Two for One-Relatively Speaking (The Two for One series) Page 21
“Ah,” Max said, brightening. “I was just about to bring that up, actually. I’m starving. Now, is that bisteeya I smell because if there’s a decent Moroccan restaurant nearby I’ll gladly buy you lunch.”
But Jenna was again shaking her head.
“No, I have a much better idea; an educational idea.”
She got up from the bench, beckoning her charge to follow. They walked half a block, rounded a corner and emerged onto Kingsland Waste, a bustling street of low buildings and countless tiny shops, hole-in-the-wall eateries and fruit stalls. Jenna first looked left, then right, apparently spotted what she was seeking and made off to the right. Max followed her for several steps but then stopped.
“Hey, look, I was right,” he said. “There is a Moroccan place here.” He was reading the menu taped to the window of a small restaurant. “Ooh, and they have a shrimp-filled bisteeya. And are you kidding me? I pay twice this much in Kensington for it!”
Jenna retraced her steps, took him by the arm and pulled him away from the Moroccan restaurant; after a moment they stopped at the corner of a busy intersection.
“Okay, this is step one,” Jenna announced.
“What’s step one?” Max asked. “We fling ourselves in front of oncoming traffic and get fed at the hospital?”
“No, we pick through this trash bin here.”
For several moments the novelist just stared at his companion and then he redirected his gaze downwards, to the trash bin, which was almost filled to the top with the typical assortment of waste found in a city garbage receptacle. He noticed, with some queasiness, that near the top of the bin was a half eaten chocolate éclair and that near the éclair were the remains of a McDonalds cheeseburger.
Max said, “Listen, enjoy that éclair; I’m going to get bisteeya from the Moroccan place.”
“What? Oh, God no!” Jenna made a face. “No, you silly git, I wasn’t suggesting we eat from the trash! Is that what you actually thought?”
“Look, you promised me something to eat and then you bring me to a trashcan stocked with chocolate éclairs; I put two and two together.”
“I never once ate from the trash, Mr. Bland!”
“And yet here we are standing next to some trash.”
The young woman sighed and said, “Okay, let me start over. We need to pick through this trash here in order to look for something which will allow us to get something to eat from somewhere else, follow?”
“Sure, sure, I follow.”
“Do you?”
“Actually, no, I think you’re bipolar.”
Another sigh. Jenna was beginning to understand why Ms. Shaw had apologized in advance for asking her this favor.
“Okay, just watch, please,” she said.
Jenna reached into the bin and began rummaging through its contents. Max watched her and noticed that whenever she came across a bag in the trash she’d lift it out and check inside it; if it contained a receipt she would carefully read it before discarding it and its bag once more. She didn’t seem to mind that A) she was pawing through trash and B) people were beginning to stare. Once, when an elderly Asian woman stopped to gawk at the spectacle Max said, “My wife. She accidentally threw away her car keys with her bangers and mash.”
Finally Jenna exulted, “Aha!” She straightened holding up a store receipt triumphantly.
“Congratulations,” Max said without enthusiasm. He couldn’t for the life of him comprehend how a wadded up receipt rescued from the landfill would obtain them sustenance. Despite the fact that said receipt had come from a public trash can Max took it from her and tried to glean its mysteries. No luck.
“What’s the big deal, Jenna? It’s a receipt from Alcott’s; there’s one in Kensington. Katie sometimes shops there because they carry a line of some organic crap she likes.”
Jenna snatched the prize back. She pointed out the information contained on it.
“More specifically, Mr. Bland,” she began, “it’s a receipt from Alcott’s for a jug of eight quid laundry detergent. And the buyer paid cash.”
“You know, the amazing part about this is that you still act like I should care,” Max quipped.
“Well, in a few minutes you’re going to think I’m a genius,” Jenna told him. “Come on, then…there’s an Alcott’s two blocks from here.”
***
Like all modern-day grocery stores in this one-stop-shopping era Alcott’s was forced to devote some of the square footage in each of its locations to non-food items: housewares, cleaning supplies, books, makeup and even some clothing; it was to the cleaning supplies aisle that Jenna led Max when they arrived at the Hackney Alcott’s with the mysteriously precious receipt.
“Okay,” she said, reading the receipt and then scanning the shelves, “we’re looking for a 96 ounce jug of Aunt Glenda’s Liquid Laundry Soap.”
“I had laundry soap for breakfast,” Max said. “I was hoping that for lunch I could have some kitty litter.” Something caught his eye. “Hey, here’s your soap right here.” He held up a large green jug of Aunt Glenda’s. Jenna read the receipt again.
“No, we need the Linen Fresh scented,” she declared. She picked up a periwinkle jug. “This is it. Let’s go.”
Max followed her back toward the front of the store wondering what in the hell Aunt Glenda had to do with him getting some lunch. Jenna, meanwhile, was now walking past the checkout area of Alcott’s where the dozen or so cashiers were doing a brisk business; she was, in fact, heading right for the store’s exit. Max started slowing his pace, falling further behind, his brows knitting with confusion. She wasn’t going to actually walk out of the store without paying for that, was she? he wondered. Yet there she was striding purposefully nearer to the exit. He supposed it was possible she could get away with it; the store was very busy, even this early in the day, and Jenna was a well-dressed, well-groomed white woman unlikely to cause suspicion in the minds of those whose job it was to safeguard the goods.
But what would be the point in her stealing the laundry soap? It didn’t make any sense.
Max was so certain Jenna was engaged in a bit a thieving that he was surprised when, about ten yards from the exit, she turned left and placed herself in the queue for the customer service counter.
Max caught up with her and whispered, “What the hell are you doing?”
“Getting us fed, remember?” Jenna whispered back. “You should be taking notes, in fact.”
“Next, please,” called one of the two customer service reps at the counter. The one person in line ahead of Max and Jenna, a middle-aged woman, stepped forward.
“You need to trust me, Mr. Bland. I’m giving you an education.”
“Next, please,” the other customer service rep called a few moments later.
Jenna and a reluctant Max stepped forward and Jenna plunked the jug of detergent onto the counter in front of the teenage girl on the other side.
“Hi,” she said brightly. “We need to return this, please.”
The customer service rep lifted up the jug, turned it this way and that and then said, “Anything wrong with it?”
Jenna put her arm through Max’s.
“No, not as such but when I bought it I forgot that my husband doesn’t like this scent.” She subtly kicked his leg.
“Right,” Max said, taking the cue. “I, um, prefer the Rainforest Sunshine scent; you know, the green bottle.
“Do you want to just grab the green bottle and do an even exchange?” the rep asked.
“No,” Jenna answered. “My mum actually bought the right one for us yesterday.”
The rep shrugged.
“Do you have a receipt?” she asked.
“Right here,” Jenna said and handed over the slip of paper recently rescued from the trash.
The bottle on the counter was checked against the description on the receipt. A mere moment later the Alcott’s rep had opened a cash drawer and was counting out eight quid and change, handing it over to Jenna.
Back on the street Jenna smiled smugly at the writer; she waved the pound notes under his nose.
“Now, Mr. Bland, where would you like to eat?”
“That Moroccan place?” Max suggested.
“Uh-uh.” Jenna shook her head. “Remember, we’re homeless and all we have is this ill-gotten eight quid, which means we’re on a very tight budget. I’m afraid you’re going to have to lower your standards. Come on, there’s a cheap fish and chips place down the road a bit.”
Chapter 22
At home that evening the trio and Arlene were having dinner together. In one of their rare whims of domesticity Danielle and Katie had prepared Chinese food from recipes downloaded off the Internet, and as they all ate Max was telling the women about his lunch with Jenna.
“The place was a dive,” he was saying, “a real dump. But I gotta admit I didn’t care. After we had gotten out of Alcott’s the sheer brilliance of her plan just amazed me. Pass the fried rice, please.”
Katie passed the large wooden bowl heaped with browned rice that had generous chunks of shrimp and egg mixed in it.
She said to Max, “You’d be surprised at how resourceful the homeless can be; it’s a question of survival for them. I just hope you were nice to her, that’s all.”
“Quit your worrying, I was a prince of a guy,” Max answered, placing the bowl of rice back in the center of the table after serving himself a couple of spoonfuls. “I may have called her bipolar once or twice but that was about it. I’m meeting up with her again tomorrow. This was a brilliant idea I had, employing a homeless person. Montrose is not gonna know what hit him.”
“I don’t know, Max,” Danielle said with some nonchalance, “I read Diego’s story today during my lunch break.”
“Wait a minute, you let her read it?” Max exclaimed to Katie.
“She sure did,” his wife answered, “and I have to warn you, Max, it’s good.”
Max sneered at her.
“Well of course it’s good, darling,” he said. “This is Diego Montrose we’re talking about here; I expect him to score a few points.”
“I think it’s sweet that you’re writing this story to help the homeless,” Arlene told Max. She was with the trio this evening because Nita was in Manchester overseeing a wedding and would be gone until tomorrow. “In fact,” she continued, “I was just telling Sloane about it when I spoke to her today overseas. She’s a big fan of yours, you know.”
“So you’ve told me,” Max replied.
“And how is my darling half sister?” This came from Danielle but her tone of voice indicated that she really didn’t give a damn how Harold’s other daughter was faring.
“Oh, she’s so-so, darling; still quite shaken by all that Harold did. I can’t wait for you to meet her!”
“Where does she live again?”
“She remained in Pennsylvania after graduating from Bryn Mawr, darling. She teaches at a prep school.”
Danielle smirked.
“Well, I’m sorry, Mother; outside of Philadelphia Pennsylvania is one of the most boring states in the Union so I’m afraid I won’t be in Sloane’s neighborhood anytime soon. Besides, Max also hates Pennsylvania. Why do you hate it again, Max?”
Max swallowed his bite of the delicious gyoza Danielle was responsible for and said, “The Amish.”
“Right, the Amish,” Danielle told her mother. “People who choose to live like it’s 1742 or whatever creep him out.”
“Oh, but that’s no problem, darling, because you’ll be meeting Sloane soon. She’s coming here!”
Arlene’s three dinner companions all looked up from their meals to stare at her and for several minutes they simply sat there, flabbergasted. Then, without moving their heads, Katie and Max turned their eyes to Danielle and immediately winced simultaneously. The set of Danielle’s jaw; the murderous glint in her eyes…their shared spouse was clearly about to go ballistic. However, this time it was Arlene’s problem, not theirs and so they felt free to return to enjoying their meals.
“Mom.” Danielle’s voice was a mere two degrees above Kelvin. “The spawn is coming here?”
Arlene made a face.
“Darling, I do so hate it when you call her that. Sins of the father, you know...”
“Why is this particular sin coming to London?”
“I invited her.”
Danielle’s eyes flashed.
“You did what?”
“Yeah, you did what?” Max echoed. It was bad enough the tranquility of the mansion was disturbed by one guest; now there might be two?
“I invited her, darlings,” Arlene answered calmly. The woman truly seemed oblivious to the change in her daughter’s manner—the way Danielle’s teeth barely parted when she spoke/hissed, the fact that Danielle’s normally alabaster skin was turning purple.
“Why on earth would you do that, Mom?”
“Oh, the poor thing has been feeling miserable, darling,” Arlene insisted. “This thing with your father—her father—is still upsetting her.”
“Well you should have told her to go see a shrink, then.”
Arlene said, “No, darling, and you wouldn’t be saying that if you knew her like I do. Apparently she’s still so upset over this that she’s had to take a leave of absence from her job, can you imagine? And apparently she been having trouble interacting with men—at work, in her personal life; she told me she’s broken up with her boyfriend as direct result of all this. Your father—her father—has really done damage to Sloane’s life, not just ours. I felt it was only right to invite her here for a change of scenery and a chance to have some fun; she’s never been to England. Besides, you two need to meet. I realized after I met her in Arizona that meeting her was a necessary step in moving on, darling, and I believe it will be the same for you.”
“How very Dr. Phil of you, Mom.” Danielle snapped her teeth down viciously on a carrot stick.
***
Later that night Danielle said to Max: “I’m inclined to tell Arlene—no, I’m inclined to order Arlene to tell Sloane she can’t stay here at the house, that she has to get a hotel room.”
This use by Danielle of her mother’s first name meant Danielle was exceedingly pissed at Arlene and Max wondered how long he’d hear his wife refer to her in this fashion. The record was four days, set about a year ago, when Arlene e-mailed Katie embarrassing baby pictures of Danielle which Harold had just scanned into their home computer. Something told Max that record would soon fall.
He and Danielle were in his bedroom and had just got done having sex. The great thing about Danielle, Max discovered long ago, was that periods of high stress and anger made her incredibly horny and their sex tonight had certainly been outrageous, even illegal in some regions.
“Well, I’m inclined to beg you to order Arlene to have Sloane stay in a hotel,” Max said. “The bust-up of your parents’ marriage is giving me enough trouble as is.” He was absently circling his index finger around Danielle’s left nipple.
Danielle lay silent in his arms for several moments and then asked, “What do you think about this meeting Sloane thing?”
“Honestly? Get it over with,” he replied. “What harm can really come from it? Besides, I know you…once your anger subsides a bit you’ll be so curious to meet Sloane that you’ll arrange it yourself. Better to do it this way, on your own turf.”
Danielle knew he was right. The great thing about Max, Danielle discovered long ago, was that he understood her better than previous men had and knew how to phrase things in just the right way. If indeed a meeting with Sloane was inevitable—which, in fact, it was—then it was better to have her here in London, in a strange city and therefore a little off-balance and uneasy.
“What do you think she’s like? Danielle queried Max. He was continuing to circle her nipple and she was becoming aroused again.
“Remarkably, I don’t give a shit.”
“Well, I bet she�
��s nerdy.”
“Oh, come on…”
“No, really, Max. I mean, she went to Bryn Mawr, for God’s sake. Bryn Mawr.” She expectorated the second word in the name as though she were retching. “That is, like, the epitome of female nerdiness!”
“You’re just jealous.”
Danielle scoffed and batted his hand away from her breast.
“I’ll have you know I was accepted at Bryn Mawr, jerk. But I decided I didn’t want to spend my college years surrounded by stuck-up and elitist east coast trust fund babies.”
“Instead you chose to spend your college years surrounded by stuck-up and elitist southwest trust fund babies.”
“There’s a difference. Anyway, can you imagine me as Katherine Hepburn?”
“More like her evil sister,” Max said. “Look, I dunno what Sloane is like but what I do know is that we don’t need another person walking around this house in the buff and I’m gonna leave it up to you to tell her to keep her clothes on.” He paused. “Unless she’s built like Beyoncé, then, really, I won’t mind so much.”
Chapter 23
Day two with Jenna.
Max and she were once again in Hackney and this particular day was miserable: gloomy skies spitting an intermittent rain and a temperature of 7 degrees C. Right now the rain had ceased but a cutting breeze was blowing that was making the tips of Max’s ears numb. Though Max had an umbrella with him Jenna had instructed him to keep it closed. They were pretending to be homeless, she reminded him, and homeless people don’t use umbrellas.
Additionally, earlier, using Katie to pass the message along, Jenna had instructed Max to arrive at the Rivers Foundation hungry for lunch like he had been yesterday and also to be wearing anything other than a hand-tailored Italian suit.
“She says she can’t take you seriously if you’re dressed so posh,” Katie had told her metamour that morning over the phone. “I told her that I’ve never seen you dress down; that even when you’re just lounging around the house you look like you’re expecting Dean, Sammy and Frank to stop by for cocktails.”