Death of a Unicorn

One should never lift one’s eyes from the treadmill, never. His voice had aged, blurred, but the old hoot was still very marked and the half self-mocking pomposity of phrase. Also, I persuaded myself, the old eager inquisitiveness, the schoolboy’s delight in secret knowledge.

‘A bottle of champagne,’ I said. ‘Special price for you, Ronnie.’

‘Right. You’ll have to drink my share. I’m on the wagon.’

Of course. The world does not stay the same.

‘A bottle of Perrier, then,’ I said. ‘Can you come here? My London visits are always crammed. Mondays are best. We’re open the rest of the week. Not this Monday. Not next, not . . . hell! I suppose I could cancel . . . What about Monday March the 15th? Come to luncheon, one sharp, and I’ll clear the afternoon till three. That ought to be enough. I was only on the paper ten months, remember.’

‘Months of some significance.’

‘I suppose so. It seems ages now. Give me your address and telephone number in case there’s a crisis. One o’clock Monday the 15th. I’ll send you a pass for the gate and a map about parking and finding the garden-room door.’

When I put the telephone down I saw Maxine watching me with a frown on her flat, plain face.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘You never know where you are with long-lost friends. I didn’t need rescuing after all.’

‘You sounded sort of different. Not you.’

‘Did I? Tell Pellegrini luncheon for two in the Satin Room on the 15th. No wine—a cup of some sort. Do a pass for Mr Ronald Smith and tell the gate to expect him. Ring Burroughs and tell them I can’t see that man . . .’

‘It’ll be the third time you’ve put him off.’

‘Sure? What am I doing before luncheon that day? All right, don’t ring Burroughs—it won’t hurt the man to wait ten minutes. Ring Mr Smith and ask him to make it 12.30. Warn him I may be a bit late even so. Oh, and check if he’s got any diet requirements. He must be nearer seventy than sixty . . . Good Lord!’

And I had heard nothing of Tom for twenty years. I seldom looked at Night and Day but I knew Brian Naylor was still in charge—he’d got an OBE two years back, and he popped up on some television or wireless programme most weeks, the professional deflater, that flat voice still setting my teeth on edge. What on earth had made me think I wanted to see Ronnie?

‘Have you decided on a name for this new girl yet, Lady Margaret?’

‘No. Must I?’

‘I can always put it in later.’

‘I suppose I’d better or I shan’t start thinking about her properly. Let’s have a look at the file.’

‘I’ve got them all on the processor now.’

‘I knew I shouldn’t have bought that bloody thing.’

It was what they call a mini-computer, in fact. Its chief function was supposed to be to keep track of the Cheadle accounts, if ever I and the accountants succeeded in agreeing how we wanted them kept. Meanwhile Maxine had taken it over. I went and stood behind her shoulder and watched the names ladder up the screen.

‘Tara Faithfull,’ I said. ‘Nobody’s called Tara Faithfull, even in a romantic novel. Or Prudence Hastie.’

‘I think Tara Faithfull’s lovely. I can sort of see her already.’

‘Long raven hair with highlights like dark fire? Smoky voice? Slender fingers?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Not on your life, Maxine. I’m not that sort of writer. Almost, but not quite. I see this one as an Isobel, I think.’

‘You had an Isobel Grandison in Dark Pinnacles, only three back.’

‘I thought she sounded familiar. What’ve I called the last few hussies, do you remember?’

‘I’ve got them too. Just a sec.’

She poked at the keyboard. The screen blanked. New names appeared. They were accompanied this time by columns of attributes, height, hair-colour and so on. She’d really been playing with her toy while she had it. I seemed to have been alternating talls with shorts. No redheads, I was glad to see.

‘What does “Chuckles” mean, for heaven’s sake?’ I said.

‘Deep soft chuckles, like a man’s.’

‘Three of them?’

‘Yes. Didn’t you know?’

‘Of course not. Dear God! I seem to be that sort of writer after all.’

‘You don’t have to decide about a name if you don’t want to. It’s so easy now. You can call her Ann Brown and when you’ve made up your mind I can just tell the machine to go through and change it. No sweat, honest.’

‘The trouble, my dear Maxine, is that I shall write differently about a girl called Ann Brown from a girl . . . one moment! Do you mean to say that suppose I’d made the current hussy a chuckler and then you pointed out I was getting into a rut I could tell you to give her a silvery gurgle and hey presto, she gurgles?’

‘Oh. Well, not quite like that. I mean you might have made a footman chuckle, or someone. I could tell it to find all the chuckles, though, and then tell it which ones to change.’

‘Really? This opens . . . No, don’t let’s let it open. I invariably get sick of a girl around Chapter Ten. I start happily off with some flaxen-haired romp of a Gibson Girl but by then I’m yearning for a lissom and consumptive brunette. Would your toy do that for me?’

‘You’re joking, aren’t you, Lady Margaret?’