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that needed attention and these would burn a sizeable hole in our finances. How about knocking off at least four thousand from the bidding price?
    He sympathized. He understood perfectly. But he said No.
    The ad had mentioned that Gramarye would require some renovation, and quite possibly the costs would be high. But he did not have the authority to accept our lower offer, nor, he had to admit, the professional inclination to do so. It was a ‘desirable property’ in an extremely ‘desirable’ part of the world, after all.
    I could feel Midge’s spirits slump, and mine also took a nosedive. Although I had mixed feelings about the place, learning we couldn’t afford it anyway left me more frustrated than I thought possible. I tried three thousand.
    Bickleshift sat firm, explaining that the executors of Flora Chaldean’s Will had set a minimum price, apart from which we were only the first in a line of others wishing to view the property. He was very friendly when he told us this, but estate agents aren’t renowned for having generous natures.
    Our problem was that not only would we have to live in Gramarye, but we’d have to work there too, so conditions had to be reasonable for both of us. Also, I’d wanted to build some kind of mini recording studio for myself; nothing fancy, you understand, but the bare essentials would require a certain amount of ready cash. It was no good, useless to try and kid ourselves. Nice idea, but impractical. Bye-bye our cosy love-nest in the country.
    We left with lead-weight hearts and Bickleshift’s promise to be in touch if there were any further developments. Midge was silent all the way back to Big Met., and I could say nothing to console her.
    That night she wept in her sleep.



Three Scores

    There’s an old Chinese proverb I’ve just invented that goes: ‘ When luck is on your side, numbers don’t come into it. ’
    The doorbell woke us around 8.30 next morning. That kind of hour is rarely even mentionable to me, so it was Midge who had to crawl out of bed to answer it. With one open eye, I noticed her face was still puffy and her eyelids red-rimmed from salty tears as she pulled on her nightshirt and left the bedroom. I groaned and pushed my head further into the pillow when she opened the front door of our apartment and I heard a familiar growly ‘Good morning’. Val Harradine, her agent, had heralded in the dawn.
    Their voices wandered off into the kitchen, Midge’s barely audible and Big Val’s grinding on like an asthmatic cement mixer. Actually Val was okay, although a bit dykey of the bullish kind; what irritated me was the way she sometimes tried to force work onto Midge that Midge didn’t want. When I learned of her mission that morning, I could have kissed her big head, moustache and all.
    Midge came flying back into the bedroom and leapt onto the bed, her milky thighs straddling my tummy and her hands shaking my shoulder. I yelped and tried to shift her weight.
    ‘You’ll never guess!’ she cried, pinning me there and laughing.
    ‘C’mon, Midge, it’s too early,’ I protested.
    ‘Valerie tried to reach me all day yesterday—’
    ‘That’s wonderful news. Will you get off me?’
    ‘She couldn’t, because we were out, weren’t we? She couldn’t phone last night because she was out herself.’
    ‘This is fascin—’
    ‘Listen! She had a meeting with the art buyer at Gross and Newby yesterday morning.’
    ‘That’s the agency you don’t like.’
    ‘I love ’em. They’ve got a huge presentation to make next week and the account’s art director wants to use my style of illustration for posters. They want three , Mike, and they’re willing to pay a heavy price.’
    Now unlike book and magazine publishers, advertising agencies are astonishingly high payers where artwork is concerned – usually client’s money, you see – so £-signs flashed through my head and cleared the last dregs of sleep.
    ‘Five hundred a-piece,’ said a gruff