Free Faces in the Pool by Jonathan Gash

with mineral oil…’
    ‘Very clever.’ I didn’t listen.
    ‘You leave soon, Lovejoy.’ She smiled brightly. ‘May I come?’
    ‘If you like,’ I said, my heart suddenly singing, as romance books say. If Lydia was along, things might be not altogether ruinous. I’d have someone to take the blame if things went wrong. Life isn’t always downhill, I thought.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    Castro: all right, correct (Aus. slang, fr. Cuban, cubic, ‘all square’)
    That evening I struck lucky. There are only two kinds of luck, antiques and women.
    She came over. I was gloaking in the Marquis of Granby. ‘Lovejoy?’
    Not a bailiff or a debt collector. No irate husband in tow. Three plusses. I smiled. Her nose wrinkled, being used to better places, though the old Marquis is one of East Anglia’s better dumps.
    ‘How expensive are you for a night?’
    The world stilled. Have you ever felt that strange sensation when slot machines go quiet and conversation stops? A noisy football team had arrived to carouse the hours away. I glanced round, red-faced.
    ‘Er, for antiques?’
    ‘Of course.’
    Folk lost interest. She sat back, handbag on her knees. Her suit looked on its maiden voyage, hat and gloves in matching cobalt blue. Her eyes were so large they seemed to emit their own light instead of merely noticing the world’s old used-up glim. Bonny, bonny.
    She looked good enough to eat yet spoke like a tax demand. Her gaze was glacial. The hubbub returned. Tracy from Wigan laughed, all mischief.
    ‘All right, Lovejoy, dear?’ Tracy’s never forgiven me. She once set up a dealers’ ring for a coaching table at Herrington’s. (Keep a lookout for these rare little centrally hinged folding tables, incidentally. They’re mistaken for modern camping stools and furniture books forget to put them in. They’re worth a mint.) What else could I do but nick Tracy’s coaching table and sell it? I’d written her a really honest IOU, but women harbour grudges.
    ‘Yes, ta, Tracy.’ I put on a brave face.
    ‘For how long?’ she drawled. Everybody cracked up.
    My lady rose with one-move elegance. I followed humbly to ironic cheers.
    ‘Get my car.’ The lady dropped keys into my palm.
    ‘Er, I’m banned, missus.’
    Angrily she snatched the keys and walked to a Jaguar that waited sneering at the kerb.
    ‘I suppose I shall have to drive.’ And as I drew breath for a snappy response, she snarled, ‘And stop saying “er”. Men don’t dither.’
    ‘Er, right.’
    The Jag’s journey took a millisec. We reached a night school, where myriads of tiny girls in ballet gear trooped and pirouetted. Noise filled a honeycomb of rooms thumping with piano, cellos, violins wailing. Infant musical genius was at work. Everybody we passed greeted my mentor with, ‘Good evening, Miss Farnacott.’ She swept into an office, flinging her hat aside. A secretarycleared off. I wasn’t the only one scared of the Winter Queen.
    ‘Sit.’
    Like a dog. The door closed on the cacophony.
    ‘You insulted my father, Lovejoy.’ Those icy eyes fixed me. ‘You sent him into a decline. Your explanation?’
    So far the week had been the pits. Prison, speed-dating, Loony Laura’s marriage proposal, arrests, my robbery at Eastwold, problems from the auction, Paltry’s murder. The Free World had lost all allure. In fact, maybe prison had the edge. Now this Musical Avenger.
    ‘Erm, I don’t know your dad, missus.’ My only Farnacott was George from Hong Kong, who passed on years since. ‘If that’ll be all…’
    ‘ Sit . You and that ignorant bint treated Father like a punkah wallah.’
    Her mouth fascinated me. Fury made it a slit. Her eyes hooded. Wasn’t there a snake that did that, or was it an eagle in that Ratisbon poem? Her features were smooth. Even white with rage she was beautiful. What, twenty-eight , say? I hadn’t heard such out-dated slang for a generation.
    ‘Who was she, Lovejoy? Don’t try to protect her.’
    Antiques dogma says