he breathed to himself, breaking into a crooked smile. The pictures he’d got of the infamous beast were clearly going to be eye-poppers.
‘Where d’you think she got that silly name?’ said Miss Dimont peevishly. ‘Fluffles Janetti?’
‘Come over from Italy,’ said Terry, who’d read up her clippings in the cuttings library before coming out. Actually he hadn’t done much reading – mostly it was looking at other people’s photographs of the minx to see how he could better the shot, for Terry was nothing if not competitive. Some of the caption information must have drizzled into his brain by a process of osmosis, though, the way that most photographers learned things.
‘So that was an Italian accent she was talking with?’
‘More sort of Birmingham,’ said Terry after a moment’s reflection.
‘Just so,’ said Judy, who’d done the same amount of homework but had concentrated on the words, not pictures. ‘And I suppose you think that’s her name, Fluffles?’
‘“FLUFFLES JANETTI – THE FIRECRACKER FROM FIRENZE,”’ Terry quoted a headline which had stuck in his brain.
‘Janet Fludd – the bosom from Brum. Famous for the wide variety of bedsprings she has tested in her time.’
Terry turned to the reporter with a look of reproval. ‘That’s not like you,’ he said, ‘to be so snooty.’
‘Oh, Terry, you’re such a fool with women,’ she replied, taking off her spectacles and giving them a good wipe.
‘I’m a photographer,’ he said, as if it were explanation enough.
Back at the office Terry parked the car and scuttled away to the darkroom to do what photographers do. Judy entered the newsroom and wandered down to her desk.
Even at a distance she could see that, as usual, it was covered with the typical avalanche of debris which forever tumbled from Betty Featherstone’s workplace opposite – the discarded copy-paper, sheets of carbon, glue pots, cuttings, old notebooks and the copious contents of a handbag.
There was also a dead cat.
Still some yards away Miss Dimont stopped and stared in horror. ‘Betty!’ she called, ‘Betty!’ She loved Mulligatawny more than life itself and could not bear the thought of poor sad corpses. And in the office, too!
The miscreant wandered over from Curse Corner where she’d been chatting to the chief sub-editor, John Ross: ‘Hello, Judy, cup of tea? Your turn.’
‘What on earth is this creature doing on my desk, Betty?’
Betty stepped forward and looked down in a vague sort of way. ‘Oh sorry, the usual debris, Judy, I’ll clear it away in a minute.’
‘Not the debris,’ seethed Miss Dimont through gritted teeth, ‘the dead animal.’
Betty laughed, but it came out bitterly.
‘I couldn’t bear it,’ she said. ‘Try wearing that on your head, Judy, the weight of it, the sense of claustrophobia. I don’t know how people do it.’
‘Do what? Wear dead cats on their heads?’
Betty picked up the offending corpse and draped it over her hair. ‘Honestly, d’you think it makes me look any better?’ she said, and flung down the bedraggled wig with disdain.
‘Gave me quite a shock,’ said Judy, catching up.
‘Not as much as the platinum blonde dye did me. Honestly, when I saw myself in the mirror after I’d done it – I wanted to kill myself. Look, there are still green patches!’
‘You should take a tip or two from Fluffles Janetti,’ said Judy, and described the frozen platinum helmet she’d recently witnessed adorning the nation’s favourite courtesan.
Betty was transfixed: ‘I must meet her!’
‘No, Betty,’ said Judy, ‘I would fear for your moral compass if left alone in Fluffles’ company for more than five minutes. You’re better off with Dud Fensome.’
‘Not any more. I sent him a wire.’
That makes a change, thought Judy. Normally it was Perce, the telegram boy, who waylaid Betty to alert her to the latest failed venture in the marriage stakes. A wire could guarantee an end to the affair without need for the inevitable exchange of recrimination and disappointment. Betty didn’t like getting them, but they were preferable to a confrontation – and always they brought with them the prospect of greener grass. She’d never had much luck in finding Mr Right.
Just then Miss D’s eye was caught by the sight of a woman dressed head to foot in deepest purple, walking across the end of the newsroom as though leading a funeral procession. Her head was bowed, her movements slowed, as if weighted down by the sorrows of the world.
‘Athene!’ Judy called, but the mourner did not hear.
The reporter rose and nipped quickly over to the furthermost corner of the room, where there was a desk secreted behind a Chinese screen, draped with silk scarves and ostrich feathers. This was the lair of Athene Madrigale, the greatest astrologer the county of Devon had ever known, the person to whom every subscriber to the Riviera Express turned first on a Friday morning to discover what the week ahead held in store.
‘Pisces: an event of great joy is about to occur – to you, or your loved ones!’
‘Sagittarius: look around and see new things today! They are glorious!’
‘Cancer: never forget how kind a friend can be to you. Do the same for them and you will be rewarded threefold!’
Athene was, in a county undoubtedly blessed with more sunlight hours than any other, the one ray of sunshine which never hid behind a cloud. People who read her words felt infinitely strengthened, while her page in the newspaper carried more weight than any sensational news from the town council or the magistrates’ court.
Those few who were privileged to meet Athene – and there weren’t many, for their day was her night – saw the astrologer as if through a glass prism infused by the colours of the rainbow. She might wear a lemon top, pink skirt, mauve trousers with plimsolls of differing hues on each foot. Her wispy grey-blonde hair would be pinned back by a blue paper rose, and the glasses suspended on the end of her nose radiated a delectable glow of Seville orange. She was remarkable.
Today, though, her clothing and countenance were the colour of death, and her voice sounded as though it came from beneath the grave.
‘Athene, dear,’ said Judy with concern as she sidled around the screen, ‘what on earth is it?’ She adored Miss Madrigale for all the good things she imparted, and would do anything to spare her even the slightest discomfort.
‘It’s impossible,’ said Athene in a broken voice, ‘I thought by doing this in daylight it might make things better, but it doesn’t.’ She picked up an ostrich feather and fanned the air as if to soothe it, or herself.
‘What is it? Why are you dressed like this? Has someone died?’
‘I have died, dearest. My soul has been thrown overboard.’
‘What can you mean, Athene?’
‘You were away last week. The editor came over to see me and said I had a wonderful new job, one that would bring me even more adoring letters.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Judy suspiciously, ‘did he now.’
‘I do so love an educated hand, don’t you? Look at this lovely letter from Bedlington this morning – what a wonderful person this must be – and she takes the time to write! You should see the delightful things she…’
‘Athene,’ said Judy, ‘what did Mr Rhys ask you to do?’