
The house looked awfully tidy and
it wasn't even the Filipino cleaner's day. Lysander switched on the simulated log fire which sent shadows flickering over the dark red wallpaper. In the fridge next door he found Bio Yoghurt and pink grapefruit juice (Ferdie must be on one of his endless
The only answer when the champagne started to flow after take-off was to get drunk again. One of the freebies handed out by the airline was a pack of cards. Getting into conversation with a foxy smiling Irishman beside him, Lysander discovered a fellow drinker and poker player.
By the time they reached Heathrow Lysander had managed to lose the Tiffany pen and most of Martha's ten thousand dollars, but he had enough left to buy a slab of Toblerone for Jack the dog, Fracas for Dolly and a bottle of whisky for Ferdie, his flatmate.Before landing, the blonde across the gangway vanished into the lavatory for ages and emerged looking even more stunning obviously
tarting herself up for someone meeting her. Then, as she passed, Lysander's pleasure turned to pain. For a second he couldn't locate it. Then he recognized her scent: Diorissimo. His mother had never worn anything else.
When he'd first gone away to prep school he was so distraught she had drenched a handkerchief with it to comfort him at night. Now he leant back in his seat trying to handle the appalling feeling of desolation. Instinctively on landing he would have nipped into a telephone box to reassure her he was safe.
'I'm only happy when all my children are back in England,' she used to say, but he'd always known that his return made her happiest of all.
The post-champagne downer, plus a dank, dark, cold January evening did nothing to improve his spirits. As he slid through customs out into the airport, there was a firework display of camera bulbs exploding and cries of: That's him', 'Over here, Sandy'.
Fortunately Lysander was fitter than any of the paparazzi. Escaping them was a doddle compared to shaking off Elmer's guard-dogs.
'Can you drive like hell to Fountain Street in Fulham,' he gasped to a taxi driver, 'and can I possibly borrow your Evening Standard?'
Only when he'd finished the racing pages did Lysander turn to the front of the paper to find another vast picture of himself and the headline: mystery streaker a brit, SENATE CALL FOR PUBLIC INQUIRY.
Digesting the details, Lysander had to leave the backseat light on all the way into London.
'You better charge me extra for electricity,' he said, handing back the Standard.
'Worf it for a fantastic bird like that,' said the driver, as the taxi jolted over discarded vegetables littering the North End Road.
Thank Christ Dolly was still in Paris. London was at its most tatty. Most of the shops had sales on, the bitter east wind was rattling frozen litter along pavements and gutters.
'Fink we've lost them,' said the driver as he turned into Fountain Street.
Fountain Street was a charming Victorian terrace lined with cherry trees. Number 10 had been taken by Ferdie for a low rent because it was on the market and would sell better if lived in. Ferdie had repainted the bottle-green door and tied back the red rose which swarmed up the pink-washed front of the house. Ignoring the empty dustbins by the gate and the frantic waving of the two gays opposite, Lysander let himself in. Among the leaflets for decorators, window cleaners and minicabs I was a postcard from Dolly saying she missed him and! would be home tomorrow. There was also a mountain of brown envelopes which he didn't open. Thank goodness he was starting his new job with Ballensteins in March. His father had fiddled it for him as a quid pro quo for taking Rodney Ballenstein's son into his smart public school. The good-luck cards from all Lysander's old office cronies were still up in the drawing room.
The house looked awfully tidy and
it wasn't even the Filipino cleaner's day. Lysander switched on the simulated log fire which sent shadows flickering over the dark red wallpaper. In the fridge next door he found Bio Yoghurt and pink grapefruit juice (Ferdie must be on one of his endless
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