Other Earths (collection)

She was more interesting-looking than pretty, yet pretty enough, with lively topaz eyes and one of those superprecise British accents that linger over each and every syllable, delicately tonguing the consonants, as if giving the language a blowjob.

“It’s hellish outside,” she said. “I must have a cold drink. Would you care for something?”

Her face, which I’d initially thought too young, mistaking her for a gangly teenager, had a waiflike quality; a white scar over one eyebrow and small indentations along her jaw, perhaps resulting from adolescent acne, added a decade to my estimate.

“I’ll take a Green Star, thanks,” I said. “No ice.”

“Gin for me. Tons of ice.” Her mouth, bracketed when she smiled by finely etched lines, was extraordinarily wide and expressive, appearing to have an extra hinge that enabled her crooked grin. “I’ll just fetch them, shall I?”

She brought the drinks, had a sip, closed her eyes, and sighed. Then she extended a hand, shook mine, and said, “I’m Lucy McQuillen, and I loved your last book. At least I think it’s your last.” She frowned. “Didn’t I hear that you’d stopped writing …or were giving it up or something? Not that your presence in Cambodia would refute that in any way.”

“I have got a new novel coming out next spring,” I said.

“Well, if it’s as good as the last, you’ll have my ten quid.”

“The critics will probably say it’s exactly the same as the last.”

We teetered on the brink of an awkward silence, and then she said, “Shall I tell you about myself? Would that be helpful?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Okay. I’m thirty-one …thirty-two next month, actually. I’ve lived in London all my life. I graduated from the Chelsea School of Design and worked at a firm in the city for a while. Five years ago I started my own firm, specializing in urban landscape design. We were doing spectacularly well for a new business …”

A foursome of prosperous-looking Cambodian men entered the bar, laughing and talking; they acknowledged us, inclining their heads and pressing their hands together in a prayerful gesture, a gesture that Lucy returned, and they took seats at a table against the back wall.

“To put it succinctly,” Lucy went on, “I’m a victim of multiculturalism. My East Indian accountant stole from me, quite a large sum, and fled to India. I couldn’t recover. It was an absolute disaster. I’m afraid I was a mess for some time thereafter. I had a little money left in personal accounts, and I started out for India, planning some pitiful revenge. I’m not certain what I had in mind. Some sort of Kaliesque scenario, I suppose. Gobbets of blood. His wife screaming in horror. Of course, I didn’t go through with it. I bypassed India completely, and I’ve been bumming around Southeast Asia for a couple of years. My money’s running low, and, to be frank, this voyage would extend my trip and give me the time and leisure to write a new business plan.”

“You must be good at what you do,” I said. “To be so successful at such a young age.”

“I’ve won awards,” she said, grinning broadly.

“I would have thought, then, you could have found investors to bail you out.”

“As I said, I was a mess. Certifiably a mess. Once they noticed, investors wouldn’t touch me. I’ve calmed down a great deal since, and I’m ready to have at it again.”

She fit into the “too eager” category, yet I found her appealing. The Cambodian men burst into applause, celebrating something one of them had done or said. The light was fading on the river, the far bank darkened by cloud shadow. I asked Lucy if she understood the requirements of the position.

“Your sign was somewhat vague,” she said. “I may be misreading it, but I assume ‘companion’ is another word for girlfriend?”

“That’s right.”

“May I ask a question?”

“Go for it.”

“Surely a man of your accomplishment must have a number of admirers. You’re not bad looking, and you obviously have money. I don’t understand why you would be in the market.”

“It’s in the nature of an experiment,” I said. “I can assure you that you won’t be harmed or humiliated in any way.”

“A literary experiment?”

“You might say.”

“You know, I didn’t intend to seek the position,” she said. “I was just …intrigued. But I must admit, having Thomas Cradle on my resum’ would do wonders for my self-esteem.” She had a deep drink of her gin-and-tonic. “If the position is offered, I do have two conditions. One you’ve already spoken to—I’m not into pain. Short of sea urchins and safety pins, I’m your girl. I believe you can expect me, given a modicum of compatibility, to perform my duties with relish.”

“And the second condition?”

“Instead of leaping into the fire, as it were, I’d prefer we took some time to become comfortable with one another. Give it a day or two. Will that be a problem?”

“Not at all.”