I leaned back on my chair and crossed my new orange leather, stiletto boots on the edge of the desk. The smoke from my Spanish cigarillo drifted towards the fan that lazily, and slightly wonkyily, rotated above us. I brushed my hair back over my shoulder and placed the cigarillo on the edge of the ash tray.
“Tinks baby, this is what we’re gonna do. I’m booking you into Popeye’s clinic, you’ll go in, eat spinach for a while, lay off the drink and get healthy. Give up the cigarettes as well, you’re fingers look like they’re made from cheese they’re that yellow. Olive Oil will manage your diet and exercise. We’ll have you back in shape in no time. While you’re in there I’ll get looking for something for you. Grimm’s got a line coming up that involves a Fairy God Mother, it could be right up your alley.”
I manoeuvred her towards the door, having pressed the get-‘em-out-of-here-quick button under my desk. Friday was standing with Tinkerbell’s musty coat ready to shuffle her out the door as I made the hand-over. “I’ll call you in a few weeks,” I said as she wiped her nose on the sleeve of her coat and stumbled dejectedly out the door. “Book Tinks into a two week intensive at Popeye’s clinic, Friday. And see if you can find that Grimm tale with the Fairy God Mother, she’s gone beyond playing the sexy sidekick-lackey. Hopefully she can accept that with some grace.”
Friday sat down and tapped efficiently at his computer. His face was a glaze of concentration as he worked his thin moustache moving slightly as he muttered to himself. His debonair grey suit was cut perfectly for his 185cm frame, making him look manly enough to carry off the job of secretary without the usual snide remarks about womanly attributes. His olive skin and dark hair leant him an aura of exoticness. I thanked God that I had some man candy to look at, not like Sherlock Holmes down the corridor, who employed Watson on the basis of skills alone. I knew that I shouldn’t be thinking these thoughts, office relationships always failed miserably. Clark and Lois were a testament to that. But I considered Friday-watching as a form of entertainment, a stress release.
I re-entered my office, a smog of cigarillo smoke hung weightily over the ash tray, slightly yellowish in the late afternoon sun light that poured through the dusty, bent venetian blinds. “I’ve got to give up smoking,” I thought as I brushed cigarillo ash from the lapel of my wool jacket. I checked my appointment book for the next day. As per usual my schedule was hectic, all because of the post-awards slump. All those out of work characters hoping for last minute glory before they had to fade off into obscurity, becoming a grandparent’s favourite. Personally, I thought Huckleberry Finn much classier than the likes of Edward Cullen, but who was I to say anything? This turn over in characters was what kept me from busking on the street with a dancing monkey.
My nails as they held open the appointment book were looking ragged, in need of a manicure. I made a note to myself to get an appointment with Eliza Doolittle at some stage soon. If anyone knew about making yourself presentable it was Eliza. I pulled my hair over my shoulder to examine the ends. Definitely split. A quick glance in the mirror told me that the mousy brown of my natural colour was starting to show through the richer brown courtesy of the last visit to Eliza’s salon, Pygmalion. I made an extra note to include a cut and colour in the appointment. A certain standard must be maintained.
I buzzed through to Friday to remind him to get files out for Pippi Longstocking and Anne Shirley who were first up on tomorrow mornings list. I grabbed my bag and fossicked through the paraphernalia looking for keys to the bike lock. I strode through the door and said goodbye to Friday. He said goodbye as he continued to clean the office, I paused in the doorway to admire the shape of his muscular derrière as he bent to pick up some paper from the floor. With a lustful sigh I exited the office, pulling the door closed behind me.
Down the pale, dusty corridor I saw Holmes and Watson preparing to leave their office as well. Holmes was talking to Watson about the next day’s plans.
“So Watson, I don’t want you to forget that we have a meeting first up with …?….. It won’t pay to be late. If we can’t get some info out of him about this case we’ve got no where to go.” Watson merely grunted as he struggled to lock the door. All these old buildings had sticky locks on the doors, which was good for security, only those with the knack could get in. His dumpy frame in his overcoat and hat mostly obscured his features but I knew when he looked up his pudgy face would show the resentment he felt for me. Mostly it stemmed from the fact that, at 170cm, I was much taller than him, but also my friendship with Holmes made him jealous.
“Hey Holmes, how’s things? You’ve got to lean your shoulder a bit to the left Watson, that should get it”. Watson merely grunted again and gave me a surly look over his shoulder. “Valerie! How are you darling? Post-awards slump working for you? Got time for a drinky-poos before you head home?” Holmes turned away from the still struggling Watson to air-kiss my cheeks as he spoke. We linked arms and walked down the corridor to the stairs and exit. “Tomorrow morning, Watson”, he called over his shoulder as we stepped out into the evening.
Our office building was a non-descript brown brick rectangle that ran the length of the block. All manner of people and professions worked in the building. A somewhat successful dance school occupied one ground level corner and next to that a drop- in centre for local youths. Holmes and I had offices on the second floor. Tenants often came and went quickly. A few months ago I had a tattoo parlour next door. The buzzing would drive me crazy so I was grateful when Holmes tipped the police off to some of their less savoury clients.
Despite the itinerant nature of some tenants it was still a busy building in a industrious, if run down, part of town. Holmes and I waited patiently for cars to pass and then crossed the road to our local. It was a small, trendy place that had yet to be over run by the “In” crowd. The Black Cat was an open setting for a bar, with enough space to include the jazz or blues band that played most evenings. The décor was shabby-chic; to most it meant the owners had savvily scrounged through markets and op-shops to create a trendy yet unpretentious atmosphere; but to those in the know, like me, it meant that the owners had simply done it as cheaply as possible. Wooden floor boards had been polished at one stage, although the constant feet had worn them down to a scruffier version. A hodge-podge of different tables and chairs were scattered around and some corners sported mismatched couches and arm chairs huddled around banged up coffee tables. The ceilings had a myriad of light fixtures, each surrounded by a different light shade. The huge glass windows and doors of the shop front were probably the most expensive piece of the fit out.
I pulled open the glass doors and walked inside. It was still too early for the music, the band was setting up on the stage, however, Stan, the owner, had Billie Holiday playing in the background. Holmes and I walked to the bar nodding in greeting to the band and the other locals we knew. We leaned on the dark granite of the bar and I scratched my nails into the ice panel that ran the length of the bar, as we waited for Stan to serve a customer we didn’t recognise at the other end.
“You know you’re going to have to do something about Watson and his crush soon don’t you?” I said to Holmes as we waited. “I know!” he replied with a groan. “I’ve never encouraged him, I make sure that I make plans with others right in front of him but it still doesn’t seem to make a difference. I think he has a girlfriend too, you know but he always avoids talking about her.” “Ah, inter-office relationships” I smirked. “That’s exactly what I was trying to avoid by hiring someone who is definitely not my type. He does have strong looking hands though.” Holmes said with a thoughtful look on his face, he switched subjects “Anyway, you’re more in danger of that problem than me with that delectable Friday working for you.” “I’ve hired him for his skills alone.” I said primly. “Yes but skills in what?” Holmes shot back with a leer.
Luckily for me at this point Stan arrived. “Hey kids, how’s things? What can I get for you?” Stan looked more like he should be running a butcher shop than a trendy bar but what he didn’t know about jazz music wasn’t worth knowing. He was balding, with a round belly sticking out of a dark, hairy torso. His white t-shirt was slightly ragged around the neck hole; his hands as he rested them on the bar were thick and wide. “A couple of Swiller’s thanks Stan. How’s Helen? Did that Reiki specialist help her headaches?” “Nah, course not.” He snorted “She’s going back to that place on
“Well... here come the Suits. Better go serve I guess”, Stan wandered to the far end of the bar. “Give my love to Helen, tell her I’ll be over when things quieten down at work”, I replied. He gave a three finger wave in response and began talking to the group of Suits who had walked in. “I hope this place doesn’t get over-run.” Holmes said as he watched the Suits wipe their seats with a hanky before they sat down. “So how did you go with Tinkerbelle?” “Not too bad, but that could change when we try to take the bottles away. She’ll probably be motivated by the awards passing then fall backwards as usual. How’s the case going that you’re working on?”
“We’ve hit a dead end. We traced Lydia Bennett’s disappearance back to a nightclub in near
We sat and talked for a few minutes about his case. It sounded like it could have been no more than a flighty girl runaway with her “true love”, as clichéd as it sounded. Holmes had helped to track her down in a situation like this before. Luckily she had a sister who cared about where she went to or she could just be another missing face in the paper. The girl was incredibly silly so it was hard to know where she’d been, there was way too many hormones running through her for her to cope in such a repressed family. Holmes had plans to go and see the police commissioner as he played a curling match the next day. He also planned a night out at the nightclub where she was seen last “The Blu Palm”.
The sunshine was beginning to slant through the tall glass windows; our table was littered with clove cigarette butts, empty pint glasses and chip packets. I knew that I needed to go home before I fell over; too much beer on an empty stomach on a Friday evening was not good. Holmes and I made our way out into the street and crossed the road again to stand in front of our building. I bent to unlock my bike from the rack then stood up to say goodbye. Holmes wandered off around to the side of the building where his Volvo was parked. He tooted his horn as he drove off down
My house was only a short ride from the office, which was handy on a night like tonight where Holmes had talked me into too many drinks. A ramble of cottage garden flowers snagged the bike wheels as I pushed it through the small gate and up the path to the front door. The security light flicked on as I got into range and I could here the dog whining from around the back. I unlocked the door and wheeled the bike inside, propping it in the long corridor. I walked straight down into the kitchen, switching lights on as I went. I could see the pale shape of my dog, Esther, through the frosted glass of the door that led from the laundry into the small backyard. I rubbed her back as she came in, whole body wagging hello.
I looked in the fridge and came up with some tofu and vegetables to make a quick stir fry. I sat down next to the gramophone and flicked on some Mozart, Esther sat next to me as I ate and finished the capsicum pieces I didn’t want. After washing up in the kitchen I sat down to watch the news. Nothing special was happening in the world, the usual wars, arguments and sadness. There was not mention of Lydia Bennet’s
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