Miss Picksby was insistent to join me for tea this morning, after Michael left for work. I tried to explain to her, over and over again, that I was busy, had a couple of friends coming over for dinner tonight, and had one too many things to do. Carpet cleaning, after Bast's latest "adventure" in the kitchen. Cooking, which is never an easy task for me. Picking up Michael's dry-cleaning from the dry-cleaner's. And so on and so on... Nothing "deadly" serious, but still things that took time and attention.
Still, Miss Picksby couldn't be convinced to go home. She stood at the door, wearing a gray gown that fell to her ankles and swirled around her when she walked, making her seem like some strange ghost in a haunted house, an apparition. Her hair was tied in a tight pony-tail, her glasses nested on the tip of her nose, as if threatening to fall off at any moment. Her lips were pursed in a line, so thin that it almost looked like she had no lips at all. Creepy, that's how she appeared. Even worse, she was obviously bored and in a bad moon, which in her case usually means she is about to complain. A lot. And about everything and everyone.
"I think I saw your husband on his way to work this morning", she started as soon as she "landed" on the couch. "No gentlemen, is he now? Couldn't even slow down to chat with a neighbour... How rude is that?
I kept quiet, hoping that she would drop the subject, but my hope was lost in vain. Miss Picksby is like a dog with a bone. When she starts chewing at something, she just doesn't let go. So for the next 15 minutes she was complaining about Michael, Michael's manners, Michael's hair ("He should cut it short... Looks like a helmet right now!"), Michael's beard ("And what is that thing on his face... not a fully grown beard and not an attractive stubble either! He looks ridiculous, dear! And it is your place as a wife to tell him so! What... cat got your tongue?") The last one was accompanied by a meaningful glance at Bast's direction, as if to suggest that I should get rid of the cat, as well as of Michael's growth of beard. I loved them both. When Miss Picksby started making comments about Michael's... how to put it delicately? "Bottom", let's call it, I finally had to change the topic and asked her how her brother and his fiancée were doing...
"O, so you want to know about her?" Miss Picksby asked, her voice low and ice-cold. "Such insufferable woman!"
Yes, the pot calling the kettle black. Especially having in mind that Miss Munro said the exact same words as Miss Picksby just did. "The Witches of Eastwick", anyone? I think they'd be great for a new horror version of the movie! They can literally talk behind each-other's backs to death...
"So, I heard..." Miss Picksby started and an endless tirade of gossips, fabrications, half-truths, straightforward lies, and so on and so on followed. In the next half an hour Miss Munro changed at least a dozen names ("a classic con artist, that one!"), twice as much identities ("I heard she was in an asylum!"), committed a number of unspeakable and not-so-unspeakable crimes, was convicted for at least half of them ("Heard they're still searching for her!") and was given a long list of bad names and bad career-choices, that led her to the streets of Paris ("Doing you-know-what for you-know-what with you-know what sort of people!"), down the docks of Genoa ("The hunchback they called her... before the operation!"), and the operation room of a plastic surgeon was Miss Munro's next stop on that verbal journey, until, finally, she was promoted into a man. Yes, you read that right. A man!
"I read they do these operations..." Miss Picksby started in a conspiratory voice. More operations, seriously?
My, was it so hard for her to simply admit that Miss Munro was like a younger reflection of herself?
After Miss Picksby said everything, and I do mean everything, she could think of about Miss Fanny Munro, she took in a deep breath and set her sights on another target.
Me.
"O, dear, if domestic cleaning is such a tough task for you, why don't you hire some professional help?" She narrowed her evil eyes at me. "You sure need it!"
And you need to go back under the stone from beneath which you crawled out, I thought, but politely kept my thoughts to myself. It's not as hard a task, as it may seem to some!
Anyway, Miss Picksby stayed for another 15 minutes and then, blessed be, left. I looked at my watch and discovered it's almost noon and I am nowhere near ready to have guests!
Even if they were Monica and Carter, and were probably about to have a huge fight amidst our living room!
I let out an exasperated sigh and was just about to go to the kitchen and start musing whether to cook pasta with tomato sauce or tomato sauce with pasta (yes, I know!), when my cell-phone started ringing. I recognised the song playing - "Talk to Me" by Stevie Nicks - and knew it was Monica even before I looked at the display. I swallowed hard, and then answered the call.
"Monica?"
A moment's hesitation. Then she said:
"I told Carter about the baby. He knows I'm pregnant, Sam."
Well... O, my!
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