This is an excerpt from The Emergency Hotline. Our story's main character, Calvin, is being paid a tidy sum to keep Richard Peckles' mother Sylvia, company while he is brokering huge business deals. Sylvia suffers from multiple personality disorder and becomes a different person depending on which room she is in. Richard asked Calvin to merely play along with his mother's eccentricities.
"Calvin
Brooks, sir. From the agency?" she said, catching Calvin's eye.
"Yes,
indeed," Calvin said.
Richard
offered his hand, and the two men shook.
"I
feel like a bit of a fraud, Calvin. There was something I should have told you
over the phone."
Calvin
blinked. He knew it. The old dear was violent and had to be kept locked up for
her own protection. Either that or sanity had fled the poor woman, and she
repeated verses from the bible, backwards.
"My
mother suffers from multiple personality disorder."
Calvin
could tell by the way Richard was searching his face, that he was trying to
gauge if he understood all that such an affliction entailed.
"She
may well assume a different identity, depending on the room in which she finds
herself. She might, more than likely, address you by different names. Just play
along, that's all I ask."
Calvin
didn't know what to say. He supposed that this would explain the hefty cash
bonus.
"She's
in no way dangerous, Calvin, but requires... company, shall we say? To chat
with, mostly. I can't put this meeting off, and I have no one else to help me
out. Will you be that person, Calvin. Please?"
"Of
course," said Calvin in a magnanimous tone. "It would be my
pleasure."
"Daphne
will attend to any of your needs. Simply let her know if you're hungry or
thirsty. She'll be serving tea and afternoon biscuits shortly, anyway. She will
point you in the direction of one of several bathrooms, should the need occur,
but be sure to let Daphne attend to my mother if that happens."
"No
problem,” Calvin said.
"Sylvia,
my mother, is currently washing her face in my study's private bathroom. She'll
be out in a minute."
Sure
enough, a well-built woman in her late sixties, made an appearance from a room
hidden from sight. A broad smile accompanied her as she approached them.
"Richard,
you never told me we had company?"
"Calvin
is going to spend the afternoon with you, mother."
Richard's
mother held her hand up, as if she expected it to be kissed. Calvin glanced
over at Richard, before gently taking her fingers and kissing the back of her
hand.
"At
last, a gentleman who knows how to treat aristocracy. Countess Wilhelmina at
your service, sir."
"Well,"
said Richard, beaming, "now that you two are acquainted, I have to get
going. Thanks again, Calvin."
He
could have been wrong, but Calvin could have sworn that Richard left at a pace that
would leave him little time to change his mind. Still, spending an afternoon
with an old dear like this could turn out to be quite entertaining.
"Calvin,
let us proceed upstairs, shall we?"
Calvin
was impressed. She had remembered his name. Sylvia, or Countess Wilhelmina as
she now called herself, held out her hand. Calvin took it in his and they made
their way upstairs in what might best be described as a regal pace.
"Have
you painted anything recently?" she asked him, stepping into a large room.
Portraits were everywhere. An artist's easel held a proud position in the
center of the room, an ornate antique French sofa several feet behind it.
Calvin
closed the door behind him.
"I
gave my sister's kitchen a fresh coat, a month or so ago."
Countess
Wilhelmina shrieked with laughter. "Flaubert, you will be the death of me.
Pretending to be a common painter instead of the genius whose name slips off
every tongue in Paris."
So,
apparently he had now acquired a new identity.
Richard's
mother sat on the sofa, as Calvin took a tour of the room. The paintings were
all originals, of that he had no doubt. His tour stopped in front of the large
easel, that blocked his view of the chaise longue and Richard's mother. Pieces
of sketching charcoal littered the lip of the easel, shared by different colors
of oils.
"Paint
me, Flaubert. Say you will," squealed Richards mother.
Calvin
didn't reply. His face was almost pressed against the virgin canvas. He closed
his eyes and inhaled. Different odors assaulted his nose. The different
pigments used in the making of each color, made some smell sweet, and others
sour.
"I'm
ready Flaubert. Tell me it's not just my pose that's perfect."
Calvin
stood back up and took a step to the right. His breath caught in his throat.
"What
in heaven's name are you doing?" he gasped.
Richard's
mother was sprawled across the chaise longue, on her side. She wore not a
stitch of clothing.
"How
would you like my breasts arranged, my love?" she inquired, moving her
ample bosom around.
Calvin
moved towards her, and then stopped himself. He held his hands in front of him,
palms facing the naked woman in front of him.
"For
God's sake, put your clothes back on."
"Don't
play shy, Flaubert. We have been lovers for almost two years. My husband knows,
but turns a blind eye. I'm the one with the money."
Calvin
dashed behind her. It was the only place she could have left her clothes.
"Quickly,
put them back on," he begged, returning to a place several feet in front
of her, and holding her clothes out for her to take.
"Not
until you paint me, my love. I shaved in anticipation. Don't tell me you didn't
notice."
Calvin
tried not to look, but it was the old story. What's the first thing you do when
someone tells you not to look?
"Would
you prefer a different pose? Something a little naughtier?"
"No,
no. No poses at all. Please, I'm begging you, just get dressed."
"Kiss
me Flaubert, just once... in that special place, before you start."
A
loud knock came at the door. "Tea and biscuits," announced Daphne.
An
Olympic sprinter couldn't have reached that door any faster. Calvin cracked open
the door.
"Tea
and biscuits, sir," repeated Daphne.
"Actually,
I never drink tea," Calvin said. "Do you have any Turkish
coffee?"
"We
have everything, sir. Can I just rest this down inside? Then I'll come back
with your coffee."
"Good
grief, no," Calvin said. "Protocol, my dear. The Baroness--"
"You
mean Countess," she replied, grinning.
"Yes,
of course. Countess Wilhelmina wouldn't approve."
"I
should only be two minutes," Daphne said, turning on her heel.
Calvin
closed the door. He had one hundred and twenty seconds to get the old bird back
into her clothes.
"I'm
not moving until you paint me, you rascal."
Calvin
approached the easel, eased his thumb into the palette and surveyed the
painting instruments. He picked up the palette knife, but just as quickly
discarded it. He grabbed the widest brush he could find and started slapping
paint to canvas.
"Done!"
he exclaimed thirty seconds later.
"Ooh!
Let me see," said the Countess, joining him in front of the easel.
"Flaubert, you joke, yes?"
"Joke!"
Calvin exclaimed, faking anger. "I never joke about my work. I am
experimenting with an eye to creating an impressionist's depiction of naked
perfection. Can you not see it?"
"But
of course, my love. Where are my breasts, though?"
Calvin
pushed his forefinger into some of the tan colored oil, and wrote a rounded W.
"How's that?"
"It's
true, you're a genius, Flaubert. Abstract art is all the rage."
"Now
get your clothes back on as fast as you can, or I will never paint your portrait again, I swear it."
"You
are such a bully, Flaubert," moaned
the Countess, clearly disappointed.
A
knock came at the door, the very second Richard’s mother had fully dressed.
"Turkish
coffee, tea and biscuits, Mr Brooks."
"Thank
you, Daphne," he replied, as she set them down on a small antique table.
"Good
thing you didn't come in before, Abigail," giggled Richard’s mother.
"Flaubert and I were quite naked. No doubt you would have whispered such
to my husband."
Daphne
chanced a glance in Calvin's direction. He turned his eyes to the ceiling.
"My
lips are sealed, Countess. Your husband shall hear nothing from me."
"Pity,"
Countess Wilhelmina replied.
Calvin
had thought that Turkish coffee would take a while to find and make. How wrong
he was. He took a sip. Disgusting. How did people drink this... engine oil,
posing as coffee.
"How
is the Turkish coffee, my darling? You're such a naughty individual. Don't tell
me you don't know that drinking coffee is too common for the likes of us. What
would our friends think if they could see you now?"
A
smile began to build across Calvin's countenance. "Don't you want to be
naughty, Countess? Wicked, even?" He held out the cup.
"Lock
the door, Flaubert. Discovery would be too much."
"The
door stays unlocked, Countess. I would see you living on the edge,
awhile."
"Oh
my! You pervert this poor woman," she said, and gulped down the foul
liquid.
A
few minutes later, Daphne knocked and entered. "May I take the tray
away?" The maid tilted her head. Was that lipstick on the empty cup of
Turkish coffee? Her eyes moved from the cup, to her employer's mother, whose face
immediately turned bright red.
"Not
a word, Abigail. The papers would carry the news for weeks. My name would be
dragged through the mud."
"No,
Countess, that would never do." Smiling, Daphne, and the evidence, left
the room.
"I've said it before, and I'll say it
again, Flaubert. You'll be the death of me." Countess Wilhelmina rose to
her feet. "Come, let us go to the next room. There is a set of antique
pistols about which I would have your opinion." She marched to the door
and waited until the toast of Paris, opened it for her. They moved along the
plush carpet that covered the landing. Upon reaching the next room, Calvin did
the honors, and the Countess swept inside.
