Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

of you ladies know a thing or two about that, eh?”
A chorus of giggles. Michael glanced anxiously down the corridor, but Wilfred was nowhere to be seen. He was ready to murder the kid.
The group was herded into an open space behind the house, where the guide pointed out the stables, a formal topiary garden, and a pyramidal folly capping the hill above the estate. “Please feel free to wander a bit,” he told them, “but do not go back into the house. We shall reassemble in the car park in thirty minutes. I trust you will all be prompt. Thank you very much.”
Michael loitered in the topiary garden, keeping a close eye on the house. He began devising emergency plans to minimize the embarrassment in the event that Wilfred never showed up. The least troublesome scheme was set into motion in the parking lot, live minutes before departure time.
“I won’t need a ride back to Moreton-in-Marsh,” he told the guide. “I’ll be staying in Easley-on-Hill tonight.”
“What about your chum?”
Shit. He had noticed. “Oh … he walked into the village about twenty minutes ago. He wasn’t feeling well … thought he’d catch a nap at the inn.”
“I see. Then you’ll be riding with us as far as the village?”
“Well … it’s just across the meadow. I’m sure I’d enjoy the …”
“Just the same, sir …”
“Right. Great. That would be fine. Sure. Thanks.”
So he look the bus back to the village.
“There,” he said, pointing at the first believable-looking inn. “That’s the one. That’s where we’re staying. Just let me out at the corner.”
The driver grunted and brought the bus to a stop.
Michael could feel their eyes on him as he climbed down from the bus and marched purposefully into the pub adjoining the inn. Once inside, he embraced the absurdity of his plight and bellied up to the bar for a cider.
Fifteen minutes later, feeling much better, he left the pub and looked both ways down the road. The bus had gone. The only vehicle in sight was a green Toyota parked next to the inn. It was late afternoon now, and a cider-colored haze had settled on the distant meadows. A row of plane trees cast long purple shadows at the edge of the village. He felt quiet and peaceful and alone for the first time all day.
He set off toward the manor house, whistling with the Michael Jackson song wafting from the pub. She says I am the one, but the kid is not my son …
The lane lost its mossy walls and climbed into the meadow. He stopped for a moment and said idiotic things to a sheep, enjoying himself thoroughly. His view of the house was obscured by a clump of oaks, so he pressed on until the woods had given way to meadow again.
The windows of Easley were ablaze with the sunset, and the ancient limestone blushed magnificently. He had always loved that color, that pinkish orange which seemed to change with every shift of the light. Once upon a time, he and Jon had painted a bedroom that shade.
There was clearly no way to sneak up on the house. His approach could be observed from dozens of windows, not to mention the crenellated parapet which ran the length of the building. He would confront the place as any legitimate guest would, striding confidently.
You bet. And tell them what? Pardon me. I seem to have misplaced a small, gay aborigine.
Them? Who was in charge there? There had been some signs of life in the house—current magazines, postcards in mirrors—but much of the place had seemed uninhabited. Was Lord Roughton alone except for Mona? Did he even live there?
And what if—just what if—that wasn’t Mona?
He decided to declare his legitimacy by presenting himself at the front door. He realized the absurdity of that when he tried to lift the knocker, a rusted iron ring almost the size of a horse collar. The door had been nailed shut; no one had used it for years.
He retraced his steps and passed under the archway linking the manor house to the brewhouse. He approached the kitchen door and rapped on it. In a matter of seconds, he heard someone stirring inside.
The woman with the Princess Di haircut opened the door and glowered at him.
“You’re an asshole,” she said. “I hope you know that.”
    Ethelmertz
W HEN MARY ANN RETURNED FROM HER AEROBICS class at St. Peter & Paul’s, she found Simon stretched out in the sunshine of the courtyard. “Well,” she said, “I see you’ve discovered Barbary Beach.”
“Oh … hello.” He raised himself on his elbows, squinting into the sun. “Is that what