Jade Woman

2

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VIRGINITY gets everywhere, if you think of it. Of course it’s purely a temporary state, like life. I used to get lectures at school advocating it —not lessons, note, but long gusts of passionate opinion which actually advocated its opposite. Great stuff, passion. I came to love it at quite an early age, me being such a sensitive flower. In the antiques game, passion’s our staple diet. We’d all starve without it. All souls would shrivel.

Passion and virginity are identicals masquerading as differences, yet are irreconcilable.

Now, poor old virginity’s not just a state of pre-sex, not really. It’s practically pre-everything, but not, please observe, thought or suspicion. I’ll give you an instance. This bird I used to, er, lodge with once was about thirty-eight admitting twenty-nine. A lovely singy bouncy sort, Imogen was, all long fluffy hair and scallop earrings that cut my eyelids on the couch. Though brief, it was a complicated little affair. She had a fifteen-year-old daughter Lucy who admitted to nineteen in the most threatening way.

Virginal yes, in the sense of inexperienced, but bolshie about it. She saw herself as disadvantaged, and decided to rape me as a leveler. Consequently, living with Immie became desperate. Even getting up for a pee in the middle of the night was a cliff-hanger with me darting from door to alcove in terror, like a cartoon cat. As if a gay Restoration comedy were being played for real, with all the somber mortal purpose of a Byzantine court. Finally something horrid began to happen between mother and daughter, though honest, I’m really innocent, et cetera, et cetera. I got so jumpy in the suspicion-laden atmosphere, with them seething mutual hatred, that I simply pushed off. Couldn’t stand it. Immie—she still writes—wasn’t virginal but she couldn’t cope with Lucy’s newfound passion. Lucy, the snow-white virgin, on the other hand, was a rapacious predator by intent. See?

Well, Janie was thick as a plank from mental virginity—the most capable lady in East Anglia, the boastest hostess, a talented lover, but totally unqualified in sordid behavior.

I mean, there we were sailing blithely into town, with her on about how we’d throw lovely supper parties and how I’d simply love the Duke of Beaufort’s hunt ball and whatnot, and me worrying how Big John Sheehan’s mob would murder me this afternoon when I couldn’t produce the Unterberger. “Um, love,” I kept saying.

“Perfect.” But my mind was sighing. Nothing for it. I’d have to risk both our lives to save mine.

She parked her car by the war memorial. In Jackson’s posh restaurant I borrowed a coin and, making her wait with me, phoned Big John Sheehan’s number. I kept my smile on so Janie’d know there was nothing really the matter.

“Hello? Lovejoy. Tell Big John I’ve gone bankrupt and been bailiffed. They’ve taken the Unterberger. Say I’m sorry. I’ll do a replacement soon as I can. Okay?”

The bloke on the other end grunted in disbelief. “You lost your frigging marbles, Lovejoy? He’ll have you crisped.”

“Just pass the message,” I said blithely, my throat thick with fright, and rang off.

We went inside for breakfast. Janie had a slice of toast. I had three fried everything against the coming cold. She talked of problems of hemlines and accessories following last week’s stupendous London show (“Can you imagine, white taffeta back again?”) while I wondered how much blood you lose knifed in an alley.

“Janie, love,” I said later when she’d finished buying me a jacket and arguing what ties went with blue. “I want you to stay with me all day, okay?”

“You do?” This was unprecedented. Her lovely eyes rounded.

“If we’re to be… well, permanent.” Janie’s insistence that we reveal all and wed was naturally crazy, but this is only par for the course. The last thing on earth I wanted was her powerful hubby raking over my criminal coals for nicking his pretty rich wife. He’d sentence me to a million years, consecutive.

“Oh, darling!” She went all misty.

In life there are some steps you have to take even though they lead to heartbreak. But heartbreak for one is survival for another. Postponement of my doom being the only tactic, I kept Janie close all that terrible last day.

So I took her into the antique shops, my natural habitat. The first encounter was typical. I’d selected Harry Bateman on East Hill because he’s even thicker than most antique dealers, which is book-of-records stuff, and I urgently wanted Janie to get the message. Judging from the instant furtiveness on Harry’s face, word had already reached him that I was (a) destitute, and (b) on the run from BJS.

“Wotcher, Harry,” I said, all cheery. “I’ve come about that mulberry-design paperweight, Pantin factory post-1850. You can’t teach them Parisians anything about art glass, eh?” My convincing chuckle proved unconvincing. I started explaining to Janie the loveliness of these beauties, but Harry spilled his tea. He was visibly trembling.

“Don’t tell me, Harry,” I said with repellent heartiness. “You’ve decided to sell that Yoruba tribal voodoo cult fetish carving, right?” African folk art nowadays is costlier by the hour.

Janie stood frostily by. She hates anything to do with the trade. She thinks antiques come from Bond Street.

“Lovejoy,” Harry croaked. “Piss orf, okay?”

“Only when we’ve settled that Lower Saxony gilt bronze of Saint Thaddeus, Harry.” I told Janie, “Imagine—1350 a.d.! Beautiful as the day it was—”

With a groan Harry ran out of the door and off up East Hill like a hare.

“What extraordinary behavior, Lovejoy!”

“He must have remembered something. Let’s try the Arcade.” I set off with her, heart in my mouth in case Big John’s goons decided the time was ripe. Every car that passed had me cowering. Wisely I walked on the inside, keeping Janie between me and any possible assassin. No good telling my lovely companion that the antiques I’d mentioned to Harry would total something like a modern light plane. She looked at me curiously.

“He seemed terrified of you, Lovejoy. Have you been up to something?”

“Me?” I gave her my full innocence.

She gave me a hug. “Sorry, darling.”

From then on we became less jubilant. Gradually, as we maneuvered through my antiques contacts, Janie grew quiet. I called on them all. Margaret Dainty, lame but lovely, warned me slyly when she thought Janie wasn’t looking; nervous Lily; Jessica the ferocious grab-all; Mannie the clock dealer; and Big Frank from Suffolk even ducked past me as we emerged from the Arcade. By then I was desperate. Surely even Janie should have cottoned on by now.

We’d been at it four hours—quieter and quieter—before Janie walked firmly into the Castle Park’s rose garden and sat us down on a bench. Dawning-realization time.

“Lovejoy,” she said. “Something’s the matter, isn’t there?”

“Mmmmh?” I gave back. From our bench we faced the war memorial. A dark saloon was parked next to Janie’s long low sleekster. My heart was hammering. Big John was about to display his irritation. A squat bloke was calmly strolling past.

“Everybody said no to you.” Earnestly she pulled me to face her. “And they’re frightened. They couldn’t get rid of you fast enough, even though you’re a divvy, Lovejoy.”

Her car erupted as the saloon pulled away. I actually felt the blast waft heat on my eyeballs. Sound engulfed us both. I was up and running before I knew what I was doing, dragging Janie one-handed as the shouts and fire roar started. A smoke pall slanted across the garden. I tore out, down a pub yard and across into the old churchyard opposite, only pausing for breath when we’d reached the porch. Sirens began, folk running, away from the inferno. She was tugging to be let go.

“Lovejoy! My car! It exploded! What’s happening?”

“Tell you in a minute.”

We recovered as the mayhem took on a hectic order. Police arrived to quell the traffic’s rebellion. Crowds were gathering to stand in awe—where did they all come from?

We watched the burning car. Janie was looking from the smoke to me and back. The Hollytrees is an eleventh-century church now a folk museum. To Big John, superstitious if homicidal, its sanctuary would be respected.

“Darling.” Janie was searching for answers in my pallor. At least the penny had dropped that there was actually a question, thank God. “Are you in difficulties?”

Dear God. Difficulties. “Yes, love. The bailiffs took my painting. I had to give it to Sheehan today.”

She was horrified, outraged. “And he did that? We must tell the police, Lovejoy!”

Women with conviction slay me. “We’d not get ten yards, love.” No acting now; I felt really despondent, fated.

“Can’t you do another painting?”

I stared. She knew even less about antiques than Big John, a zilch minus. “The one the bailiffs nicked was an 1891 Unterberger. It took me eight weeks.”

Another fire engine wah-wahed past. The street was in uproar, traffic tangled.

“Then we’ll buy him one, Lovejoy.”

Hopeless. “Look, love. This hoodlum has a standing army of eleven killers. He needs my Unterberger to goldbrick a collection of dud William IV antiques—to authenticate his dross, so he can sell it to a dealer he hates. The deal’s success depended on my fake.”

My mouth dried. Two goons were standing opposite, staring somberly at the porch. I shrank. “Crisping your car was his opener.”

She shrank with me. She was learning, but slowly. She said with asperity, “I’ll speak to my husband about this, you just see if I don’t!”

“Janie.” I pulled her inside the museum. It’s mostly natural history— gruesome animal relics, skeletons, birds’ eggs. Nobody ever goes in except a dozy curator. 1 cupped her face in my hands, though I was shaking and every neuron in my panic-stricken cortex was shrieking to run for it. “They’re going to catch me sooner or later. Well, so be it.” I gave her a noble if sweaty smile of self-sacrifice, a real Sidney Carlton.

“But it’s… murder, Lovejoy!” Her poor little—well, rich and big— experience couldn’t cope with all this criminal behavior.

“Yes, darling.” I sighed more soul, gave her a gentle kiss to show utmost sincerity. “But I won’t let you suffer. I’ll…” I swallowed in panic because my life depended on how she took my next lie, “… go out and face them.”

Her eyes filled. “Oh, Lovejoy! You’re so brave!”

Fuck the tears, you silly cow, my aghast mind shrilled. Get on with it! Buy me a plane to Alaska, Istanbul, Hull…

“Good-bye, Janie.”

“Wait!” She was in tears, desperately swinging her lovely hair as she cast about. Her voice took on resolution. “I’m not going to let you! There must be a way!”

“But what?” I said, most sincerely brave and puzzled.

“I’ve got it!” She was so thrilled. “Algernon!” she said excitedly. “I’ll send you with Algernon!”

“Algernon?”

“Yes, of course! Macao! My husband’s firms partly finance that racing syndicate!

Advertising or something. Stay overseas, a week maybe, and Mr. Sheehan will have quite forgotten about your mistake with that painting.” My mistake? See the way they shift the blame? She drew me among the horrible glass cases. I went willingly, now she’d seen sense. “Quickly! I’ll send for a car, we’ll collect your things. You’ll catch Algernon at the airport.”

I almost fainted with relief. “I’ve got no things, love. The bailiffs.” But they’d given me an envelope with two dud checkbooks, driver’s license, and passport. Then I confessed, to clarify things even further, “I’ve no money, doowerlink. And think of the expense.”

“Lovejoy!” she said, kissing me fiercely. “I’m determined! Do you understand?”

About bloody time. “Yes, dearest,” I said humbly. At last I was heading for safety out of this whole mess.

An hour later, though overcome by nostalgia, I shrank down in the limousine rather than give a backward glance at the High Street, the shoppers, the distant green countryside to the town’s north. Janie’s driver headed us out on the A12 trunk road while she pretended a frosty boredom and secretly held my hand. My jacket bulged with a wadge of notes and travelers’ checks. I had no luggage, only an outdated pamphlet on Macao that Janie had grabbed in the money exchange. Not much to be leaving with, but if I stayed I’d have less.