Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

shrill that it took her a moment to realize what it was.
“Good Lord!” murmured Simon. That beautiful neck was once again arched toward the heavens.
“They’re parrots,” she said. “Wild ones.”
“They’re remarkable! I had no idea they were indigenous.”
“They aren’t. Not exactly. Some of them were in cages originally. The others are descended from ones that were in cages. They just sort of … found each other.”
He turned and smiled at her. “That’s a nice story.”
“Yes,” she replied. “Isn’t it?”

English Leather
F IVE HOURS AFTER HIS HALLUCINATION ON THE HEATH, Michael languished in a shallow tub back at Colville Crescent. It had been that dream, he decided at last—that Death Valley dream in which Mona had ignored his cries from the bluff. Something about that hillside on the heath, something about the blond woman’s stance or the angle from which he had watched her, had conjured up that dream again and caused him to lose touch with reality.
The woman hadn’t looked like Mona, certainly. Not with that hair. And those clothes. Or even the way she carried herself. If anything, he had reacted to her aura—a concept so embarrassingly Californian that he vowed never to express it to anyone. This elegant stranger had simply touched a nerve somewhere, triggering his anxiety about a friendship which had all but collapsed.
He was determined not to think about that. He put on his black Levi’s and his white button-down shirt and headed into Notting Hill Gate, where he ate a curry dinner at a cramped Indian restaurant. Afterwards, he cashed a traveler’s check at the local Bureau de Change, picked up a Privale Eye at his newsstand, and returned to the house. Miss Treves, all three feet whatever of her, was crossing the front yard as he arrived.
“Oh, there you are, love.”
“Hi!” It was pleasant to notice how much she felt like a friend. “I was just out having dinner.”
“Having a marvelous time, are you?”
“Of course,” he lied.
“Good. I brought my case. You don’t mind, do you?” She held up a green leather satchel, roughly the size and shape of a shoe box.
He didn’t get it. “I’m sorry … mind what?”
Her free hand, tiny and pudgy as a baby’s, grabbed one of his. “These horrors. Something must be done about them. We can’t have a friend of Simon’s looking such a fright.” She cocked her head and winked at him. “It won’t take long.”
He was both embarrassed and touched. “That’s really nice, but …”
“I shan’t charge you. You haven’t plans for the evening, have you?”
He had toyed with the idea of exploring the gay bars in Earl’s Court, but that hardly seemed an appropriate answer under the circumstances. “No,” he replied, “not for the next few hours.”
“Lovely,” she chirped, turning smartly to lead the way into the house. Once inside, she opened her manicure kit and removed a newspaper clipping, tattered from many unfold-ings. “This is a load of rubbish, but I thought you might like to see it.” The headline said: ROYAL RADIOMAN ON FRISCO PLEASURE BINGE.
He scanned the piece quickly. Simon came off sounding like a thorough hedonist, a bratty aristocrat squandering the family fortune on nameless excesses in the “fruit-and-nut capital” of the western hemisphere. He returned the document with a discrediting smile. “You’re right. It’s a load of rubbish.”
Miss Treves grunted as she poured a soapy liquid into a little bowl. He immediately thought of Madge the Manicurist on TV and wondered if he’d be soaking in dishwashing liquid. The whole scenario struck him as supremely funny.
She took one of his hands and plated it in the bowl. “Did you notice they printed this address?”
“Uh-huh,” he said.
She said nothing.
“Should that be … a problem?”
“I don’t know, love.” She poked through her kit, searching for something. “You haven’t noticed anyone snooping about, have you?”
What on earth was she getting at? “Uh … no. Not that I’ve noticed. You mean like … burglars or something?”
“No. Just … general snooping about.”
“No. Not a thing.”
“Good.”
“Look, I’d appreciate it if …”
“It’s nothing, love. I’m sure it’s nothing.” She began jabbing away at his cuticles. “When they print your bally address, it makes me nervous, that’s all.”
The manicure proved to be a reassuringly intimate experience. To sit there passively while this vinegary little woman