The Importance of Being Ernestine Read Online Free

decided to go on a cruise rather than redo her house, and the other took my ideas right down to one of the discount furniture places. And . . .” The desk was now floating across the room with Mrs. Malloy on board.
    â€œMr. H. can be hot tempered. Well, you do have to allow for the literary temperament, don’t you? Him being a book writer when all is said and done. And cookery books no less. First-rate fiction most of them.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, fiction?” I put down my glass and pressed a hand to my clammy brow.
    Her voice throbbed its way inside my head. “Have you ever had a recipe turn out like them cookery books promise? They tell you the Lancashire hotpot serves eight and there’s not enough to feed you and the cat. And the cakes always as big and round as hatboxes. But more power to Mr. H., if he can earn a living making millions of women think they can get their egg whites to peak like Mount Everest.”
    â€œI feel awful.” I wobbled to my feet.
    â€œWell, now you say it, you do look a bit off. I wonder if it could be something you ate before coming here? But never mind that. Let’s get you to the loo. Mrs. Malloy was marching me forward as she spoke. “If you’re going to be sick I’d as soon it wasn’t on this floor. Here we are Mrs. H., I’m opening the door for you and switching on the light. I’ll be right outside if you should need me.”
    I would have preferred her to be in Timbuktu. There are times when one wants to be completely alone in the world. But after five minutes, having soaked my face in cold water and brushed my hair back from my forehead I felt somewhat recovered. Whatever had possessed me to smoke and drink like a sailor? Surely not the seaside ambience of Mucklesby?
    Mrs. Malloy peeked in on me. “I was thinking about milk,” she informed me as if this was of far greater importance than the state of my health.
    I stared at her.
    â€œMr. Jugg. Milk is his nickname, given to him by an auntie when he was small.”
    â€œReally?” I trailed after her to lean against the big desk.
    â€œThere has to be a way to make him see that he can’t do without me. I’ve got a fortnight, two whole weeks to work on becoming his Girl Friday. And,” she smiled brightly, “I’ve decided to let you help me, even though you’ve shown you can’t hold your liquor. It’ll take your mind off your troubles.”
    â€œHelp you? How?”
    â€œWe’ll think of something,” she said impatiently. “And it will have to be something more than doing up the place by putting a few potted plants on the windowsill.”
    She had barely finished speaking when a knock sounded at the door. Mrs. Malloy called: “Come in!” And in walked an elderly woman, regally clad in black, from her 1940s-style hat and flowing velvet cape to her buttoned boots.
    Here, belatedly, was the 6:00 client.

Three
    â€œHas to be her, don’t it?” Mrs. Malloy stage whispered in my ear, while the woman in black took stock of the room. “Wouldn’t be some gypsy come selling clothes peg; not at this hour, it wouldn’t. Name’s Lady Krumley. Got aristocracy written all over her long-nosed puss. But don’t you go bobbing no curtsies, trying to get in thick, Mrs. H. We’ve no time for none of that. You and me, we’ve got to come up with a way to handle this here situation.”
    I wasn’t at all sure I liked the sound of this. My insides still felt a bit unsure of themselves, and my head began revolving on its own axis several feet above my shoulders. Fortunately her ladyship did not appear to notice anything amiss. At her age—well into her seventies—she could be blessedly hard of hearing and worn out by her journey.
    She might have been in the throes of hypnosis as she lowered herself onto a chair, rested her carpet-style handbag on her knees and drew the black velvet