Free A Bouquet of Barbed Wire by Andrea Newman Page B

lot of reassurance on the subject, which Gavin had been happy to provide. Now she protested, ‘Oh, Gavin,
really,’
and Gavin stopped drinking to laugh.
    ‘I don’t mean he’s aware of it. He’s got it all buried
way
down. But it’s there all right. That’s why he’d like to cut my balls off.’
    Prue dug in the refrigerator to cool her face and find a Coke for herself. She said, ‘I thought he was horrid to you. I was very cross. You were falling over backwards to be nice to him.’
    ‘Yeah, but what good is that when it’s you he’d like to have fall over backwards.’
    ‘Oh, don’t, Gavin.’ The trouble was that she got vivid mental pictures of everything Gavin said.
    ‘What’s the matter? You were happy enough screwing me all over town, what’s wrong with your Dad? He’s a well-preserved man for his age.’
    ‘Gavin, he’s my
father.’
She pressed her cheek against the cold cloudy tin of Coke.
    ‘So what’s wrong with incest? At least it’s all in the family.’
    * * *
    Manson sat alone in the office after Monica had gone. The farewells, accompanied by the inevitable drinks and tears, had got a little out of hand, and now in the ensuing silence he could still hear them ringing in his head. He had no urge to go home. He had not phoned Prue since the weekend visit and when Cassie reported non-committal conversations on the phone he did not comment. As far as possible he was excluding her from his thoughts and, totally, from his speech. It was all part of his new policy of training himself not to care. Let her ruin her life. Why should he knock himself senseless trying to stop her? Let her get on with it. If seeing her worried him, it was better not to see her, avoid all contact. Once he found something else to do in the void, it might not be so painful. It should not be too difficult: after all he had quite enough work to occupy his mind and his home life was harmonious—well, fairly harmonious, at least; he thought Cassie had been untypically moody of late, but perhaps he was merely projecting his own malaise onto her.
    It occurred to him that he would like to go out and get very drunk, something he had not done in years.
    * * *
    Rupert, resplendent in various shades of purple, adorned with a golden tie, said to him on Monday, ‘Is that your new secretary-bird?
Really?’

12
    S ARAH SETTLED in quickly. He had expected to have to train her and be patient with her mistakes but for the first week, even, there were surprisingly few. He noticed that she was often to be seen clutching or thumbing through several sheets of closely-typed paper: on enquiry he was told that it was the office routine, as set down by Monica for her enlightenment. He was impressed and asked to see it, and there, down to the tiniest detail, was the customary procedure for every eventuality. Everything was listed: the location of spare stationery, pencils, indiarubbers, stencils, carbon … There was a detailed guide to the filing-system. An outline of an average day, which he could even recognise as such, with the times for tea and coffee underlined in red, and his preferences in sugar, milk and biscuits minutely described. There was even a run-down on staff: who they were, what they did and in which offices they could be found. Under Bernard’s entry his deafness was allowed for; under Rupert’s he read “Mr. Warner may seem a little eccentric in manner but as a person he is really perfectly charming.” Even the office wolf was pinpointed: “Mr. Cowan, once firmly rebuffed, will not try again.”
    He began to laugh, it seemed for the first time in weeks. ‘Dear Monica.’ He felt very fond of her and hoped very much that Harry would make her happy.
    Sarah said, ‘Yes, isn’t she fantastic? She simply couldn’t have done more to help me.’
    Manson said, ‘Well, she’s succeeded. I think you’ve made a very good start.’
    ‘There’s just one thing. Do you think you—I mean everyone—could call me Sarah,