Lost in a good book (27 page)

I trotted off before he could say anything else. I paused for breath outside the door to the library. Sooner or later I was going to have to ask him straight out. I decided on the face of it that later suited me better than sooner, so I walked through the heavy steel doors and into the library. Yorrick Kaine and Lord Volescamper were sitting behind a table, and beyond them was Mr. Swaike and two security guards who were standing on either side of the play itself, proudly displayed behind a sheet of bulletproof glass. The press conference was halfway through, and I tapped Lydia Startright—who happened to be standing quite near—on the arm.

“Hey, Lyds!” I said in a low whisper.

“Hey, Thursday,” replied the reporter. “I heard you did the initial authentication. How good is it?”

“Very good,” I replied. “Somewhere on par with
The Tempest
. What’s happening here?”

“Volescamper has just officially announced he is
giving
the play to Yorrick Kaine and the Whigs.”

“Why?”

“Who knows? Hang on, I want to ask a question.”

Lydia stood up and raised her hand. Kaine pointed at her.

“What do you propose to do with the play, Mr. Kaine? We understand that there has been talk of offers in the region of a hundred million pounds.”

“Good question,” replied Yorrick Kaine, getting to his feet. “We in the Whig party thank Lord Volescamper for his kind generosity. I am of the opinion that
Cardenio
is not for one person or group to exploit, so we at the Whig party propose offering free licenses to perform the play to anyone who wishes to do so.”

There was an excited babbling from the attendant journalists as they took this in. It was an act of unprecedented generosity, especially from Kaine, but more than that, it was the
right
thing to do, and the press suddenly warmed towards Yorrick. It was as if Kaine had never suggested the invasion of Wales two years ago or the reduction of the right to vote the year before; I was instantly suspicious.

There were several more questions about the play and a lot of well-practiced answers from Kaine, who seemed to have reinvented himself as a caring and sharing patriarch and not the extremist of yore. After the press conference had ended, I made my way to the front and approached Volescamper, who looked at me oddly for a moment.

“The Spoon report,” I told him, handing him the buff-colored file, “about the authentication ... we thought you might want to see it.”

“What? Of course!”

Volescamper took the report and glanced at it in a cursory manner before passing it to Kaine, who seemed to show more interest. Kaine didn’t even look at me, but since I obviously wasn’t going to leave like some message girl, Volescamper introduced me.

“Oh yes! Mr. Kaine, this is Thursday Next, SpecOps-27.”

Kaine looked up from the report, his manner abruptly changed to one of charm and gushing friendship.

“Ms. Next, delighted!” he enthused. “I read of your exploits with great interest, and believe me, your intervention improved the narrative of
Jane Eyre
considerably!”

I wasn’t impressed by him or his faux charm.

“Think you can change the Whig party’s fortunes, Mr. Kaine?”

“The party is undergoing something of a restructuring at present,” replied Kaine, fixing me with a serious stare. “Old ideology has been retired and the party now looks forward to a fresh look at England’s political future. Rule by informed patriarch and voting restricted to responsible property owners is the future, Miss Next—ruling by committee has been the death of common sense for far too long.”

“And Wales?” I asked. “Where do you stand on Wales these days?”

“Wales is historically part of greater Britain,” announced Kaine in a slightly more guarded manner. “The Welsh have been flooding the English market with cheap goods, and this has to stop—but I have no plans
whatsoever
for forced unification.”

I stared at him for a moment.

“You have to get in power first, Mr. Kaine.”

The smile dropped from his face.

“Thank you for delivering the report, Miss Next,” put in Volescamper hurriedly. “Can I offer you a drink or something before you go?”

I took the hint and made my way to the front door. I stood and looked at the outside broadcast units thoughtfully. Yorrick Kaine was playing his hand well.

21.
Les Artes Modernesde Swindon ’85

The very Irreverent Joffy Next was the minister for the Global Standard Deity’s first church in England. The GSD had a little bit of all religions, arguing that if there
was
one God, then He would really have very little to do with all the fluff and muddle down here on the material plane, and a streamlining of the faiths might very well be in His interest. Worshipers came and went as they pleased, prayed according to how they felt most happy, and mingled freely with other GSD members. It enjoyed moderate success, but what God actually thought of it no one ever really knew.

PROFESSOR M
.
BLESSINGTON
,
PR
(ret.),
The Global Standard Deity

I
PAID TO HAVE
my car released with a check that I felt sure would bounce, then drove home and had a snack and a shower before driving over to Wanborough and Joffy’s first Les Artes Modernes de Swindon exhibition. Joffy had asked me for a list of my colleagues to boost the numbers, so I fully expected to see some work people there. I had even asked Cordelia, who I had to admit was great fun when not in PR mode. The art exhibition was being held in the Global Standard Deity church at Wanborough and had been opened by Frankie Saveloy a half hour before I arrived. It seemed quite busy as I stepped inside. All the pews had been moved out, and artists, critics, press and potential purchasers milled amongst the eclectic collection of art. I grabbed a glass of wine from a passing waiter, suddenly remembered I shouldn’t be drinking, sniffed at it longingly and put it down again. Joffy, looking very smart indeed in a dinner jacket and dog collar, leapt forward when he saw me, grinning wildly.

“Hello, Doofus!” he said, hugging me affectionately. “Glad you could make it. Have you met Mr. Saveloy?”

Without waiting for an answer, he propelled me towards a puffy man who stood quite alone at the side of the room. He introduced me as quickly as he could and then legged it. Frankie Saveloy was the compère of
Name That Fruit!
and looked more like a toad in real life than he did on TV. I half expected a long sticky tongue to shoot out and capture a wayward fly, but I smiled politely nonetheless.

“Mr. Saveloy?” I said, offering my hand. He took it in his clammy mitt and held on to it tightly.

“Delighted!” grunted Saveloy, his eyes flicking to my cleavage. “I’m sorry we couldn’t get you to appear on my show—but you’re probably feeling quite honored to meet me, just the same.”

“
Quite
the reverse,” I assured him, retrieving my hand forcibly.

“Ah!” said Saveloy, grinning so much the sides of his mouth almost met his ears and I feared the top of his head might fall off. “I have my Rolls-Royce outside—perhaps you might like to join me for a ride?”

“I think,” I replied, “that I would sooner eat rusty nails.”

He didn’t seem in the least put out. He grinned some more and said: “Shame to put such magnificent hooters to waste, Miss Next.”

I raised my hand to slap him but my wrist was caught by Cordelia Flakk, who had decided to intervene.

“Up to your old tricks, Frankie?”

Saveloy grimaced at Cordelia.

“Damn you, Dilly—out to spoil my fun!”

“Come on, Thursday, there are plenty of bigger fools to waste your time on than this one.”

Flakk had dropped the bright pink outfit for a more reserved shade but was still able to fog film at forty yards. She took me by the hand and steered me towards some of the art on display.

“You have been leading me around the houses a bit, Thursday,” she said testily. “I only need ten minutes of your time with those guests of mine!”

“Sorry, Dilly. Things have been a bit hectic. Where are they?”

“Well,” she replied, “they were
meant
to be both performing in
Richard III
at the Ritz.”

“Meant to be?”

“They were late and missed curtain up. Can you
please
make time for them both tomorrow?”

“I’ll try.”

“Good.”

We approached a small scrum where one of the featured artists was presenting his latest work to an attentive audience composed mostly of art critics who all wore collarless black suits and were scribbling notes in their catalogues.

“So,” said one of the critics, gazing at the piece through his half-moon spectacles, “tell us all about it, Mr. Duchamp
₂₉₂₄
.”

“I call it
The Id Within,
” said the young artist in a quiet voice, avoiding everyone’s gaze and pressing his fingertips together. He was dressed in a long black cloak and had sideburns cut so sharp that if he turned abruptly he would have had someone’s eye out. He continued: “Like life, my piece reflects the many different layers that cocoon and restrict us in society today. The outer layer—reflecting yet counterpoising the harsh exoskeleton we all display—is hard, thin, yet somehow brittle—but beneath this a softer layer awaits, yet of the same shape and almost the same size. As one delves deeper one finds many different shells, each smaller yet no softer than the one before. The journey is a tearful one, and when one reaches the center there is almost nothing there at all, and the similarity to the outer crust is, in a sense, illusory.”

“It’s an onion,” I said in a loud voice.

There was a stunned silence. Several of the art critics looked at me, then at Duchamp
₂₉₂₄
, then at the onion.

I was sort of hoping the critics would say something like “I’d like to thank you for bringing this to our attention. We nearly made complete dopes of ourselves,” but they didn’t. They just said: “Is this true?”

To which Duchamp
₂₉₂₄
replied that this
was
true in
fact,
but untrue
representationally,
and as if to reinforce the fact he drew a bunch of shallots from within his jacket and added: “I have
here
another piece I’d like you to see. It’s called
The Id Within II (Grouped)
and is a collection of concentric three-dimensional shapes locked around a central core . . .”

Cordelia pulled me away as the critics craned forward with renewed interest.

“You seem very troublesome tonight, Thursday,” smiled Cordelia. “Come on, I want you to meet someone.”

She introduced me to a young man with a well-tailored suit and well-tailored hair.

“This is Harold Flex,” announced Cordelia. “Harry is Lola Vavoom’s agent and a big cheese in the film industry.”

Flex shook my hand gratefully and told me how
fantastically
humbled he was to be in my presence.

“Your story
needs
to be told, Miss Next,” enthused Flex, “and Lola is
very
enthusiastic.”

“Oh no,” I said hurriedly, realizing what was coming. “No, no. Not in a million years.”

“You should hear Harry out, Thursday,” pleaded Cordelia. “He’s the sort of agent who could cut a
really
good financial deal for you, do a fantastic PR job for SpecOps
and
make sure your wishes and opinions in the whole story were rigorously listened to.”

“A movie?” I asked incredulously. “Are you nuts? Didn’t you see
The Adrian Lush Show
? SpecOps and Goliath would pare the story to the bone!”

“We’d present it as
fiction,
Miss Next,” explained Flex. “We’ve even got a title:
The Eyre Affair.
What do you think?”

“I think you’re both out of your tiny minds. Excuse me.”

I left Cordelia and Mr. Flex plotting their next move in low voices and went to find Bowden, who was staring at a dustbin full of paper cups.

“How can they present this as art?” he asked. “It looks just like a rubbish bin!”

“It
is
a rubbish bin,” I replied. “That’s why it’s next to the refreshments table.”

“Oh!” he said, then asked me how the press conference went.

“Kaine is fishing for votes,” he told me when I had finished. “Got to be. A hundred million might buy you some serious air-time for advertising, but putting
Cardenio
in the public domain could sway the Shakespeare vote—that’s one group of voters you can’t buy.”

I hadn’t thought of this.

“Anything else?”

Bowden unfolded a piece of paper.

“Yes. I’m trying to figure out the running order for my stand-up comedy routine tomorrow night.”

“How long is your slot?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Let me see.”

He had been trying out his routine on me, although I protested that I probably wasn’t the best person to ask. Bowden himself didn’t find any of the jokes funny, although he understood the technical process involved.

“I’d start off with the penguins on the ice floe,” I suggested, looking at the list as Bowden made notes, “then move on to the pet centipede. Try the white horse in the pub next, and if that works well do the tortoise that gets mugged by the snails—but don’t forget the voice. Then move on to the dogs in the waiting room at the vet’s and finish with the one about meeting the gorilla.”

“What about the lion and the baboon?”

“Good point. Use that instead of the white horse if the centipede goes flat.”

Bowden made a note.

“Centipede . . . goes . . . flat. Got it. What about the man going bear hunting? I told that to Victor and he sprayed Earl Grey out of both nostrils at once.”

“Keep it for an encore. It’s three minutes long on its own— but don’t hurry; let it build. Then again, if your audience is middle-aged and a bit fuddy-duddy I’d drop the bear, baboon and the dogs and use the greyhound and the racehorses instead—or the one about the two Rolls-Royces.”