Wicked Women Read Free Page B

in oil, which made me think it was authentic. The natural world hesitates when it’s on the verge of self-destruct. Surface tension prevents the lava spilling out: simple air pressure keeps shifting tectonic plates in place—to bring two pieces of plutonium together to reach critical mass requires a gigantic effort: as improbable as slamming together two pieces of magnetised metal with similar polarity. Everything in nature cries out no, no!”
    Defoe paused for breath.
    “You’re very romantic,” said Weena, “for a scientist.”
    “Scientists have hearts, too,” Defoe said. “Who better than scientists to understand the romance of the universe, the mystery of matter?”
    “Tell me,” said Weena, “if it’s true, if this stuff exists, why do governments deny that it does?”
    “The function of governments,” said Defoe, “is to hold truth in reserve, as a last resort. If it doesn’t exist, so what; if it does exist, then the technology required to fit it into warheads is available only to governments, and major armies.”
    And Defoe produced his diagram.
    “I think it’s wonderful!” she said. “Did you draw that circle freehand?”
    “I did,” he said.
    “I thought Leonardo da Vinci was the only man ever known to draw a perfect circle freehand.”
    “Leonardo da Vinci and me,” said Defoe.
    Elaine put her head round the door.
    “Do you want to explain the boiler to some people called the Wilcoxes?”
    “No,” said Defoe. “I’m in the middle of an interview.”
    Elaine went away.
    “Does she always do that?” asked Weena. “Interrupt you in the middle of things?”
    “If in her judgement her needs are more urgent than mine, yes.”
    “Well,” said Weena, “I think it’s rather rude to me. As if I was unimportant. You mustn’t worry about being temporarily out of work. The world can’t do without you. You talk so really well. Very few people can do that. That night in the hotel after the show I should never have let you go.”
    “I was tired,” said Defoe. “I don’t suppose I did much talking.
    Have you read any of my books?”
    “No. I know I should have. But I don’t get to read much. But I love reading, all that.”
    “I’ll give you a copy of my latest,” said Defoe. “Science the Terminator.”
    And Weena actually clapped her hands with pleasure, and dropped her pen in so doing.
    Perhaps Defoe would have helped Weena find the pen under the desk, but Elaine entered with Harry and Rosemary Wilcox.
    “It can’t be,” said Rosemary, “but it really is! Are you the Defoe Desmond?”
    “I know of no other,” said Defoe wearily.
    “We’re Harry and Rosemary Wilcox,” said Harry.
    “The Harry and Rosemary Wilcox?” asked Defoe, but Elaine frowned at him so he added, “Just a joke! We’re all the whoever it is to ourselves, aren’t we! The centre of our universe,” and Rosemary and Harry’s hurt puzzlement turned to smiles.
    “Sorry your programme was axed,” said Harry. “But we must all take the rough with the smooth. So now you’re selling?”
    “We always planned to sell when the children left home,” said Elaine firmly. “This is the library—note the original panelling.”
    “I just love the atmosphere,” said Rosemary Wilcox, who had turned, as Weena put it to Hattie later, from a moaning cow into a buzzy bee. A glimpse of a celebrity can do that to some people, albeit one teetering on the brink of has-been-ness.
    “Let me show you the Conservatory,” said Elaine. “We haven’t had the staff to keep it up properly, but there’s a very good fig tree, nearly a hundred years old. It was planted the day my grandmother was born.”
    And she moved the Wilcoxes on, looking at her watch and raising her eyebrows at her husband, as if to suggest he hurried things along with Weena if he could. Weena caught the look.
    “The bitch!” said Weena to Hattie later. “Treating me like dirt and thinking she’ll get away with it. I don’t know how Def