Deirdre Love is Where You Find it by Liobhan Give all to love; obey thy heart.   ― Ralph Waldo Emerson

Deirdre MacLeod was seething when she finally found the address, afraid that she’d be late even though she’d allowed an extra half an hour. ‘What kind of a stupid city is this, anyway? Street signs plastered on houses and half-covered with cryptic codes, driving on the wrong goddamned side of the road, and streets that twist around like pretzels and change their stupid names every three blocks.’ She wished she’d taken a taxi, but she’d thought that this would be a valuable chance to explore the city, since she had to find a place to stay that wasn’t her hotel, and hadn’t had any time to spare for house-hunting, so she’d taken her rental car out for a spin.

Big mistake. She’d been irritated anyway, since she hadn’t been in her new office for a week before she found herself shanghaied into going to this stupid bridal shower for a woman she barely knew, despite having been introduced at a department meeting. At first, she’d been hesitant, but the woman who’d handed her the invitation had gushed on about how all the women would be there, so she’d decided to grit her teeth and buy a present, in the interest of fitting in if nothing else.

‘Thanks be to our Blessed Asphalta, there’s a place to park right in front of the door!’ She barely had time to make it inside and still be on time as it was, so having to find a parking spot would’ve just put the frosting on the cake.

When she finally had her things gathered together and climbed the short flight of steps leading up to the front porch, which prominently displayed a jet-black door flanked by massive white columns supporting a triangular faux roof on an imposing ædicule in high relief, she looked for the bell, but there was nothing she could find that looked even remotely like a doorbell, so she tried the door. It was unlocked. She opened it and went in to find herself in a modest lobby, almost walking by a desk with a very serious-looking gentleman seated behind it, obviously some sort of concierge or lobby attendant. He was quite handsome. She found it difficult to imagine how tall he must be, since even sitting down he was huge. He didn’t seem to be paying much attention, busy with a small laptop doing something or another — playing Grand Theft Auto, as far as she knew, except he wasn’t moving his hands fast enough — and he wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to her either, which irritated her all over again, since she’d taken particular care with her outfit, her very best rose taupe Cole Haan with Nike Air dress heels, a trés chic rabbit intarsia sweater dress by Sonia Rykiel that showed a lot of leg, with a loose William Sharp scarf that perfectly matched her shoes, to present a youthful, slightly eccentric Rive Gauche look, and her makeup was perfect. She knew that she looked fine. ‘Probably gay,’ she thought with a barely-suppressed sneer. ‘Too bad. He’s really good-looking, but aren’t they all.’ She cleared her throat.

The man looked up, half-smiled pleasantly enough, and said, “May I help you?”

She couldn’t place the accent. It seemed broader than those she’d heard, but there were so many. She had trouble understanding some of them sometimes, “You certainly can. I’m here for Stephanie Rosen’s shower. Could you please direct me to her apartment?” Hearing herself, she had a moment of regret, since she’d sounded harsher than she really felt, but bit back an urge to apologize, ‘I’m only asking him to do his job, for pity’s sakes!’

“Of course,“ he indicated the stairs to his right with a slight inclination of his head in their direction.” It’s just up the top of the stairs and to your left. Her flat number is seventeen and there’s a small bronze plaque to that effect on the door.” He smiled briefly, the slightest twitch of his lips, and returned to whatever he was working on without any further show of interest in whatever she did with this minute particle of information.

She had to cough again to regain his attention. When it was granted at last, she asked the obvious question, “Isn’t there an elevator?”

He looked up again, with a bland solicitude on his countenance that didn’t quite make its way to improving the frigid tone of his voice, “No. I am so terribly sorry, Miss, but this building was designed by the great architect and civil engineer, John Gwynn, who later went on to help found the Royal Academy. This structure, which was meant to be the London townhome of the then scandalous Contessa Olivia di Ortino, was constructed in 1749, during the reign of King George II, but the modern electric lift wasn’t invented until 1850, so there were, unfortunately, no ‘elevators’ available to builders in those benighted times. The management haven’t, for some inexplicable reason, seen fit to destroy the architectural integrity of this magnificent monument to neo-classical Georgian architecture by having one fitted.” He nodded, as if to imply that she had no further need to annoy him, and turned back to his computer.

Recognizing an implied critique when she heard one, Deirdre decided not to say anything. ‘He’s only one more stupid jerk in this stupid city,’ she thought to herself. “Thanks, anyway,” she said aloud, but not with very much grace, and clattered up the broad staircase.

The door of apartment seventeen wasn’t much to look at either, although it looked like it could be vastly improved with some sanding and couple of coats of new varnish, ‘Probably another damned relic untouched from before the damned Revolution,’ she thought and knocked on it. ‘There isn’t even a doorbell!’

A vaguely familiar woman, whose name she couldn’t remember yet, opened it and said, “Deirdre, please come through.” She was wearing a pair of fashionable short coveralls that seemed to suit her age, late twenties she thought, or maybe a little older, and the hall was surprisingly spacious and modern, not at all what she’d expected from the building entrance and the door.

She apologized profusely, embarrassed because she still couldn’t remember the woman’s name, “I’m so sorry if I’m late. I managed to get lost half a dozen times on the way over, and I’m not all that good with maps.”

“Perfectly all right, Deirdre. I’m Mique Bender.” She smiled and held out her hand.

She took it thankfully, nodding, “That’s right. You take care of the computers and stuff, right?” She really liked the sound of Mique’s voice; it reminded her of Lauren Bacall’s throaty purr. She remembered that she wore bib overalls all the time, or at least every time she’d seen her at work, usually in neat but serviceable blue denim that covered her legs down to her ankles, and she had the look down pat otherwise, “Are you a dyke?”

Mique smiled, somewhat bemused but not really taken aback, “I do, and I am, more or less.”

“I thought so.” She nodded, “Like, it’s totally cool. I grew up in the big city and have lots of dyke friends. I was even the maid of honor at my friend Judy’s commitment ceremony last year. She married a woman named Zoë, who’s this wheeler-dealer soft butch who’s always in a hurry but chronically late for some reason. She drives me crazy, but she’s great with Judy’s kids, which is totally rare. They planned it all out with sperm donors and everything, and then decided they ought to get married so they got a license down at City Hall and asked another friend to perform the ceremony and fill out the paperwork. It was so beautiful, out by the headlands with the waves crashing and the sun setting. It was such a hoot, too, and when the rangers busted us for drinking and ran us off the beach it was like, all part of the entertainment. I laughed so hard I thought I was gonna die. I apologize, though, for not remembering your name. It’s just that I’ve been introduced to so many people this past week my head is just spinning.”

Mique made a dismissive gesture with her hands and said, “It is daunting, isn’t it? And much easier for us, since there’s only one of you. But do come through and mingle, why don’t you. To forestall the inevitable inquiry, the cloakroom’s there to your left,” she gestured, “what you might call a half-bath, and Stephanie’s gifts are laid out in the dining room right through there. Most of the guests appear to be hanging on to their handbags. Can’t be too careful around one’s workmates you know. Shifty lot, most of them.” She grinned with infectious good humour.

Deirdre grinned back and confided, “I’ve been dreading this, you know. I’m not an accomplished traveler and everyone over here seems so stuffy and formal all the time. I thought I’d be stuck here talking about nothing in particular with a lot of people I didn’t know from Adam’s off aunt, but you seem more like the people back home.”

Mique raised one eyebrow, “I take it that the home office despatched you then, rather than you having leapt at the chance to visit the ancestral homelands?”

“You take it right, sister. I was happy as a clam where I was, and they just up and decided to send me off to one of the branches as punishment for my sins — which must be many and grievous — without so much as a by-your-leave. I had a rent-controlled apartment with a great view of the Bay, for pity’s sakes, and now I’m living in a hotel and starting over with little more than the clothes on my back. All my things are in storage; I had to leave my cat with my Mom, because it’s, like, almost a year lead time to go through the stupid quarantine requirements; and I was given four weeks to pack up and move out. I thought seriously about quitting.” She frowned with frustration and disappointment, fighting back tears without too much success, “And I’m still jet-lagged.”

Mique took her hand again in sympathy, “You’ve tried the special lights, then?”

She nodded despondently, “Yeah, the guy in Personnel gave me a handout and a list of recommended vendors over here. So far, all I’ve got to show for it is spots before my eyes after every session.”

Mique shook her head in sympathy, “I am sorry, but jet lag does tend to affect women more adversely that it does men; it mucks up œstrogen production or some such. If there’s any consolation in it, the move back will be easier, or so they say.”

Mique’s well-meaning observation did nothing to cheer her up, “Yeah, that’s on the handout too,” she said glumly, since she was stuck here until the moron in Personnel who’d exiled her here finally decided she could go home. She tried counting her blessings. AQI was a big company, and had offices all over, so the said idiot in Personnel could’ve sent her to the Hamburg office, where she didn’t even know the language. They’d done that to her friend Jennifer just last month, handing her one of those fat language courses on DVDs as she walked out the door. She could’ve been sitting in her hotel room reciting, ‘Guten Tag, Luisa. Wie geht es Ihnen? — Sehr gut, danke! Und Sie? — Nicht schlecht. Gehen Sie in die Stadt?’ like Jennifer had griped about the last time she’d called. She sighed heavily.

Mique came to some sort of decision, “Well, let’s just get you settled in the spare bedroom for a bit, why don’t we, and you can have a bit of a lie-down to rest your eyes, since you’re obviously fatigued. There’s an en-suite…, pardon, a ‘bathroom’ you can use to refresh yourself before you come out to face the music.” She began leading her toward yet another door.

Deirdre paid attention to the music for the first time as they drew closer to the living room, where most of the women were just standing around talking or sitting on the couches looking bored, but trying not to show it, The room itself was fantastic, modern and open, like something you’d see in a trendy SOMA loft space, but the music…, “It will take some facing, won’t it? It’s like something my grandparents would have on at a bridge party.” She grimaced.

Mique smiled again, “It’s what might be called ‘cool jazz,’ a musical style that many people admire quite a bit, and many of the artists on that particular album are truly gifted, masters of their instruments, but it’s a refined and sophisticated style of music for which long familiarity and education are often necessary to develop a taste, much less a passion. It’s far too cerebral for most young people today, although at one time it was considered rebellious and avant-garde.” She opened the door.

Deirdre balked a little, tempted but worried about ticking her new bosses off, “Shouldn’t I say hello to the bride first?” She didn’t really want Mique to say yes, so she wasn’t disappointed when she didn’t.

“Stephanie hasn’t arrived yet. Barb and Dorcas have everything planned so that everyone can greet her as she enters and the shower proper can begin. Don’t worry about your gift, I’ll see it’s placed with the others. You’ll have plenty of time to rest and then gather yourself together. I’ll come back and fetch you well before Stephanie arrives….”

Deirdre rifled through her tote bag, “I have a nice bottle of wine too, as a hostess gift for Barb. It’s really nice, a Williams Selyem Pinot Noir from the 1988 pressing. I suspect you don’t see much of it over here. It’s one of those small boutique wineries you have to subscribe to, and get on a waiting list hoping somebody dies or joins AA and their space frees up. I have my Dad’s spot by courtesy, since one of the owners was a good friend of my dad’s, and I still hold most of his wine, since my Mom doesn’t drink that much wine, and I have to keep up the standing order or it’s given to someone lower on the list. So most of it’s sitting in a wine storage place with private lockers that he used for his ‘cellar.’ ”

Mique took it gracefully and whisked it onto the hall table they were near, somehow arranging it to look inevitable, like Candice ‘Ice’ Wiggins dropping the ball into the hoop half a second before the buzzer, “We’ll just put that on the sideboard here in the hall. You call them foyers, don’t you?”

She shook her head, “Not where I come from. We call them halls, or sometimes ‘entries’ if you’re a real estate agent and want to impress the hicks.” She stopped for an instant, then added, “Or if you’re a hick, of course.”

Mique nodded, then paused, considering before she asked, “Your father’s passed on, then?”

Deirdre shrugged, “Yeah. Heart attack. He was one of those Type A personalities and smoked, so all the resveratrol stuff in the expensive wine he drank didn’t do him any good. He’s been dead more than five years now, so I don’t miss him like I used to, but I still feel like shaking him sometimes. What in God’s name was he thinking? He was so smart and so stupid, all at once.”

“The human condition, I’m afraid. We all of us are sometimes trapped in situations or behaviours in which we feel that we have no choice, and some of these are quite harmful. He must have been a nice man, though, for you to harbour your own regrets for so long, and your mother must have been terribly hurt.”

Tears sprang to her eyes in earnest now and she pushed past Mique into the bedroom, “She was devastated. She walked around like a zombie for almost a year. Are you happy now?” She stumbled into the bed and sat on it, covering her face with her hands and beginning to sob. “Dammit to Hell!”

Mique sat down on the bed next to her and said, “You miss him, don’t you?”

Deirdre turned on her in sudden fury, “Get away from me! You have no right!” She stood up and glared at Mique.

She was flustered, surprised, “I was just….”

Her eyes narrowed, “Shut up! Just who do you think you are, anyway? I’m a little fragile right now…. So what? I just flew halfway around the goddamn world. I haven’t slept two hours straight in six days. But that doesn’t give you a right to pry. How’s your father? Doing ok?” She stared at her until Mique turned away. “Well?” she said to Mique’s stony glare at nothing in particular.

Mique said, in a quieter voice, “I don’t know where he is.” She pursed her lips and stared off at the floor in the corner of the room.

Deirdre looked at her closely, kept digging, “What’s the matter with him? Did he run off with his secretary? Get caught in the showers with his fitness trainer? Embezzle the pension fund and get slapped in jail?”

She didn’t answer, but looked back up with an empty, angry scowl, her face twisted in sullen resentment.

Deirdre evaluated her defiant glare with shrewd calculation, eyebrows squinched together, “That’s not it, is it? It was something with your family…, your mother…? You! He was messing with you, wasn’t he?”

Mique stared at her in outraged horror, “What are you, some sort of witch? How do you know that?”

She shrugged, “I pay attention, that’s all. What’s the matter with you people? Doesn’t anyone ever really look at anyone else? I’ve never met so many people so reluctant to take an interest in other people’s problems or reveal their own. If we’re going to be friends, you’re going to have to stop being so touchy and learn to share things.”

Mique couldn’t speak for a long moment, just staring at her, then said with some bitterness, “Bugger me. What were you on about, then? You almost bit my head off just now.”

She waved off her complaint dismissively, “You wanted way too much with no reciprocity, Mique. You’re not my mother and don’t get to treat me like a child, or like your pet project. Now we know we have something in common. You should have said so. I lost my father through catastrophic collapse and sudden death; you lost yours through his grotesque abdication of his duty toward you and toward his family. Of the two, I suspect my loss was easier, though still very hard, and I do sympathize. At least we were all sorry to see my father go, and we still have our fond memories of him, and of our own happy times with him, but your father undoubtedly poisoned most, if not all of your memories of him, so you don’t have anything left except maybe your mom, and I suspect even that relationship is a little strained, if it still exists. But you should have told me that right away instead of just yammering away like a damned therapist.”

Mique was bewildered, “But what did you mean, you ‘pay attention’? Nobody knows about my father. And why should I tell you anything? We barely know each other?”

She looked at her sceptically, with a sort of pity, “You’re such a ‘boi.’ You can delude yourself that nobody knows anything about that stuff if you want, but there’s plenty of people around who must know, or would if they let themselves look. You have that haunted air of vulnerability and pain hovering around you like Victorian consumption. And we crossed the line between polite disinterest and intimacy when you started to pry. We don’t do that sort of thing without sharing, you know. You can’t be that much of a butch.”

Mique swore in frustration, “Bloody Hell!”

Deirdre sat next to her again, saying kindly, “Get over yourself, Mique. You’re not thick-headed enough to be a man, so let go of the fantasy. You’re a really cute soft butch, but we both know what you’ve got in your panties.”

Mique jerked away, “How do you know what I want? What gives you the right to judge me?” She was furious.

Deirdre half-smiled, “Oh, please. If you really wanted a dick, you wouldn’t be wearing those cute shortalls, and I’ll bet you a week’s pay that your panties have lace on them and you’re wearing the matching brassiere, purchased as a set from a store that sells nothing but dainty lingerie.”

Mique’s eyes widened, then she blushed, but didn’t say a word.

Deirdre cocked her head at Mique and raised her eyebrows with a cynical glance askance, “See? If you want to try passing as a stone butch, you’re going to have to stomp around more and eliminate push-up bras and French-cut thongs from your fashion vocabulary.” She then had the effrontery to smirk.

Mique grinned at her sheepishly, then admitted, “Well, perhaps not. I did try on some y-fronts once, but they looked silly and felt very odd indeed. I do like to appear androgynous, especially with blokes around, and I dislike feeling vulnerable and exposed, but I’m not willing to go quite that far.”

Now Deirdre’s smile broadened, and she put her left arm around Mique’s shoulder, “Well, Mique, dear heart, I think we’re going to be good friends after all, and being vulnerable in the proper context is actually a great source of strength because, once you really cop to it, you’re set free to recognize the same vulnerability in others and can share your outrage and hurt and all your inner resources with your sisters. You know what they always say, divided we fall, united we stand.” She held out her right hand until Mique took it and then gripped it firmly, staring at her face as if memorizing it, until she said, “So, now that we’ve gotten that behind us, let’s be best friends forever so we can both cheer up. I feel better about this crazy city already.”

Mique looked like she’d just been through an earthquake, “You didn’t look all that pleased when you walked in.”

Deirdre laughed, “It’s beginning to grow on me, now that I have a friend here.”

Mique was obviously still trying to puzzle out exactly what had just happened, and what Deirdre’s stake in all this was, “Deirdre, pardon me for asking, but are you a lesbian, too?”

She leaned back and laughed again, as if Mique had just told a particularly funny joke, “Me? Oh, God no. I haven’t got the energy.”

A new wave of bewilderment flushed over her face, “I beg your pardon?”

“Look, Mique,” she said patiently, “I’ve hung around with lots of dykes in all flavors, and lots of straight and bisexual women too, and women…, well, most women, need somewhere around thirty-three things to be exactly right to be really happy in an intimate relationship, and at least half of those things we won’t talk about so you have to guess. Men, on the other hand, have a handful of basic needs, well, maybe six, and once you meet those they’re as happy as a flea on a shaggy dog and will — most of them — be loyal, steadfast, and true as long as things stay pretty much the same. Men are easy. Women are hard, at least an order of magnitude harder than men, and I’m lazy. I don’t want to spend half my time processing some damned relationship glitch every couple of hours when I want to have fun, especially fun in the sack, so I pretty much stick with men, not that I’m rigid about it or anything. This is the twenty-first century, you know. With women, it can be really special, if everything goes right, but for me it’s just too damned much work.”

Mique blinked her eyes owlishly, “Well, that’s the first time I’ve heard a utilitarian argument for heterosexuality. Usually people start talking about the Divine Plan.” She was very comfortable when talking about things and ideas, and seized upon this bit of distraction.

Deirdre was not distracted. She smiled and said, “Well, Mique dear, my own divine plan for me is to stop talking and take a little nap, which we’d started out working towards through your thoughtful suggestion.” She released Mique’s shoulder and leaned back against the pillows with an air of swooning beauty taken straight from Gone with the Wind, the back of one slim wrist placed delicately against her forehead, her fingers curved so perfectly she might have practised.

Mique was a bit flustered. She rose clumsily from the bed and said, “Right. Exactly. Gone astray. Here, you lie there and rest. I’ll switch off the light for you.”

Deirdre couldn’t resist teasing her, just a tiny bit, “What? No good night kiss?” She offered a little pout of disappointment with her eyes still shut lightly.

Mique rolled her eyes, which Deirdre didn’t see because her eyes were closed, “All right, then, here you go.” Mique leaned back down, kissed both eyes, and then her forehead, then rose as carefully as any new mother and tiptoed toward the door, switching off the lights.

Deirdre could feel the lingering aftertouch of Mique’s lips as darkness suddenly appeared through her closed eyelids, then the cool sensation as the faint moistness left behind by Mique’s three careful kisses evaporated, and then….

—««-»»—

She woke in partial darkness, a woman’s low voice close above her, softly calling her name in a tone as languid and sweet as cathedral incense…. She turned her head, seeing her dark silhouette against the dim light of an open door….

“Deirdre? Deirdre? Time for wakies now.”

‘Mique….’ It was Mique and memory flooded in, “Mique! Have I missed Stephanie?” She started to jerk herself awake but was restrained by a gentle touch on her shoulder.

“Not at all,” she said soothingly, in that crooning tone women sometimes use with lovers and very dear friends. “You should have fifteen or twenty minutes to freshen up before she arrives, but you’ve had almost half an hour to nap. I do hope you’re feeling better now.”

Deirdre checked her interior condition and said, amazed, “I am. I don’t feel exhausted like I was before, almost human, in fact….” She saw the faint gleam of Mique’s smile against the shadows of her face and was warmed by it.

Mique’s smile broadened to a grin, “I’m awfully pleased, then. With only two more miraculous cures, I’ll be eligible for beatitude and reserved seating in Heaven.”

Now Mique’s grin softened, the crinkles at the corners of her eyes betraying real affection, and Deirdre was warmed again, ‘She was awfully cute, but high maintenance with all that pain bottled up inside,’ she thought regretfully. ‘Better as a friend than a lover….’ She spoke aloud, “You have my vote, for whatever that’s worth. Do I really have time to put myself back together?”

“You do, although it will do irreparable harm to my reputation.” She cast her eyes toward the heavens and let out a heavy sigh.

Deirdre laughed softly, not sure where this was going, “What? To come out from the bedroom you’ve been popping in and out of with a woman close behind?”

Mique grinned again, to let her know that she’d been joking, and said, “No, not at all, to come out with our hair untousled, our clothing not awry.” She winked outrageously.

Deirdre blushed, then smiled, “Mique! You rake! If I’d been wearing a bodice, I’d let you rip it for sure, but that might put the jinx on what fate has in store for you tonight.”

Mique’s eyebrows shot up, “What? You’re a witch after all?”

Deirdre smiled and started gathering herself to rise, “Not at all. Just observant, as you know, and my head seems strangely clearer now. There’s someone here, I think, who you need to meet less formally and more honestly, and who knows what might come of that?” She stood up and moved toward the light, which seemed to be coming from an open bathroom door.

“It sounds like witchcraft to me,” Mique muttered, following her to the door. “There’s fresh towels in the cupboard there,” she said, gesturing, “so you don’t have to touch the fancy guest towels laid out so prettily, and you look fabulous already, so you can only improve slightly on perfection.”

“Piling Ossa upon Pelion, eh?” To Mique’s look of surprise she said, “What? We can’t have the benefit of a classical education out in the colonies?”

“Not at all, I just….”

“Piffle. ‘Ter sunt conati imponere Pelio Ossam scilicet atque Ossae frondosum inuoluere Olympum.’ It’s Virgil’s elegant crib from Homer, and vastly improved on the original.” She opened her purse and started laying out her tools, “You all think that I’m a brash and uncultured bumpkin from beyond the borders of the civilized world, but it’s only partially true; I am brash, but hardly uncivilized. I went to a Catholic girl’s school, honored in both Latin and Greek, then went on to get my engineering degree at Carnegie-Mellon and took my doctorate and post-doc work at Stanford. I may be a bumpkin, but I’m a highly-educated bumpkin. I’m fluent in Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Russian, French, and Spanish, read Virgil, Homer, Tolstoy, Rousseau, and Cervantes in the originals, and have a Phi Beta Kappa key rattling around in a jewelry box somewhere, although I’m given to understand that my accent in Latin is terrible, but who knows what the Romans talked like anyway? I’m unlikely to rise high in the councils of the Church, in any case, so I can’t imagine it ever being important, unless I someday chance to wander into the men’s room at the Vatican by mistake. I have to say, though, not wanting to tell tales out of school, that the current Pope’s accent in Latin is even worse than mine.” While she’d been speaking, she’d deftly applied powder, new eyeshadow and mascara, and was just now putting the finishing touches on her hair, dark and upswept from her face, trailing into twisting tendrils at the side and back, perfectly complementing the sleeveless, backless red cocktail dress she’d chosen from her meager store. She smiled, satisfied again. “How do I look?”

“Like a Goddess,” Mique breathed.

“Good. Just right, then,” she smiled at her reflection. “Let’s go out and meet the local honchos.” Seeing Mique’s stare of bafflement she added, “Grandees, big shots, VIPs, the guys who sit in big corner offices with matching mahogany desks and credenzas, Management.”

“Oh, right then. I’ll introduce you to Barb and Dorcas first, then, as they’re hosting the party. This is Barb’s flat, in fact.”

“So they’re not together?”

Mique was baffled again, “Together? Not at all. Why should they be? Barb takes home enough to pay for these posh digs twice over.”

Deirdre nodded and smiled enigmatically, “No particular reason. Never mind, everything will become clear in time.”

As they made their way through the crowd of women, a dozen or more conversations drifted in and out of clarity like stations being skipped through on a radio, “…and then he said…” “…you like it? It was less than a tenner at…” “…suppose Stephanie will arr…” “…are they on about? The adv…” Deirdre didn’t know who most of these women were, so they might as well have been speaking in Urdu as far as context or referent went. She assumed that most of the conversations were about work, since that was the one thing they all had in common, but they could just as easily be talking about the latest TV drama, or the trout fishing in New Zealand. Eventually, they reached the kitchen and went inside, where Barb, one of the few women she recognized from the office, and other woman she vaguely thought must be Dorcas were bustling about when Mique spoke up.

“Deirdre, I’d like you to meet your hard-working hostesses, Barb and Dorcas,” she indicated which was which with a wave of her hand. “Barb, I’ve let Deirdre use your spare bedroom for a moment as she was feeling a bit under the weather, what with jet lag and general exhaustion. I thought you wouldn’t mind and I didn’t want to burden you with yet another detail to sort.”

Barb was instantly all solicitude and soothing words, “Oh, Deirdre, are you feeling quite well now? Mique, you were perfectly correct to let her rest but, Deirdre, I do worry you’ve taken on too much, using your weekend rest to attend a silly party.” Her eyes kept darting back to the cooker, checking on her preparations, but she seemed genuinely concerned.

Deirdre quickly reassured her, “I feel fine now, Barb. Mique was wonderful when she saw how tired I was, and being in a real home was just what I needed to relax and unwind. The hotel room is luxurious and elegant, but it’s so very impersonal. Knowing there were people around who knew me helped too.” She saw at once that the two women had been making final preparations and said, “Please let me help with the dishes and things. Everything smells so delicious.”

Barb glanced up at the large clock on the kitchen wall, “Well, it is almost time for Stephanie to arrive, and she’s quite punctual as a rule. I’ve been holding back lest the locusts descend and devour the lot before Stephanie steps through the door.”

Mique said, “Let’s all help with carrying this lot through then, and I’ll stand by to harry the scavengers until Stephanie arrives.”

Barb seemed distracted, looking around the kitchen to make sure that everything was ready, “Would you, dear? That would be a great help. Why don’t both of you take something through and then stand by, just until Stephanie arrives. After that you can let the mob have their way with the victuals. Deirdre, there’s a large platter of salad and a moulded jelly still in the fridge, and Dorcas is just about to take the casseroles out of the oven, so why don’t you and Mique take those in and we’ll sort the rest. There’s nothing really elaborate, so just set the hot dishes out on trivets and place a spoon or two nearby and your serving chores are done. If they want to eat, they can shift themselves.”

Deirdre found herself with the platter and what looked like a Jello salad of some sort, balancing the first on her arm and the other in her hand, and led the way into the dining room, “Right on, Mique,” she called over her shoulder. “I never got to do any waitress gigs as a starving student, since I wasn’t starving, but this is fun.”

Mique grinned and asked, “So you’re planning to chuck the fancy office and take up a barmaid’s position at the local?”

“Nah. I’d have to work for a living, then. What I do now is too much like fun.” She placed her load at one end of the dining table, near the plates, silverware, and napkins already laid out, on the theory that people usually started with salads and then went on from there.

Quickly, Mique set down her own burdens on the trivets already in place and said, “So where’s this woman you said I should meet?” She looked out into the living room, where most of the guests were milling around, although there was one woman looking at the pictures on the walls of the dining room, all of them large landscape photographs in black and white, mountain scenes from places she didn’t recognise, sere and serene, high above the line of vegetation, ice or snow starkly brilliant at the peaks. In one, Mique could just make out what seemed to be the sea, visible through a narrow gap between enclosing cliffs. They seemed awfully impersonal to her, with no people visible anywhere, or life of any sort, although there was evidently a photographer behind the lens, since they were perfectly composed.

“You’ve met her. These are her pictures.” She waved her hands to indicate the framed photos on the walls around them.

Mique looked at the pictures more closely, “What? Barb did all these?”

“She did, or at least that’s her signature on the bottom there, and they’re all pretty clearly the work of one artist.” She pointed out the nearest, a dry valley in the shadow of an enormous massif, its peak shrouded in the alpine clouds called ‘angels,’ a long slope of scree extending toward the camera, in perfect focus from the high sheer face of the mountain to the jumbled rocks and pebbles in the foreground.

Mique was puzzled, “But I see her nearly every weekday. What do you mean, ‘meet her?’ ”

Deirdre smiled like La Gioconda, mysterious and remote, “You may have seen her, but you haven’t met her, nor paid much attention, it seems. Look at her art….”

Mique stared at the closest picture, the valley, and then the others, but didn’t know what she was looking at. She swore, “Bloody Hell. What am I meant to see when there’s nothing there?”

“That’s the point, dear Mique. You’re a musician, aren’t you?”

She stared at her, uncomprehending, “More witchcraft? How do you know that?”

“It’s not witchcraft, as you call it. I’ve felt your hands, and the calluses on the fingers of your left hand from long practice at fretwork are perfectly obvious, as is the flexibility, strength, and peculiar formation of both your hands, the hands of a pianist, Mique. You play guitar, or perhaps the lute, and the piano, or some other keyboard instrument, and do it with dedicated enthusiasm.”

Understanding dawned, “Oh, well then….” She looked at her own hands and shrugged.

Deirdre arched an eyebrow and pursed her lips slightly, “Everything’s simple once it’s been explained, so don’t feel smug yet. Try setting those pictures to music, Mique. A man named Richard Eder once said, ‘Art grows from what you can’t recover from,’ and I strongly suspect he was right. Now look at Barb’s pictures through the lens of your own art.”

Mique looked again and, as she imagined chords beneath her fingers, heard the progression, she began to see, “She’s playing the lowdown, heartsick, blues without a sound, with nothing but light and shadow.” She could see the melancholy now, the aching loneliness and grief, and hear it in her own imagined accompaniment. She began to weep, slow tears trickling down her face and she couldn’t move, just staring at the train wreck of a hidden life before her. Her lip quivered and she felt arms around her, holding her safe against everything.

“You see,” Deirdre whispered, her breath warm in her ear, “everything’s right out in the open if we only pay attention.”

Mique turned her head to look at Deirdre, as vulnerable and trusting as a child.

Deirdre smiled at her, “Now be filled with care and love, my very dear friend, because your destiny is at hand.” With that, she unwound her arms from around her body, held her face for an instant, cradled in both hands, and kissed her full on the lips, much more a blessing than an invitation. She then turned and left the room, strolling out toward where the women were talking.

Mique started after her, but then remembered she was supposed to look out for early poachers at the table, although there were bowls of nutmeats, trays of canapés, punch, and other delectables scattered around the lounge and on the sideboard in the dining room. Hurriedly, she grabbed a serviette to blot at her eyes, surprised when what looked like a twenty pee coin flew out, hit the table with a ringing bounce, and then flipped onto the floor and rolled away somewhere. “Bugger!” she cursed under her breath, setting down the cloth so she could kneel down and look for the coin, since it must probably have been part of the games for the party proper. Of course, she had her arse up and her head down under the table, searching for the damned thing when Barb and Dorcas came through from the kitchen, various dishes in hand, and walked up behind her, setting them down on the table. Startled, she raised her head, bashed it right proper on the underpinnings of the table, and swore again, “Cobblers!”

Barb said, with more then a hint of laughter in her voice, “Lost yours, then?”

“Barb!” She squirmed out from under the table and tried to rise gracefully, failing miserably in her haste to save her lapsed dignity, collapsed on her bum and fell about laughing at the situation, herself, and her impeccable timing, “I’m sorry, I’ve gone and spoilt something for the party, I think. I was just about to sample a few of the tapas and some punch to fortify myself for guard duty, picked up a serviette, promptly flung what looked like twenty pee halfway across the room and it’s just now gone lost.”

Barb laughed, “Never mind, Mique. You’ve just taken the lovely floral centrepiece on the sideboard behind you. Not to worry.” She turned back toward the kitchen and went through.

Mique was bewildered, she looked to Dorcas, “Taken?”

Dorcas, still adjusting placements of dishes on the table, explained, “It’s part of the games, Mique. Barb and I put coins in each napkin, with prizes allocated by value, and you’re the lucky winner of a second prize. We evidently failed to account for the fact that people tend not to expect coins to be folded into their napkins and might wave them about, as people do. You can hardly be blamed for our oversight.”

Mique looked over at the flowers with some doubt, “Shouldn’t I put it back? It hardly seems fair play if the game hadn’t yet started.” She thought, ‘Where on earth would I put it? It’s huge!’

“Not at all. We just hadn’t explained the rules, but the game started when we placed the napkins on the table. In a way, you’ve had the fairest go at it of all. Not knowing the rules, you were at the mercy of pure chance, just like life in general. Things just happen.” She looked around the room and said, “Here it is.” She walked to the sideboard and knelt down to pick the coin up from where it lay, walked back and handed it to Mique, then turned and followed Barb through into the kitchen.

Mique remained behind, looked at the coin, then the flowers, grimaced, and tucked the coin into a pocket. Then she looked at the photos again, walked up to them and studied them, humming under her breath, barely audible, as she moved along the walls.

—««-»»—

Deirdre walked out into the living room, not realizing until she was halfway through how large it was. There was a long row of floor to ceiling windows along the farthest wall that looked out and down into an enclosed park with lawns, two formal gardens, one of which had a large sculpture of a standing woman in what looked like Victorian dress at one end, and scattered trees. It seemed as if the row houses around it had grown up and left a little bit of countryside behind. Along a side wall hung more of what had to be Barb’s photography, mountain bulwarks arrayed against whatever threat lay behind, the stark antithesis in raw nature of the beautiful welcoming meadow outside, hemmed in by protective walls.

The room itself was austere, with no clutter that hadn’t been designed in other than the flowers, tall book cases against the kitchen wall, what looked like black-stained mahogany Danish Modern furniture with minimal padding, end tables along the walls between the couches and chairs, a few coffee tables in front of couches, but everything otherwise against the wall, leaving an open void in the center relieved by a single large Persian rug. The picture frames, all identical, were thin rails of black anodized aluminum, not intruding on the photographs at all, just barely sufficient to distinguish them from the wall.

From behind her, a woman’s voice said, “Deirdre, how nice to see you here, and looking so smart.”

Deirdre turned. The voice belonged to the woman who’d invited her, Melanie something, or maybe… Joan? She was nicely dressed, in a black silk pantsuit and low pumps, but not extravagantly so, which made Deirdre feel more comfortable with her outfit, “Oh, hi, Melanie. It is Melanie, isn’t it?”

Her face must have displayed her uncertainty, because the woman’s next words were sympathetic, “Oh, you poor dear! Lost in a sea of strangers…. Have you had any luck at all in making friends?”

Relieved to have at least gotten her name right, she said, “Some. My brain hasn’t been firing on all cylinders this week, but I seem to have been mysteriously cured of the jet lag that was fogging my thoughts, but am still a bit fearful of it. Hopefully this little get-together will help with who’s who, and Mique has been a huge help with my exhaustion. She made me lie down and take a nap before I collapsed.”

Melanie smiled, “She is our treasure. We make offerings each day to ensure that our servers remain un-hacked and our network connections free of errors, and it has worked thus far, so we’re all devotees of the cult of Mique.”

“That too,” she smiled. “Is it true that all the women in the office are here? There seem to be a lot more than I’ve seen so far.”

“Oh, this isn’t just our lot, but quite a few women from the regional offices on the continent as well; women who’ve met Stephanie and liked her. She’s nearly as popular as Mique, although she doesn’t have quite so many worshippers.”

Deirdre smiled, “Mique does have an air about her, just the sort of woman you want to have around when things start falling apart. I’ve met Barb and Dorcas as well, so I’m off to a good start.”

“And you’ve just entered the mother lode. I know everyone, and can put you into context quite quickly, I believe. I don’t know why they persist in those silly department meetings to introduce new people; they’re almost worthless. Follow me and I’ll introduce you to Gretchen. She’s your counterpart in the Berlin office and I understand you have a friend there already, Jennifer, just over from the home office.”

Deirdre looked around hopefully, “Is Jennifer here?”

She shook her head, “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t think to ask her, although I do realise now it would have been a treat for both of you, even though she’s never met Stephanie. Oh well. It can’t be helped at this late hour and she’s not so far away. You can take the Eurostar to Brussels and then the Nachtzug to Berlin and be there overnight, but do remember to organise a private sleeping car and bring earplugs or you’ll never get a wink of sleep. It makes a nice weekend jaunt but I’m sure we’ll send you over there on business sometime soonish, so you can catch up then if you can wait for a bit.”

Deirdre hadn’t ever taken a train anywhere, unless she counted BART, so was curious about this, “Wouldn’t it be faster to fly?”

“Not that much. Maybe ten hours instead of twelve, once you’ve gone through the lines and security and then customs, but the train is much more comfortable and reliable. With airplanes, you never know.”

“Amazing. I didn’t really know that the place was so big. I know I must seem ignorant and unsophisticated but you’re all so far away from my part of the world that it all seems so….”

Melanie patted her arm, “Not to worry. We have loads of people over here who think you lot still wear six-guns and ten-gallon hats on a daily basis and probably live in fear of wild Indians and cattle rustlers. Now let’s go find Gretchen.” She led her over toward a group of standing women.

—««-»»—

After a headspinning tour through the shallow hierarchy and extensive network of more-or-less peers in this branch of AQI, she felt like she had more of a handle on names, most of the women at least, since Melanie had stories about all of them to put them into context before they walked up for the actual introductions, and the opportunity to actually talk with the women started to bring everything into focus. At some point, Stephanie had walked through the door and everyone had started clapping, so she went with the flow. She stayed on the sidelines for most of the first game, among the last up to the table, by which time it was evident that there were coins in all the napkins and flowers were the prizes, so she was relieved to see that her own held only a penny, which meant she had only a small arrangement of flowers to deal with. She’d never been married, so she had a good excuse for staying out of the second game as well, so she wasn’t paying much attention until Stephanie interrupted Sarah Greene’s anecdote about her mother and a strange silence fell upon the previously rowdy crowd….

“Ladies, I’d like to thank you all for coming here to wish me well, and especially you, Sarah, for passing on your mother’s good advice which, unlike your younger self, I intend to take, having decided to ‘dump the schmuck’ before it all gets messy, but do let’s continue with a party for just us with dear Richard left languishing in the dustbin of history. Your good wishes, your friendship, have left me happier than I can say.”

‘Wow!’ Deirdre thought to herself, ‘That was ballsy.’ She hadn’t been to all that many bridal showers, but this was the first one she’d ever even heard of where the bride-to-be broke up with the prospective groom in front of all her well-wishers and he wasn’t even there, but would be, as they say, the last to know. ‘That’s cold,’ she thought, but she couldn’t help but smile. Then she noticed Mique making her way toward Barb’s fancy home theater system and smiled again. ‘Way to go, Mique. Now you’re in the groove.’ She couldn’t hear much of what Barb was saying over the buzz of speculation, or Stephanie’s reply, but she sure heard the initial guitar chords of Alanis Morissette’s ‘Not the Doctor’ and the first sounds of her unmistakable voice. ‘Perfect,’ she thought. She managed to catch Mique’s eye and gave her a thumbs up and a smile.

Then Sarah shrilled a bellydancer’s ululating cry of praise and the party took on another life, as if everyone had been set free by some combination of Stephanie’s words, Mique’s music, and Sarah’s call to dance.

Mique’s second selection, Sinéad O’Connor’s ‘No Man’s Woman’ was inspired, and Deirdre could see that it caught up with Barb after the first few stanzas. Mique was at her side within a few seconds, then the swirl of dancing women around them hid them for a moment, and then they’d disappeared, so Deirdre walked over to the woman who’d won the centerpiece and asked her to dance. She turned out to be quite nice, and a shrewd observer of the local housing situation, so Deirdre finally sat down with a head full of ideas about the best places to look and how much they were likely to cost. There were pads of paper and little cribbage pencils lying around on the end and coffee tables, so she began writing down some of the tips she’d been handed before they faded into background noise.

She was running out of memory when she laid down the little pencil, but had managed a précis of Melanie’s advice plus some thoughts of her own. She liked the idea of a little park nearby, although this particular example was probably way out of her price range, but something a little less spectacular might help make up for the lack of a saltwater view. She heard the music change to a different beat and perked up at the sound of Katy Perry, whose raunchy lyrics she was already familiar with. She looked off to where Mique was sitting by the home theater system, and saw that Barb was with her, not talking, evidently fascinated by the movements of her hands. She felt a stab of jealousy, forgetting for a moment that she’d done her best to set this up, and then pleasure, since even at this distance she could see Barb’s whole body relaxing, at ease in a way she hadn’t yet seen.

Barb said something, Mique looked up at her with a face filled with tenderness and love, then answered, prompting a brief exchange, and then she played “Sweet Leanne,” and they fell into each other’s arms.

—««-»»—

An hour later Deirdre was standing in a relatively quiet corner at the far end of the living room, away from most of the women who seemed more inclined to party hearty and loudly, talking to Dorcas, who it turned out was the head of the Research department and had quite a few ideas about what Deirdre was likely to be looking into, since she’d been asked to put together a packet of information for her on prospective opportunities and clients. She was starting to get excited, because it sounded like she’d have a lot more responsibility here than had been likely in the home office when she heard a voice behind her and turned. It was Barb. She was smiling. That was good.

She reached out and took her right hand in both of hers, saying, “Hullo, Deirdre, I understand you had a little trouble finding my flat. I know it can be confusing around the park.”

Deirdre rolled her eyes upward and sighed in wry agreement, then smiled, “It was all quite daunting at first. I couldn’t find the street, got lost in the big park, couldn’t find the number, and then the guy in the lobby treated me like I was a bum off the street. It was a relief to finally arrive at your door.”

Barb seemed surprised, “Gordon? He’s usually such a pleasant fellow, really. I can hardly imagine him being rude.”

‘Oh, crap! I’ve almost put my foot in it again, haven’t I? She knows him.’ She hastened to smooth over her rash comment, “Well…, he wasn’t exactly rude, but he seemed far more interested in whatever he was doing on his computer than he was in explaining how to find your apartment.”

“Oh? Is that all, then? I suppose he may have been particularly busy today, as his oral examination is coming up Wednesday next and he’s defending his doctoral thesis on the deep œcology of energy production. He may have been somewhat preoccupied, but that’s perfectly understandable, considering his situation.”

“You have a doctoral candidate working as a concierge in the lobby?” Deirdre was astonished.

Barb looked puzzled, “Yes, of course. Why ever not? We make a point of hiring graduate students, as the position offers ample time for study and they tend to be more responsible than many. A sinecure offering a decent wage for little actual work is a treasured commodity locally, and the students themselves usually find their own replacements, passing down the position to trusted friends like a family heirloom and often filling in for each other when circumstances dictate. It works out nicely for us, as we don’t have to put out hiring notices, nor go through more than a cursory interview with replacements, since none of our students wish to spoil a good thing.”

Deirdre was abashed, “I’m so sorry. I probably brought out the worst in him then, what with my overall irritation over being lost and late, and then my demand for an elevator to go up one flight of stairs probably sounded petulant. I feel just awful.”

Barb smiled, “Your accent probably didn’t help very much, either. Gordon tends to think that anyone whose family arrived after the Roman occupation is an upstart interloper. Not to worry. It might help to introduce yourself formally, laying some stress on both your Christian and family names. As a small part of the great Scots Diaspora, your woeful plight might move him to sympathise.”

Dierdre nodded, “Well, I’ll have to apologize on the way out anyway. I must have seemed like an absolute pill.”

She made an expression of amused indulgence, “Oh? He’ll like that. The apology, I mean. Wee Gordie’s an eye for the ladies.”

Now she really felt bad. She’d stupidly assumed that he must be gay because he didn’t seem to find her attractive, but it might just be that he didn’t like jerks. “Dang! I’ve really put my foot in it, then.”

Barb nodded knowingly, “Oh, I doubt he’ll hold it against you, Deirdre. Gordon is, as I said before, ordinarily a very pleasant man. Everyone has bad days from time to time, and it sounds like he may not have been at his best either.”

Deirdre was glum, “No. Looking back, he was much nicer than I was. More than I deserved….”

Barb brusquely interrupted her incipient pity party, “Nonsense! A young woman as pretty and clever as you are,” she gave her a significant look, “and you are clever, aren’t you, dear? …could have dropped an anvil on his foot and he’d be all smiles if you apologised nicely, probably claim it was his fault entirely for leaving his foot stuck right in the way, and he should have volunteered to carry it for you in any case. He’s trés gallant, is young Gordie Sinclair.”

Suddenly, Deirdre felt like she was playing out of her league. She looked at Barb with a twinge of guilt for what she’d set in motion, since it obviously hadn’t passed unoticed. She hesitated for a second before replying, “Uh…, Barb….”

Barb gave her an appraising look and smiled, “Don’t worry about it, dear. You did well. I’m impressed. I wanted your considerable skills in many fields, and have just seen how shrewd your judgement can be on very short acquaintance. Now do you trust mine?” She raised one eyebrow.

She didn’t know what to say. “Well, uh…, maybe….”

Barb came straight to the heart of the matter, “Deirdre, not to put too fine a point on it, I want you to be happy here. I’ve seen how challenging this relocation has been for you, and I think you’ll like Gordon. I investigated his background when he first came to work here on the recommendation of several friends, and have talked to him at some length over the past year, since his field may prove to be of considerable interest to the firm. I think he’s a fine young man of good habits and believe he’ll fancy you quite desperately if you give him half a chance, but he’s a bit shy. Unlike many blokes, he appreciates clever girls, and is quite brilliant himself, but he may take a little special handling to get him started properly.”

She stared at this woman, now looking more and more like her real boss, as opposed to the man back in the main office she was supposed to report to, “So you’re, like, setting me up with a blind date?” She grinned awkwardly, with a strange combination of embarrassment and admiration.

Barb grinned back, but with genuine amusement, “Not exactly; more of a recommendation from a friend. You’ll have to handle the details on your own, if you’re interested. In fact, he’ll be leaving for the day quite soon, and you should probably leave too. I know you’d said that you felt better, but no sense risking a relapse by staying out until all hours.” She followed this good advice with the faintest twitch of one eye that hinted at a wink, but wasn’t.

“Well, if you put it that way…,” she said, with a brief smile to let Barb know that she wasn’t really reluctant at all.

Barb was pleased, “In fact, I insist. I’d feel terrible if you risked your health over a mere party. And considering how difficult is was for you to find your way around in the daylight, it will be even worse now the sun’s gone. You should ask Gordon for advice. I know he doesn’t have a car, but he knows his way around… the city.”

Deirdre laughed softly, “Thank you so much, Barb. I can’t remember ever having this much fun at a bridal shower.”

“Not having a bride, helps, I think. Clears the air.” She smiled, “You be off, now. Oh! I just happened to think, the firm have two rather nice seats available at the footie pitch Thursday next, and I think I’d like you to take the next week as a paid holiday, so you can hunt for a house or flat, and familiarise yourself with the city and the local customs as well as rest, so I want you to have the pair of them. Football is an important local custom, and I think the day would be well spent. It’s just a ‘friendly’ meet, what you might call an exhibition match, so there won’t be quite the intensity on the part of the fans that you may have seen on telly.”

“Do you think Gordon might like to go? It’s the least I could do to show him how sorry I am about my rotten mood when we met.”

“I think he might like that very much, and he ought to have some time on his hands after Tuesday, although he does have tutorials from time to time. I’m convinced he has no significant other, as he’s been quite busy with his studies. He’s a bit of a swot, but perfectly brilliant when you get to know him.”

Confused, she said, “Swot?”

“He studies very diligently, which is a good thing in a young man. He’ll get on in life. I’m quite sure you’ll like him.” She looked her up and down, appraisingly, “He’s quite a bit like you, actually.”

Deirdre blushed, “You think I’m a ‘swot?’ ”

Barb smiled and laughed briefly before answering, “My dear, I know you are. I’ve seen your transcripts and the recommendations from your professors, who all speak rather glowingly of you, and the equally sterling recommendations of your supervisors at the home office. I’m one of those what kidnapped you from your happy life, as we’re very near several excellent opportunities for investment in energy, and I think our local bourses will figure largely in the coming decades, so your expert opinions were sorely needed. I think that you’ll do very well for yourself here, and your salary and pension benefits, including a substantial rise in pay to compensate for the increased cost of living here, are now being paid in a currency which seems to be retaining some of its value against others which are, let’s say, not doing quite as well.”

Now her eyes were opened. She stared at Barbara as if she’d just seen a magician pull a rabbit out of a hat, “You’re the one? I’ve been griping to myself about being shanghaied for no reason.”

Barb made a clucking noise of maternal sympathy, “And I’m very sorry not to have explained, but there was a very good reason not to make a fuss of it and handle it as a normal transfer. As I said, the firm have several excellent opportunities, as well as serious risks, on the near horizon, all of which are quite confidential. We felt it best not to notify the rumour-mongers straight away.”

She was so relieved. The world was back on its axis and spinning nicely, “Ah, well, that’s ok then…. Now that I know there’s a reason for all this, I can be a little more sanguine about it, and I start to see the advantages for my career more clearly.”

Barb smiled, “I’m sure you do. Your friend Jennifer is over on this side of the water for the same reason, situated to be nearer the Frankfurt and Zürich Bourses, although I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t talk with her about this through any electronic means, and would be fairly careful even face to face. There are people who might be interested in what we do here, and mightn’t be terribly scrupulous about how they came by any useful information.”

“I understand,” she said, nodding.

“I knew you would. And thank you so much for the wine. I’d never heard of the vintner but I’m sure the wine will be excellent.”

Deirdre grinned, “It never hurts to butter up the boss, but it was just a little something I had lying around gathering dust.”

Barb grinned back, “Nonsense! You had no idea what my rôle in the firm might be when you gave it me. Officially, I’m the head of finance and accounting, but I also perform the local business planning and forecasting, as well as most of the staffing decisions, although your official reporting responsibility goes to the VP of Forecasting at the head office. We’re a fairly small branch here, so most of us wear several hats. And the buttering up will flow primarily the other way round, as I, on behalf of the firm, want you to be very happy here. You’re entitled to ‘home leave’ every six months, but I can assure you that if you would prefer that your mum, for example, made the trip the other way, the firm would be quite willing to oblige.”

“And that way I’d be available if something… ‘came up?’ ” Deirdre smiled to let Barb know that this idea didn’t dismay her.

Barb smiled back, “You are quick, aren’t you, dear? We’re going to get along famously. If, after some period of your own choosing, you decide to move here more-or-less permanently, the firm will sort the cost of packing and shipping up to a full ISO container, since the corporate shipping rates are much better than you could negotiate alone, and of course the carriage for your kitty will be at the firm’s expense as well. I understand that this will be about ten months from now, and am very sorry for it, but it couldn’t be helped.”

“I understand. She’s with my mom right now, and loves it at her house; it’s much larger then my apartment was and overlooks a little slice of urban forest, so she can see the birds and imagine herself a great huntress.”

“I’m so pleased. Well, it’s time to be off or you’ll miss your chance to meet young Gordie. So, at once, good-night: Stand not upon the order of your going, but go at once.” She smiled and urged her gently toward the door, nodding her encouragement, adding a gentle nudge when Deirdre hesitated, “I’ll see you to the door and thrust you through it if need be. I’ll have the tickets sent by special messenger to your hotel, and perhaps a few other treats as well. You’re going to have nothing but fun till Monday week.”

Deirdre caught a spark from her enthusiasm and grinned, “He is quite dishy, isn’t he? I’m off then, I suppose,” and with that, she was outside the door.

—««-»»—

Out in the hallway, of course, what had seemed like a good idea with Barb’s unsubtle urging looked foolish on her own, but she could hardly hang around in the hallway for the rest of the evening. Setting her jaw, she walked downstairs, her footsteps echoing in the quiet stairwell. In the lobby, Gordon was still behind the desk, but putting what she now realized was his laptop in a rucksack and talking to some guy who must be the night replacement. She waited until it looked like he was done and then called out from where she stood at the bottom of the stairs, “Gordon? I’m so glad I caught you before you left. I wanted to apologize for my rude behavior earlier. I was frantic about being late, irritated because I still haven’t gotten the hang of how the city’s laid out, and you just wound up in the way.”

He grinned like a schoolboy, unaffectedly and without that smirking superiority so many men affected, “Say nothing of it. It was my fault entirely. I should have realised you were from away when I heard your accent and taken more care, but I was trying to suss out a stunning argument in favour of a problem that might come up in my examination that had just then occurred to me and was distracted.” He stood up.

‘Christ, he’s huge!’ she thought, Six-eight, at least, and built like a linebacker. She grinned back, “Accent? I ain’t got no stinking accent. You’ve got the accent.” She smiled and stretched out her hand, “We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Deirdre Eileen MacLeod, and I’m not from around here. You got that part right.”

He grinned more broadly, although it would have seemed impossible before he did it, “As it happens, I’m not from around here either, so it may be that we both have a wee accent by local standards, though I try not to sound like a character from Oor Wullie. My name’s Angus Gordon Sinclair, but I’ve never cared for the first bit so never use it — sounds too much like a breed of cattle.”

Deirdre turned her smile up a notch, “I’m flattered. We’ve just met and you’re telling me all your secrets.”

He grinned boyishly, “Not all that much of a secret. It’s on my driving licence after all.”

“None-the-less, I’ll keep it safe. Hey, Gordon, before I forget, my sort-of-boss just laid two tickets on me, and I was wondering if you’d like to go. It’s a football game this coming Thursday, and I don’t know all that much about the sport. She said it’s a friendly game, whatever that means, so I guess I don’t have to worry about wearing the wrong colors and getting mobbed, but it would be nice to have someone who could explain things to me.”

“I’d be very pleased to escort you, Deirdre, but you wouldn’t have had to worry in any event. She’s given me tickets before, and the hooligan firms don’t stand anywhere near the private boxes she controls, so there’s little to fear.” He grinned again, infectiously, “And if you’ve ever seen the film, ‘The Full Monty,’ you may be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the local players performing their signature rendition of the dance of the sugarplum fairies, so you’ll have something to look forward to.”

The world was looking brighter every moment, as far as Deirdre was concerned, “I’ve already got something to look forward to, Gordon. I’ve been down in the dumps for weeks now, maybe years, because I’ve been digging in my heels over every change that came my way and refusing to take hold of life with both hands. I just found out that there weren’t any nameless gremlins messing with me, but that people I’d never thought of, even heard of, Barbara Stephens for one, were concerned about me, were taking care of me, and working toward my happiness. It’s as if I’d been stumbling along in the dark and somebody flipped on the lights.”

“I sympathise. Barb’s done me a world of good as well. She’s quite wise, when it comes down to it. My Pa had his cap set for a career in rugger for me — since my birth, I believe — and I had to run off to Swansea to convince him, and myself, that I didn’t want to do that at all.”

“Rugger?”

“Rugby. It’s somewhat similar to American football, but played by men not nearly so afraid of mussing their hair.”

“Rugby! Oh, I’ve been to a few games, but played by women not afraid of mussing their hair.” She gave him a crooked smile, just to let him know that she wasn’t at all intimidated. “It was quite exciting but I wasn’t at all tempted to join in.”

He nodded judiciously, “Women do play. The men’s game may be a wee bit rougher, but only because the players have mostly had at least half their brains scrambled, so don’t know when to give up.”

“So you played?”

“Aye, loosehead prop for the most part, although they often made do with me for second row forward.”

“You’ve lost me again. ‘loosehead prop?’ ”

“It’s a little hard to explain, but the closest analogy in American football would probably be a guard, but a scrum isn’t nearly the same thing as a scrimmage, despite the similarity in name. In brief, I was the guy who kept the opposing team from pushing us around while we took control of the ball. Or at least that’s what was supposed to happen.”

She laughed, “I’ll have to see it done. I couldn’t really make sense of what I saw when my friends played, although it seemed like they were having loads of fun. Do you still play?”

“Not so much.” He hesitated, then grinned and admitted, “Not at all any more. My usual excercise is lugging a rucksack stuffed full of books and papers across the uni grounds from the bus stop and back. But I do still enjoy a good match as a spectator.”

“Well then, we’ll have to go see a game sometime soon,” she said firmly.

He frowned slightly and did a minor take, “We are forward, aren’t we?”

“Oh yes. Now I’ve really met you, you may as well give up gracefully.”

He raised a bushy eyebrow and said, “I see.” He didn’t seem at all displeased, just thoughtful.

She grinned and took his hand, “Resistance is futile. Now tell me about your thesis. Barb said it was about the deep ecology of energy production, which deeply interests me, since my own field is electrical engineering, with an emphasis on efficient energy production and delivery. What do you mean by ‘deep ecology?’ ”

Now she’d really set him off. He took the bit in his teeth and ran free, “Well, in a nutshell, we’ve been top predators on the energy landscape for the past century, and the system is approaching total collapse.”

He wasn’t at all averse to talking about what seemed to be his real passion, another good sign, since she believed a man who followed sports fanatically probably had other serious character flaws as well, “Right, peak oil.” She nodded.

He responded first by shaking his head slowly, “Not just oil, everything. Energy, at its most basic, is everything we need to stay alive, from the calories in the food we eat to the calories in the fuel we use to stay warm in chilly weather, added to the calories we use to move ourselves and the goods we need from place to place.”

“I notice that you’re using calories as a common unit….”

His enthusiasm grew when he saw that she understood, “For very good reason. We’ve disguised the fact that the energy we use as oil, wind and solar power, even plows drawn by oxen, is precisely equivalent to food, and that the decline and collapse of oil production is precisely equivalent to the onset of global starvation and the extinctions of entire human populations.”

“So you’re saying that we’ve essentially exceeded the carrying capacity of the Earth?” She frowned.

He looked directly at her eyes and nodded, not nearly so pleased as grim, “Pretty much. Our recent gains in food production have far outstripped advances in mere agricultural technology, but are being massively subsidised by incredible and unsustainable inputs of calories in the form of fertilisers, mechanised production and transport, refrigeration, packaging, and all-night markets that depend upon massive infusions of cheap energy, energy we’ve taken for granted because it’s essentially ‘free,’ bubbling up like fairy dust from holes in the ground.”

She saw immediately where he was going with this, “So we’ve been seduced by the fact that we can’t actually see the reservoirs from which we draw the stuff, so we act as if the supply were infinite.”

Now he was geting excited, the veins in his neck and hands becoming more prominent, the muscles around his eyes tensing, “Exactly. It’s typical human magical thinking. Oil’s been around for millions of years, all of human history and before, but the sources were primarily organic and renewable, whether pressed from plants, ‘harvested’ from fish and whales, or captured from natural seeps as asphaltum or various grades of weathered crude. When it was hard to find and expensive, we treated it like gold, reserving it for important uses in medicines, waterproofing for boats and canoes, holy idols, even jewellery, and embalming the odd mummy.”

She shared his enthusiasm, but more in the raised tone of her voice than visible tension, “But when we developed the technology to extract it from deep in the Earth, we started treating it like dirt.” ‘Damn! She hated it when she started sounding shrill.’

He didn’t seem to notice, or if he noticed approved, nodding again, this time more forcefully, “Indeed. We pave our streets and motorways with the stuff, many of us dump it down the drains when it’s soiled, as if it were soapy dishwater rather than a valuable and recyclable resource. And it’s not just oil, but fresh water and other natural resources, especially our marine fisheries.”

Taking an invisible step back, lowering her tone to something approaching calm rationality, she asked, “So what’s your prognosis?”

Despite what she’d thought was an imperceptible shift, he noticed, looking at her as if he saw her thoughts, and lowered his own tone to a basso rumble, “Overall, not good. Too much of the world is still fixated on the win-lose paradigm in which ‘we’ are destined to be ‘winners’ whilst the rest of humanity must needs be ‘losers,’ but the world doesn’t work that way any more. The power of destruction is widespread now, so almost every largish group of humans can threaten the existence of us all, and the Earth itself may be shaking us off. The world has been through heat catastrophes before, and has regained homeostasis eventually, albeit at the expense of the living creatures extant at the time.” His eyes seemed as dark as his words were ominous — they burned with an inner fire.

Deirdre was as still as if transfixed, then she shook herself and spoke, remembering where she was as well as her facts, “I’ve heard of that, actually. Supposedly, the melting of glaciers and ice sheets decreases the burden on the rocks beneath, leading to increased vulcanism whose byproducts, especially massive quantities of sulphur dioxide and particulates, lower the amount of sunlight that reaches the surface of the Earth and lowers overall temperatures.”

Gordon’s eyes widened lightly, then he raised one brow slightly and smiled, “That may be part of it, but the latest research shows that rising sea levels have an even more important contribution, since the weight of all that extra water on the ocean basins and at the continental margins, especially the ‘Pacific Ring of Fire,’ but also the Antarctic, the Mediterranean, Icelandic, Red Sea, and other volcanic systems affected by sea floor conditions, literally squeezes magma out from beneath the crust, causing increased levels of vulcanism all across the world.”

Deirdre was smiling back by now, testing the connection, “It strikes me that the combination of the two, your depression and my uplift, are also likely to cause massive earthquakes along the margins of all the continents.”

He grinned without humour, like a wolf, with a curious lowering of his head, “Exactly right. And major earthquakes near the oceans of the world are dangerous things. The Storegga Slide off Norway, eight thousand years ago, caused a tsunami that crested at twenty metres, more or less, and swept the low-lying north and east coasts of Scotland — including what would become the site of my own home town — clear of everything living.”

She leapt from there across the Atlantic, “So a similar quake off Greenland, where there are similar but even larger deposits of glacial detritus, could cause damage over here?”

Gordon nodded with a hint of respectful approval, “Indeed, or much worse. Considering how many of us live in low-lying areas near the western shoreline, tens of thousands might die if warnings didn’t reach them in time or if road congestion prevented orderly flight. And the diminished solar influx resulting from volcanic haze diminishes the calories which reach the Earth’s surface, causing crops to fail or harvests to be poor, resulting in fewer calories in our collective bellies. Although not all of us, enormous numbers will die, some drowned, some crushed by landslides or wave action, some frozen by harsh or unseasonable winters, and many more starved. All the oil in the world won’t save us,” he said grimly.

“…Even if it were available.” She stared at him, comprehending.

He looked at her, looked deep into her eyes, nodded once and said, looking straight at her, “We’re doomed.”

She nodded, then came to a decision, “Let’s go.” She took his hand and led him out the door.

—««-»»—

Deirdre woke feeling rested, the morning half-light filtering through the half-open drapes of her hotel room. She looked over to where the light spilled out under the bathroom door into the short hall off the corridor, listening to the shower running, under which a man was softly humming a tune she didn’t recognize, whose voice varied in strength and resonance depending on which way he was facing at the time, or so she surmised.

She smiled and let her eyelids close, letting the faint odor of his sweat and hair still lingering on the pillow beside her head lull her anterior hypothalamus into sending a wave of calm benevolence and anticipatory lassitude through her body. She felt better than she had in months, since long before this journey had begun.

Eventually, she heard the door open and opened her eyes as well, treated to the sight of Gordon coming out into the hall, his nude body lit mostly from behind by the bathroom light.

When he saw her looking at him, he grinned and said, “All clean. Your turn now.”

“In a bit. First, come back here and tell me what song that was you were humming.” She sat up and fluffed some pillows to make a backrest behind her, then patted the coverlet to show where he should sit.

He laughed and walked toward her, then sat down on the bed by her side and said, “It’s an old song by Robert Burns called ‘The Birks of Aberfeldy’ about the particular beauty of the birch trees of a small town by the banks of the River Tay in what was Perthshire in Burn’s time, now the Council Area of Perth and Kinross in central Scotland.”

Deirdre admired the prominence at the angle of his jaw for a moment before saying anything, “…And what makes them particularly beautiful?”

“Well, aside from the fact that they’re in the very heart of Scotland, just where the Lowlands meet the Highlands, I think the old dog may have been influenced by the idea of showing those woods, those meadows, those rocky waterfalls and running streams, to a beautiful young lady he was fond of. It’s been my experience, limited though it has been by the exigencies of the academic life, that the company of a beautiful woman adds a certain air of delicious excitement to any outing. I can’t say, for example, that I’ve ever enjoyed a ride in a car quite so much as I enjoyed our ride last night.”

She beamed and said, “Good boy. Keep up that level of effort and perhaps we’ll go for another ride real soon now.” She waggled one brow at him, “Would you sing it to me?” She reached out and began stroking his back and shoulders.

He turned further to touch the line of her cheek, her lips, and said, “I’ll give it a go.”

He began in a clear baritone, “Bonnie lassie, will ye go, · Will ye go, will ye go, · Bonnie lassie, will ye go · To the birks of Aberfeldy!” continuing with the verse, “Now summer blinks on flowery braes, · And o’er the crystal streamlet plays; · Come, let us spend the lightsome days, · In the birks of Aberfeldy!” and went back to the chorus again.

Deirdre made it a duet with a lilting soprano harmony line, “Bonnie lassie, will ye go, · Will ye go, will ye go, · Bonnie lassie, will ye go · To the birks of Aberfeldy!” She was a quick study.

Gordon broke off, grinning, “You’re quite good at this, you know. Are you sure you haven’t heard the song before?”

Deirdre smiled, “I was in the choir at school, and love to sing. The first time I heard the tune was when you hummed it in the shower just now. My father always said that anyone who couldn’t sing was just a step away from being illiterate, and being able to improvise four part harmony was what separated men from the apes. He may have exaggerated slightly.”

“Spoken like a true Scot, and I agree. We’re not all as dour as they say, you know.”

“So I hear. According to the handout my work handed me on my way out the door, they’re among the happiest people in Europe.”

He nodded his agreement, somberly declaring, “Aye, and not surprising. We’re a nation of philosophers. In Scotland, anyone can experience true happiness by walking in through any door and out of the rain. If the room is warm, so much the better.”

Deirdre had to look twice to see if he was joking, which he was. It’s hard for any man to look solemn and philosophical when he’s buck naked and trying to pretend not to look at the bare boobs of the woman in bed beside him.

She smiled, “Philosophers, eh?” She reached out and stroked the fine hairs that ran down from his navel toward his groin, the muscles of his abdomen nicely taut beneath her fingers, “I see you’re engrossed in a particularly delicate point of existential absurdity right now.”

He grinned, giving up any pretense of objectivity, “Indeed I am, but I believe I may see my way clear to a resolution soon, if you’re not too tired of course.” He grinned more broadly and began inching down the covers that still covered her lower body and legs, “Even Camus, that dour Algerian, agrees that happiness lies in striving….”

A delicious languor stole over her limbs as he slowly unveiled the slight swell of her belly, not hurrying, but insistent. The fine linen of the sheet tickled her upper thighs as he uncovered her mound of Venus and the languor turned to heavy need. She began helping, kicking with her feet to free her legs, suddenly urgent, longing to be naked before his eyes. Suddenly, he threw the bedclothes off and leaned over her, his face nestling between her breasts, his warm breath tickling her skin, the touch of his lips and tongue intoxicating, impossibly exciting. When he began nudging her calves apart with his knee, she was electrified, jolted into action, throwing her legs apart as she grabbed his shoulders and tugged, drawing him up toward her center, “Then it’s time for you to plumb the depths again, before rising to the heights.”

—««-»»—

Around noon, they showered again, this time together, and she promptly kicked him out the door as soon as they threw their clothes on, saying, “Not again. You have to study for your exams now. Give me a call later if you want me to play the part of an interlocutor and help you practice. In fact, if you want a real grilling, e-mail me your thesis and I’ll study it beforehand.” She scribbled her cell number and private e-mail account on a pad of notepaper the hotel had thoughtfully provided on every chest of drawers and table in the room and handed it to him. “Now out you go.” She opened the door.

He hesitated, “We’re all right, aren’t we? You’re not just giving me the brush-off?”

Deirdre reached up with both hands and bent his head down for a kiss, “Of course not, you silly boy. I like you. There’s no more potent aphrodisiac — for me at least — than the combination of a mutually-recognized shared peril and a brilliant intellect. Besides, we have a date, remember?”

“Oh, right! Footie.”

“That’s right, ‘footie.’ ” She pulled him down for another kiss, “You haven’t forgotten already, have you?” She looked up at him coyly, and then grinned to show that she wasn’t really coy at all.

He laughed with exaggerated lechery, “Well, not exactly, but I have been somewhat preoccupied recently.”

“Good. I intend to see that you stay that way for the duration. I told you, resistance is futile. And Barb approves of you.”

He blinked, “Barb approves of me?”

“Yes, and on sober reflection, so do I.”

He blinked again, owlishly, “Well then, I suppose I’d best get cracking….”

“Indeed. Do less than your very best on your exams and you’ll have both of us to answer to, but I’m confident you are the best, or we wouldn’t be here now.” She looked straight into his eyes, “We share a fate, you and I, but it’s up to both of us to grasp it with both hands and do the world some good if we can. I know you want to, and the two of us will be in a position to do so very soon, if we try.”

He took both her hands and stood close, “Deirdre, I’ve never believed in such stuff, but I know enough of life to recognise a truthsayer when I see one. It’s all women’s magic, and clever men know well enough to clear out of the way and let them have free rein when they draw down their power. I surrender.”

She pulled him down and kissed him soundly, then turned him loose, saying, “Oh, goody. Maybe we could go up to your Aberfeldy after your exam, some time next week. I’d like a memory to go with the song.”

He smiled, “Then we’d best go a little north after, to meet my ma and pa. Ma, especially, would never forgive me if I didn’t introduce you.”

“Why, Gordon, I’d be very pleased to come. What should I wear?” She was teasing, but filled with joy.

“What you have on is brilliant, but we’ll have to shop for a proper coat and hat. It’s a wee bit chilly, up in Sinclair country.” He held her for a moment, tenderly, and without moving. “It’s a gamble, you know, and we may well lose.”

“Of course, but there are other players, and losing well is a noble priviledge. Considering the stakes, we have to play, however perversely, and with no extraordinary powers other than a shared desire to heal the world.”

“Well, then. It beats rugger all to hell.”

—««-»»—

Stephanie’s Shower Playlist

1. Not the Doctor by Alanis Morissette

2. No Man’s Woman by Sinéad O’Connor

3. Anything You Need but Me by Nanci Griffith

4. I Walk Alone by Sophie B. Hawkins

5. Everybody’s Breaking Up by Allanah Myles

6. Diamond Ring by Sheryl Crow

7. Walk Away, Renee by Linda Ronstadt with Ann Savoy

8. Feeling of Gaze by Hope Sandoval and the Warm Embrace

9. Guy Who Doesn’t Get it by Jill Sobule

10. London Bridge by Anika Paris

11. Pure (You’re Touching Me) by West End Girls

12. Butterfly Mornings by Hope Sandoval and the Warm Embrace

13. I Thought You’d Fall for Me by Hope Sandoval and the Warm Embrace

14. Night by Feisty

15. Pussy by The Lazybeans

16. Julie Christie by Lorraine Bowen

17. All Your Sisters by Mazzy Starr

18. Fade into You by Mazzy Starr

19. Unchained Melody by Cyndi Lauper

20. I Kissed a Girl by Katy Perry

21. Perfect Fingers by Tami Greer

22. Sweet Leanne by Annie Keating

23. Broken Wings by Mary Black

24. Rosie, Strike Back by Eliza Gilkyson

25. Goodbye, Earl by Dixie Chicks

26. Janie’s Got a Gun by Tribute Stars

27. Calling All Angels by Jane Siberry

28. Not Like Kissing You by West End Girls

29. Come On, Eileen by Save Ferris

30. Pure (You’re Touching Me) Reprise by West End Girls

—««-»»—

The Birks of Aberfeldy

by Robert Burns, 1787

The Birks of Aberfeldy

Chorus:
   Bonnie lassie, will ye go,
   Will ye go, will ye go,
   Bonnie lassie, will ye go
   To the birks of Aberfeldy!

Now Summer blinks on flowery braes,
And o’er the crystal streamlets plays;
Come let us spend the lightsome days,
In the birks of Aberfeldy.

Chorus:
   Bonnie lassie, etc.

While o’er their heads the hazels hing,
The little birdies blythely sing,
Or lightly flit on wanton wing,
In the birks of Aberfeldy.

Chorus:
   Bonnie lassie, etc.

The braes ascend like lofty wa’s,
The foaming stream deep-roaring fa’s,
O’erhung wi’ fragrant spreading shaws—
The birks of Aberfeldy.

Chorus:
   Bonnie lassie, etc.

The hoary cliffs are crown’d wi’ flowers,
White o’er the linns the burnie pours,
And rising, weets wi’ misty showers
The birks of Aberfeldy.

Chorus:
   Bonnie lassie, etc.

Let Fortune’s gifts at randoe flee,
They ne’er shall draw a wish frae me;
Supremely blest wi’ love and thee,
In the birks of Aberfeldy.

Chorus:
   Bonnie lassie, etc.

Rendering of Scots dialect slightly modified from Burn’s original

In general, many final consonants are elided or obscure, as ‘wa’s’ for ‘walls;’ ‘randoe’ for ‘random,’ but there are words retained in the Scots language long lost or archaic in Standard English,as ‘braes’ for ‘hillsides;’ ‘shaws’ for ‘woods;’ ‘linns’ for ‘cascades of water;’ and ‘burnie’ for ‘small stream.’ Vowels are often altered as well. The sense of the lyrics is fairly clear, in any case.

—««-»»—

Copyright © 2009 Liobhan — All Rights Reserved Worldwide

This story may not be reposted on any other site.

Tooltips: Quite a lot of background information for this story is contained in ‘tooltips,’ explanatory text which can be accessed by ‘hovering’ over a word or phrase with your mouse or other pointing device cursor. It’s quite likely that tooltips are broken in your browser, since they’re more or less broken in every major browser, which is a shame, since they offer an unobtrusive version of hypertext that can be taken advantage of without requiring one to exit the current page or to follow a link.

In some browsers, the ‘tooltip’ text will be truncated, badly formatted, or both, and may be absent altogether. Without looking at the source code, it may be difficult to figure out exactly what’s going on. As a rather elegant workaround, Terry Volkirch has coded a little JavaScript programme which forces tooltips to be displayed in their entirety but, for technical reasons, this code cannot be used on this site. As a workaround for the workaround, I'm working on creating an offsite location which can be linked to each of the stories in Spin Cycle, and which allows the use of Terry’s code.

I’ll let you know when this is ready.