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The Tabard Chronicles

1. A Splash of Nash

He was dressed oddly, as if he'd stepped out of another time. Still, no one in the joint seemed to think he looked out of place, least of all the barkeep.

"Welcome to the Tabard Inn," she said as he slid onto a stool at the bar, a genuine smile lighting up her eyes. "Can I get you a drink?"

"I'll have a splash," the man grinned back. "A Splash of Nash."

"It'll cost you."

The man pulled a wad of bills from his inner jacket pocket and tugged a a c-note loose from the gold clip that appeared to hold several of the same. "Just keep 'em comin'."

Rebecca pushed the bill back toward him. "Not cash," she chided him. "A story. Have you got one?"

"Have I ever... "

******​

Jenny Oliver dodged a juggler, several giggling chorus girls and was nearly trampled by a seal as she made her way across the bustling backstage area of The Majestic Theater. "Watch where you're going!" seemed to be the catchwords of the day, but she was watching. She was watching Frank Nash.

"What do you mean she's a no show?? You go on in five minutes. Five fucking minutes!" Roy Kalb's outraged voice echoed throughout the maze of dressing rooms as he berated one of his theater's top acts. "Did you knock this one up, too?"

"Excuse me. Excuse me. Mr. Nash? I say... Mr. Nash!"

Both men rounded on her at once; the older, heavyset man glaring while Frank Nash eyed her suspiciously as if he were trying to remember where they might have... met... before.

"Why aren't you in costume?" Roy Kalb challenged her.

"Well, I'm... "

Nash knew she wasn't one of the acts or part of one. He'd certainly have noticed this chickadee before. Yet she was asking for him. Jesus H. Christ, he thought. What he didn't need right now was some woman from his liquor fogged past or an indignant relative of one of his many others. What he did need was...

"Can you sing?"

Jenny was totally confused, but she managed to reply. "A bit. Why?"

"Get ready," Kalb said, not brooking any argument. "You go on in," he looked at his timepiece, "Now!!"

She tried to protest, to explain why she was there and how she'd gotten past the big lug at the door, but it was too late. Roy Kalb was pushing her through the curtains and a stage manager of sorts was blocking any attempt at an exit.

The lights shone down on Jenny as she spun helplessly in a circle, Frank Nash - THE Frank Nash - approaching her from the opposite side of the brightly lit stage.

"I hope you can sing," he whispered in her ear. "Who are you anyhow?"

Always a quick thinker, Jenny gestured to the man in the wings, who pointed at himself. She nodded. His eyebrows raised questioningly, she smiled as he shrugged and they approached each other.

"Hey!" Frank hissed.

Jenny wrapped her arms around the man's neck and kissed him, murmuring, "Now just walk away but turn back to wave." The stage manager let her go and did as she said. They both waved and she turned to face Frank, obvious displeasure spreading across his face. "Who was that?"

"You don't know?" he asked, crossing his arms across his chest.

"No," Jenny replied. "My mother told me never to talk to strangers."

"That makes sense." Frank nodded, wondering where she was taking this.

"This always happens to me. On my way in, a man stopped me at the stage door and said, "Hiya, cutie, how about a bite tonight after the show?""

Frank kept his expression completely blank. "And you said?"

"I said, "I'll be busy after the show but I'm not doing anything now" So I bit him."

The audience roared and Frank tipped his head in a gesture that bordered on appreciation, mouthing, "Follow my lead."

"Let me ask you something," he continued. "Did the nurse ever happen to drop you on your head when you were a baby?"

Jenny looked thoughtful and shook her head. "Oh, no. We couldn't afford a nurse. My mother had to do it."

"You had a smart mother."

"Smartness runs in my family," she retorted. "When I went to school I was so smart my teacher was in my class for five years."

The audience ate them up and wanted more. They were a hit! Now if only Frank could figure out where she'd come from -- and get her to stay.
 
Frank exited stage left; his mystery girl, stage right.

He ran round the back of the stage, vaulting over the seal as it played at balancing a ball on it's nose.

Roy Kalb appeared, beaming, wiping his red face with a handkerchef. "Frank! Great act - you fooled me there thinking you didn't have a new girl..."

Frank skidded to a halt before the theatre manager. "I didn't." He looked around. "I don't! Where'd she go?"

Kalb turned around, bellowing at the doorman to close the stage door.

"I think you're too late," Albert Levsky said from the booth by the door. He nodded his grey head towards the street and Frank ran outside.

The alleyway next to the Majestic was dark and Frank put his brogues into some unwholesome puddle.

"Shit!" he blasphemed and waited till his eyes adjusted. There was a giggle.

"I think you're probably right." The young woman's voice suppressed a bubbly laugh.

"You! There - owner of that high pitched warble, stay still - I'll find you by touch!"

There was a full laugh and as his eyes adjusted he saw a slight form outlined against the distant street light and passing cars. He walked over and lit a match. The flickering light didn't do much for her but Frank remembered her on stage. He was pretty sure he hadn't slept with her. Surely even he wouldn't have forgotten that face...his gaze dropped down her body too before the match burnt his fingers and it ended up in the puddle.

"Want to come back inside?" He asked. "Plus, why did you run away anyhow?"

They picked their way carefully back to the stage door and blinded in the light, Frank eventually saw Ray Kalb waiting and made a gesture with his eyes telling the manager to beat it. Ray, not wanting to annoy one of his headliners and the possibilty of a new girl, headed off to worry about the next act.

"I guess you didn't come aiming to make a debut?" Frank said, heading back to where some coffee burned on a stove.

Jenny shook her head. "No - I came cos I...well...I saw you and Katie the other week; first time I'd been down here for quite a while. What happened to Katie anyhow?" Jenny accepted the cup of coffee and Frank turned his back, pouring his own cup, giving himself time to think.

"She got an offer from the Odeon, New York State," he said turning round, the lie running off his tongue as slick as his parted hair looked with his characteristic pommade. "Left without so much as a thank you sir...so, you coming along was..."

Really - synchronicity. He didn't tell her she'd left because he'd given her enough money for the abortion she claimed she needed. He doubted she was really knocked up, she just didn't want to travel like him, didn't have the ambition to get out of the Lyceum into the vaudeville tour.

"Oh. Well, anyway, I just came down..you know when I saw you and her, well, I thought you were the best I'd seen and well, me and my brother we do the occasional thing for our church. You know the sort of thing, reviews?"

Frank nodded, sipped his coffee and listened to Jenny talk twenty to the dozen. Maybe she was nervous, maybe it was just the way her mind worked. Whichever, he occasionally pictured her naked. And on tour.

"Then - well, that man - bullying me...so well I thought I had to do it..you know, go on stage...Oh God! Forgive me Father..." she crossed herself. "And, well, I put together this sketch...it's why I was here...and after being out there I thought you wouldn't want to see me again..." Nevertheless she pulled a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of her coat. Smoothing it out, she gave it to Frank.

"Of course - you don't really need to read it now - well, we just did it!" She beamed at him and put her hand on her chest. Frank watched the gesture, watched the way her slender fingers nestled between her breasts. Yes, I want her, she's young, naive and pretty. Yes, I guess I could probably sweet talk her into my apartment tonight. Then he remembered her on stage. Some church am-dram performer came onto the town's premier stage and wowed the crowd.

Steady, boy. She's a keeper. Especially...

"You ever thought of going professional?"

Jenny blinked and bit her lip.

"You know you got "it"," he said and she lowered her eyes and shuffled her feet. "And I've got a proposition for you."
 
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2. A Splash of Nash

He was set to go on the circuit again Frank told her, living out of a suitcase and doing two shows a day, many one-night stands. "You might have noticed I'm short half my act."

Jenny nodded and started to say something but kept her thoughts to herself. Lowering her eyes to the cup of thick, viscous liquid that passed as coffee, she took a sip and willed her hands to stop shaking. Ironic that, she considered. She'd just done an impromptu performance with a man she thought of as a comic genius and not a bit of stage fright, but here... backstage...

"I guess what I'm asking is whether you'd consider coming along, erm... ahh... " He shuffled his feet.

She looked up at him then, her eyes searching his for sincerity and finding a sheepishly blank look on his face instead. "I suppose your mother forgot to tell you not to talk to strangers," Jenny quipped, hiding her nervousness behind a thin veneer of humor as she extending her hand. "My name is Jenny. Jenny Oliver."

He laughed, the kind of laugh that came all the way from his toes and settled in his eyes. "Frank Nash," he said, accepting her hand. "I suppose that takes care of the strangers bit, Jenny Oliver, but what about the other?"

The "other" wasn't as simple, she explained, blushing. There was Jeremy to consider after all.

Frank was crestfallen. All thoughts of stepping up from "middle time" to "Big Time" dashed away in one word -- Jeremy. Why hadn't looked at her finger for a wedding band? It was usually the first thing he did. Not that a husband had ever stopped him before, but this was different. Shit! Shit and double shit! His mind was racing a mile a minute. He couldn't lose this opportunity just because of some... husband. There had to be a way.

Nash swallowed hard, crossing his fingers behind his back, and met Jenny's feverishly excited eyes with his own worldly-wise ones. He'd seen that look on other faces before and well knew that once the acting bug had bitten... Well it would take something bigger than both of them to hold her back.

With that thought in mind, and not a bit of remorse for possibly driving a wedge into the upright, churchgoing Olivers' marital situation, Frank Nash blurted out: "Maybe he'd like to come along."

A look of something akin to relief washed over Jenny's face. "I'll talk to him as soon as I get home. When do we leave?"

The look on her face and her subsequent response made his heart strings cha-ching and it looked like money in the bank (or so he hoped). Never one for religious mumbo jumbo, Frank Nash found himself making promises to every higher power he could think of and even some that came from his own imagination. For the moment at least, he fully intended to keep each and every one.

"Tomorrow, nine o'clock sharp," he said, lighting ten candles at St. Luke's in his head. "Track 3, the Toledo train. I'll buy the tickets."

Shaking his hand hard enough to jar Frank Nash's teeth loose, Jenny was out the door and headed for home before her idol could change his mind. Jeremy was going to be thrilled! And he was.

Unable to sleep, Jenny prayed the rosary all the way through (twice) as she packed up their belongings and wrote a note for her aunt and uncle with whom they'd been staying for the past ten years. "Come help me fasten these," she called out after the last "Hail Mary" and an enthusiastic "Amen" had crossed her lips.

Jeremy grinned to find her seated on top of a suitcase in the middle of the bedroom floor. There were two others filled to overflowing as well.

"Hurry up!" she admonished him. "We're going to be late."

Jeremy looked at the clock. It was barely six a.m..
 
Frank stood on the platform the next morning, his cream double breasted suit buttoned, his hat pushed back on his head. The black porter leaned on the luggage and laconically scanned the entrance to the station.

"Maybe she ain't comin'" he said to Frank.

Nash checked his watch. She'd seemed so keen. "I think she is," he replied, his eyes on the same spot as the porter's. As they watched a figure ran into view - but it wasn't Jenny. The young man skipped the barrier to a cry from the inspector and ran up to Frank, his arms flailing.

"Jimmy?" Frank addressed the red faced young man who was by now trying to catch his breath. "Mr. Frank," the young man wheezed from his doubled over position.

"What's up Jimmy?"

"Mr Kalb...you asked me to tell him you were off - after the train departed?"

Frank nodded and closed his eyes waiting for the rest from the young theatre gofer.

"Well - I said what you told me to say - 'cept my watch - the one my Aunt Thelma gave me - it's always had this loose hour hand...and...well the long and the short is...I was early and he's fixin' to be on his way right now to get you back, sayin' things about a contract.."

Frank patted Jimmy on the back. There was no contract, Frank knew that well enough.

"Think I'll be getting on the train," he said to the porter who nodded in a world weary fashion.

Frank tipped the porter and heard a kerfuffle at the entrance to the platform, gesturing from the train to Jimmy to ask him what was happening.

"I't not Mr. Kalb..it's...I'm not sure -"

The sound of a woman squealing and raised voices made Frank lean out of the door of the carriage. He smiled to see the other fifty per cent of his act struggling through the barrier. Behind her was who he presumed was Jeremy, struggling with two cases. Jenny walked unsteadily in a pencil skirt and heels. Her face brightened when she saw Frank but she twisted an ankle and hopped the last couple of feet.

"You OK?" Frank asked.

"Oh, yes it's nothing...you wouldn't believe the time we've had - getting a taxi is nigh on impossible at this time of a morning and well Jerry fell asleep...Jerry? Come on! Here, this is Mr Nash - this is Jeremy, Frank - my brother."

Frank blinked and frowned and then a smile dawned over his face. "Your brother? Well, pleased to meet you -" he held out his hand.

Another commotion at the end of the platform made Frank duck back in. He reached out, took Jenny's wrist and tugged. She gave a squeal and ended up inside.

"Best we keep - out of sight...for now," he said and Jenny nodded, a little baffled.

Frank stuck his head out and stage whispered to Jimmy, "stall them?" Frank helped Jeremy on with the bags and gave him the tickets. The conductor led the way to their compartment and Frank saw the homburg-hatted head of Kalb bob past the window and dragged Jenny off in the opposite direction and into an alcove for excess baggage. He pulled a screening curtain across and looked out of the gap it left.

"I don't damn well care if I need a ticket to board, let me on this contraption. I have to see..." Kalb was struggling and began to shout, "Nash, you good for nothing - get out here! If you're not at the theee-atre tonight you'll not work in this town again."

Frank smiled and looked at Jenny who, he realised, was stood close enough for him to be able to identify her shampoo by its scent.

"I kinda wanted our going to be a surprise for Roy," he said with a shrug.

Jenny grinned. "I see you got your wish."

He winked and hugged her as the guard outside whistled and the engine snorted. Steam wafted down the platform and the train began to move. Frank quickly moved out and lowered the carriage window. He and Jenny stuck out their heads.

"Say goodbye Jenny," he said and they both began to wave to an irate Kalb, who threw his homburg to the platform and stamped his foot.

They pulled their heads in, away from the steam as the train picked up speed. Both sets of eyes sparkled at the adventure and Frank winked at her and kissed her, as if he'd known her for months.

She felt soft in his arms. The kiss felt...right.
 
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3. A Splash of Nash

"So did they make the Big Time?"

"Patience," the man replied. "All in good time. Story tellin' doesn't come easy and a guy gets a mighty thirst on. Perhaps another Splash, hostess?"

The Tabard's denizens settled back to listen as Rebecca mixed the narrator another drink.

"Now then," he said, taking a swig. "Where was I?"

"Say, Mr. Nash, where are we going anyway?" young Jeremy asked. The placenames that were being called out by the conductor as their train entered and left various stations seemed to be taking them in a direction a lot further north than New York City despite the "and points east" that was being touted about. Maybe Jenny hadn't noticed, busy as she was making gaga eyes at this guy, but he certainly had.

"I told you we're on the Circuit," Frank waffled, not in the mood to listen to Jenny's brother whine.

"Uh huh," the young upstart replied. "And I'm asking what Circuit. Where are we going?'

An older woman who had been snoring loud enough to cut down a forest suddenly stirred and Frank, not wanting to get her involved in this little... talk... decided to throw out a name. "Buffalo."

"Buffalo!" exclaimed Jeremy. "I thought you said... "

Frank Nash sighed as the door to the compartment slid open and Jenny Oliver let herself in. "Thought who said what?" she asked, taking her seat between her brother and her new business partner.

"Buffalo," Jeremy proclaimed. "We're going to Buffalo!"

Jenny blinked and looked from her brother to Frank. "Buffalo?"

"Yeah," he said, defensively. "Buffalo. You know, a city in New York."

While Jeremy seemed to appear quite pleased, Jenny looked the exact opposite. "Jeremy, you stay here," she said. "Frank." She was up and moving faster than her brother could reply.

"You're in for it," the youngster nodded sagely.

"Shut up, kid. I can handle her." In truth, Frank Nash felt a lot less confident than he appeared. Jenny had a talent he wasn't willing to let go, not to mention that he'd become quite fond of her. More than fond, in fact. Very, very fond.

He found her in the club car, seated at a small table a distance away from other travellers. "Buffalo?" she asked simply as he slid snakelike into the seat opposite her.

"Listen, Jenny... I can explain." She nodded, her lips pursed together so tightly that the normal soft bow of her lips appeared a red-pencilled line; a direct contrast to the pliable softness he had come to know.

"Can I get you something?"

Jenny looked up at the waiter and smiled, "Got any crow?"

"No, ma'am," he responded. "I do have some Old Turkey."

"It will do... in the meantime," she replied. "We'll have one of those and a coffee for myself, please." Without missing a beat, she turned back to Frank. "You were saying?"

Frank knowing he had best stick as close to the truth as was possible, nodded thankfully as the Scotch arrived and downed it in one gulp. "I never said New York City," he began. "I said that's where my ex-act headed for. We're a new act, you and I. I have a following but it's not a big one and this Circuit... "

Jenny sipped her coffee but didn't blink an eye.

"Ever hear the saying: 'If you can make it in Scranton, you can make it anywhere'?" Jenny nodded. Frank continued. "Well... this particular Circuit, see... We start off in Buffalo, then on to Boston. If we make it in both of those, we can be sure of a shoo-in at the Poli." Why did he feel like sweat was pouring down his forehead?

"I see," Jenny said dryly, though she clearly didn't. "And just what, may I ask, is the Poli?"

"It's the Pearly Gates," he said, immediately regretting his choice of words.

"So we'll die there?"

"Not quite, Jenny. It's going to send us soaring." His conviction echoed in his voice now. "We're going to be stars, you and I. Big Time, not the Middle Time circuit either. BIG time. And the Poli is going to be our jumping off point."

"I see." And maybe she did, Frank noted as the tension in her mouth lessened and the smile that grew there spread to her eyes.
 
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3.

The tumbling dwarfs were not going down well and Frank was pacing in the wings, out of reach and earshot of Jenny. There was a desultory smattering of applause from the half filled house in Buffalo.

The compere did his best with a build up, billing them as straight from Toledo. He should have known better as a wise guy in the audience called out, "what are they, a cowboy act?" It drew the biggest laugh of the night so far. Frank adjusted his tie and went out.

****

Jenny lay on her bed and sighed, looking at the bottle of scotch in the motel room. She shook her head, denying herself a drink and listened as Frank clattered around in the bathroom. They'd agreed that they would share a room and Jenny's brother sleep separately, since there might be times they'd want to rehearse. So long as they're separate beds, Jenny had agreed. She wasn't looking for this to get any more complicated than it was and Frank was all for that. He was wondering if they had done the right thing.

Frank came out in vest and boxers and Jenny raised the movie gossip magazine to cover the sight.

"Mr Nash, do you have to do that?" she said with mock annoyance.

Frank towelled his hair and grinned. He sat on Jenny's bed. "I was just trying to bring some excitement into your life," he said. She peeked over the top of the magazine and rolled her eyes before letting the paper fall to her stomach.

"We're not doing so good, Frank."

He shrugged and was about to begin his optimistic patter when he noticed her face. He felt sorry for dragging her out with him but then nodded.

"I know sweetheart. What we need is some fresh material. An angle."

They both sat and thought and then he smiled. "How about - we're married?"

Jenny blinked. "Is this a good time? It's so sudden Frank." She put a hand on her chest dramatically. He flicked her thigh with the towel.

"On stage. Mr and Mrs Nash."

She shook her head. "Nonono...I keep my name and..."

****

They recruited Jeremy for the part they wrote that night. He was nervous as a kitten but agreed to give it a go. Instead of "straight from Toledo," they gave the announcer a new line.

"People say that Jenny Oliver is responsible for Frank Nash being the man he is today. See what you think when you meet Nash and Oliver - oh and a man trying to find out just what Jenny is responsible for..."

Jeremy, looking stiff and nervous came on from one side as Frank entered from the other.

"Alright, let's start at the top. Name?" Jeremy squeaked but managed to project his voice as Frank had told him.

"Frank Nash."

"Occupation?"

"I'm married to Jenny Oliver." There was a smattering of laughter.

"No. No, no. What do you do? What keeps you busy?"

"I'm married to Jenny Oliver."

"Let me put it this way. What's your source of income?"

"I'm married to Jenny Oliver."

"Alright, skip it. What's your age?"

"Approximately 34."

"How come you look older?"

"I'm married to Jenny Oliver."

Jenny looked out at the crowd who were lapping it up. She grinned, looking forward to her entrance.

****

By the end of the week long run, the house had begun to fill up; people wanted to see a Splash of Nash. The last night in Buffalo, they both decided on a glass of scotch in the motel and it wasn't to dorwn sorrows. They had got in late after a quick party for those moving on from the theatre to other venues and a meal.

"You having fun, Mrs Nash?" Frank asked as he pulled off his jacket.

"That's Jenny Oliver to you."

"How formal."

It's the way I was brought up. No Mrs till after the nuptials."

"Anything on account?" By this time they were stood face to face, eye to eye, ad-libbing, segueing into characters and they grinned, knowing they had a connection and that sometime soon they might well come up with the personas that would give them the big time.

Frank slid his arms around Jenny's waist.

"Don't you be getting fresh Mr Nash."

"Why you want it stale?"

She smiled and put her arms round his neck as they kissed. He walked forward as they did so and she felt the edge of the bed against the back of her calves. She didn't complain.

They didn't speak as he opened her blouse and kissed the swell of her breasts, fumbling like a teenager for the clasp. He didn't say her name as he wanted to, didn't want anything to stop them. Her hands pulled at the shirt he wore, loosening it, her nails glidng under it, up his back.

He suckled her nipples, feeling them harden in his mouth and she pressed his head to her breast as his hand slid under her skirt, pushing it up. Her hand slid to his fly, already she could feel he was hard.

Their mouths sought each other as their hands fumbled through clothes; his fingers gently felt into her panties, across the soft hairs, into the damp folds of her body. She moaned as he stroked her, caressed her, made her wetter. She purred as she held him and he thrust his hard cock through her fingers. Again he lowered his mouth to her nipples, again she squeezed him, her other hand running up his back.

They moved together; they both knew they couldn't make love but they knew they wouldn't stop until...

She pushed against his hand between her legs, gasping, riding his fingers. He pushed inside her while pressing against her clit, she moved her hand in time with the increasing pace of his thrusts against her thigh.

She groaned. "Yesss..." she bucked against him gasping, "come for me Frank.."

She felt his erection throb in her hand, felt the heat of his seed spurt against her thigh.

They panted, lying together without speaking, half asleep in the early morning.
 
4. A Splash of Nash

"I haven't heard from my Aunt Ethel in months."

"She never married, did she?"

"No. Her children wouldn't let her."

That night, after more than three months on the road, they found their first "Blue Envelope" in their backstage mailbox at the same time they received a note from a booker offering a gig at the Poli Theater in Scranton. Jenny sighed. "I guess this scraps the Poli, huh?"

"Not a chance, toots," Frank reassured her with a broad grin and a squeeze. "We're on the next train out of here." And they were.

If you can make it in Scranton, you can make it anywhere!​

Located on the 200 block of Wyoming Avenue, the Poli Theater was one of the finest show houses in the country. It sat two thousand people with a lower floor, a mezzanine and a first and second balcony. Frank chucked Jenny under the chin as they stood out front. "You'll catch flies." Jenny blinked and nodded, but, while she could recall the ornate decor in minute detail many years later, she would never be able to describe the luxurious carpeting on the floor.

The audience was tough, and the afternoon crowd took a while to warm up to the couple. "It's the different names," Jeremy said as they ate dinner at the boarding house where they had taken, as usual, only two rooms.

"Why should that matter," Jenny exclaimed indignantly. "Jenny Oliver is my name and Nash is... his."

"People are old-fashioned, Jenny. It implies... stuff." The young man blushed, though his sister's face turned an even deeper shade. Frank remained silent and aloof.

That night's performance was slightly better received, but they still didn't have what it took to wow Scranton and the gruff foundry workers and miners that made up its audience. It wasn't difficult to see they were going to have to change their tack.

"At least you weren't billed first or last," Jeremy said as they made their way to their rooms. Frank and Jenny nodded in agreement; those two were the killer acts: first act never got heard as the audience settled and latecomers made their way to their seats and the last act was was meant to encourage folks to leave.

Frank had his arms around Jenny almost before the door closed behind them; they had continued the unconsummated lovemaking that had begun in Buffalo and he was eager for her touch. Tonight, though, Jenny pushed him away. "We need to work on our act, Frank," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"They're hicks," he protested.

"This is Scranton," she countered. "You were the one who told me this place would make us or break us. I don't like the idea of working in a sweatshop and I'm too young for retirement. Besides," she stared him resolutely in the eye, "I think Jeremy had a point."

Frank took off his jacket and threw it over the back of a chair before flopping down on the bed. He knew the kid was right about the names, but... he was determined to avoid any talk of preachers and rings - not that Jenny ever brought it up, but Frank Nash wasn't the marrying kind. "Well, you were the one who insisted on using your own name."

"That was then," she replied quietly. "Look, Frank. I'm not talking about marriage here so stop being so prickly. We just need a new name for our act. Something more... ambiguous."

He kicked his shoes off. "You shot me down when I suggested Mr. and Mrs. Nash," he reminded her caustically.

Jenny sighed. "Guilty as charged, but a gal's allowed to change her mind."

Frank groaned. Didn't he know that. Sitting up, he opened a bottle of Scotch and poured some into a glass that sat on the nightstand.

Jenny grinned. "That's it!"

"What's it??"

"A splash," Jenny continued, grinning. "A Splash of... Nash."

It was brilliant! It might take a day or so to get the sign changed, but Frank recognized a winner when he heard it - and so did the hard-to-sell audience.

******​

Their first afternoon on stage as "A Splash of Nash" was a turning point in their career.

"Got a cigarette," Jenny asked as she approached Frank onstage.

"Sure. Here you are," he replied.

"Thanks. Got a match?"

"Sure. Want me to light it for you?"

"No thanks. I don't smoke."

"Then why did you ask me for a cigarette?"

"Well, I thought I better have it in case somebody asked me for one."

"I see."

"Would you like a cigarette?"

"No thanks."

"Well, good night."

"Goodnight."

Jenny started to leave and suddenly turned around.

"Okay, okay, now what?"

"Got the time?"

"Yeah, it's exactly uh, ten ten."

"Thanks, thanks."

"I meant it's ten minutes after ten."

"You're wrong. My watch says fifteen after ten."

"You've got a watch?"

"Sure."

"Then why did you ask me the time?"

"Want a cigarette?"

"No!"

"Well, good night." She walked away again only to return seconds later. "Oh, it's you again."

"Yeah, fancy meeting me here. Can't I uh, give you the slip?"

"Please! I couldn't accept a thing like that from a strange man!" Jenny winced, but kept on going.

"All right. What do you want this time?"

"Got a road map?"

"A road map? Are you lost?"

"No."

The audience roared, but Jenny's innuendo left her worried. "I'm sorry, Frank," she said as they left the stage.

"For what?" he asked, his eyes on the empty cubby where a blue envelope was sure to be if they'd overstepped.

They looked at each other and grinned. It was empty! Well, not quite. There was a note from a booker inviting them to New York.

******​

That night they celebrated with a late dinner at a nearby restaurant, both a little tipsy by the time they returned to their room. "We did it, baby doll," Frank murmured into Jenny's hair as she wound her arms around his neck, he in his customary vest and boxers and she in a slip.

"Mmhmm... " she murmured as his hand played over her breast. Her nipples were stiff little buds that demanded attention and Frank was quick to oblige until at last she broke the silence and pushed him away. "Frank?"

He looked at her, trying to gauge her thoughts and wondering why she was so suddenly coy. Jenny smiled and stepped back, lifting her slip up over her head. He watched it flutter to the floor and then turned his eyes back to her. My god, she was beautiful.

Jenny held out her hands almost shyly. "Make love with me," she whispered and nodded, answering the next question in Frank Nash's eyes.
 
They made love that night and the following evening on the train on the short trip to New York, which they took on the overnight stopping service. The ticket clerk looked over his glasses.

"You want a sleeping compartment but you're only travelling like - two hours."

The boy was young.

"We're show people," Frank said, "you know how zany we are."

Frank and Jenny signed autographs for him and his friend at the other window and the ticket buying crowd muttered objections - though even one of them had his New York Times signed.

They made their zany love. Frank licked up between Jenny's breasts and sat up on his elbows and grinned. "OK, you ready?"

Jenny frowned again wondering what he was up to; she wasn't feeling like rehearsing a routine as she felt the end of his hardness tickle her pussy and remembered how until a few moments ago he had been licking her there. She ran her hand through his hair and there was the sound of the whistle outside; the train began to move - and so did Frank.

"Ohh, there's that big piston...can you feel it?" The train, with the timing of a trouper, hissed and coughed, the pace of the pistons slowly picking up. He pushed against her, in and out and despite herself she grinned and ran her hands up his back as he slid inside her.

"You want my cylinder, you Midnight Ghost?" she whispered and nibbled his ear lobe.

"HmmHmmm," he said to the sound of the train and its gentle rocking. He didn't move as quickly as the pistons and a few times they decided to de-couple the engine to investigate other means of locomotion but they both arrived at their destinations - in Jenny's case, two or three times.

****
Jacob Bukowski was a short rotund man who sat behind a large walnut desk, a phone nearly always stuck to his ear, a foul smelling cigar permanently clamped in his teeth. He gestured to them both to come in and sit down.

"OK, it's a deal. I'll get Thelma to bike the papers over to you," he said down the phone.

Bukowski leaned back, the old chair he was on creaking a complaint and he closed one eye against smoke rather than take the cigar from his full lips.

"People tell me a lot about you guys. I came to see you in Scranton."

"You must have liked what you saw," said Frank, "the contract is pretty - fair." he finished off, remembering Jenny had told him not to praise it too highly.

Jacob coughed out a laugh. "Pretty fair. You're new to New York and you get a deal this good - guys, you two are going places and I'm the driver. That contract is just a start. I see you two on radio."

It was Frank's turn to gape and fly catch. Jenny poked him in the back.

"For now, I got you just below the headliners at Keith's Palace. Get over there, work up some material. Don't re-use the Scranton stuff, audiences here know re-runs. Keep it fresh."

They did.

Interviews with the trade press then the big newspapers followed. Times were good and good times were had. Love was made but no babies (now they were in New York "precautions" were easier to come by and Jacob certainly wanted to make sure no accidental rugrat broke up his team heading for the stars).

****

It was raining when Jenny stepped out of Macy's with the shirt she'd seen that would suit Frank so well. The headlights of the traffic smeared light across the wet blacktop. She held her newspaper over her head and set of into the wind to get to the theatre in time for make-up. It was out front that she saw Frank - and a woman. He was holding her hands and laughing. She stepped into the shadows and watched Frank kiss the woman on the cheek and hug her before they waved and parted. The tapping of the woman's heels gre louder, walking towards Jenny's hiding place.
 
5. A Splash of Nash

"No way!" someone interjected.

"Way," replied the man telling the story, glad for the pause so he could wet his whistle as Rebecca replaced his empty glass with a full one.

"Men!" a woman chimed in. "Can't live with 'em. Can't kill 'em."

A chorus of voices, both male and female, seemed to agree though their issue was more with Frank Nash than men in general.

The storyteller grinned wryly and leaned back in his chair. "Relax, friends. It's not over till it's over."

Too high-tone to be theater, Jenny thought as the wind afforded her a whiff of the woman's pricey perfume as she walked past. If her heart had been pounding before, it had now taken a giant leap and landed right in her throat, pushing the tears she had been fighting up, out and down her cheeks like a waterfall. How could she have been so stupid? How could she...

It was no secret that Frank Nash had always been one for the girls. The women in his past, laid end-to-end on their backs the way he left them, would have gone from here to California and maybe on to Fiji - at least according to the stories she'd heard. And there had been enough to fill a library. Or ten. Why she could have ever thought their relationship was "different" was beyond her. Fools rush in and all that... or so the big girls said.

Jenny waited until the woman was well past her hidey-hole before she stepped back out onto the sidewalk, into the hustling bustle of people dashing for cover while others were unsuccessfully hailing cabs that everyone knew disappeared from the face of the earth with the first drop of rain. Jostled and elbowed, pushed and shoved, she walked blindly along, impervious to everything - even of the sound, like breaking glass, of her heart as it shattered.

It was dark by the time she got back to the hotel, drenched to the bone. As for the shirt she had bought for Frank... well, that fallen from her hand into a lake-sized puddle when someone shoved past her to get in a taxi somewhere near 42d Street. Oops. She hadn't retrieved it.

"Where in the hell... " Frank, prepared to come off macho but failing for words when he saw Jenny's condition, jumped up from the bed where he'd been reading the reviews from the night before. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" he exclaimed. "You're drenched!"

He always did have a way of stating the obvious, Jenny thought, hysterical laughter threatening to break her silence as she shrugged off the bedspread he was trying to wrap around her. Pushing past him like someone trying to get the last seat on a bus, she made it to the en-suite bathroom and locked the door behind herself before he could follow. Once again the tears flowed as she knelt in front of the commode shivering and vomiting and, finally, retching until she thought her insides were going to tumble out. All the while, Frank was pounding, pleading at the door for her to tell him where she'd been and asking why she wouldn't let him in.

A hot bath and fresh, warm clothing did wonders for Jenny's appearance, though there was a strangely haunted look in her eyes that remained throughout their performance that night. Performance. Now that was a laugh. For the first time since they had started working together, Jenny Oliver was off her mark. And it showed. "We have to talk," Frank whispered out of the side of his mouth. "I have to tell you something."

Tonight she didn't even wait onstage to take their final bow. No "Say goodnight, Jenny." No nothing. In fact, when they exited the stage and came around, Jenny was nowhere to be seen. And no one had seen her either - or so they said.

She hadn't gone missing. Well, not exactly. She had just made arrangements, care of Jacob Bukowski, for a small room in an out-of-the-way hotel and a taxi to be waiting at the end of the act to take her there. Jacob hadn't asked questions and a good thing, too, because Jenny didn't have any of the answers. At least just yet.

Tomorrow, Jenny thought, as she tumbled into the bed, both physically and mentally exhausted. She was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow - and up at the crack of dawn throwing up what was left of her internal organs. At least she didn't have to be back at the theater till two that afternoon. IF she went at all.

"Damn you, Frank Nash!" she wailed. "You made me love you! Damn you!"
 
"I knew something was up," Bukowski explained to Frank when he came around, distraught when Jenny wasn't in the hotel suite. "I figured you two had some sort of bust up. Look..." He scribbled the name of the hotel down and Frank slapped him on the back and made his way outside. He told the crowd of people there what she'd done and that he didn't know why and told them to follow him over there.

"Jenny, open up," Frank said as he tried the hotel room door again. "It wasn't that bad, everyone fluffs the odd line now and again. Will you tell me what's the matter? Look, I've got someone here for you to meet."

He stood back from the door as the key was turned and Jenny stood in the doorway. She looked at Frank then at the other woman in the room; the woman she'd seen Frank holding hands with.

Jenny put her hands on her hips. "So, it's like this uh? What now - you want me to get my things together and get out? Well I'm half way there, Frank. I'll send for my stuff and you can install your fancy woman. Maybe she'll be taking my place in the act too," her eyes drove gimlet's through Frank's astonished face.

"Baby..."

Jenny went back inside and locked the door.

"Kinda...strange, isn't she," said the woman. Frankwaggled the palm of his hand at her indicating to hang on and then he knocked timidly at the door again.

"Sweetheart, what's wrong? You looked pale - are you ill? Should I get a doctor?"

There was no reply, just the sound of drawers being opened and Jenny muttering to herself.

"Look, sweetums, come out and meet Kathy. My sister. Please?"

It went quiet in the bedroom. Again Frank stood back from the door. The key turned slowly and Jenny emerged. She looked at Kathy then at Frank. She could see the ressemblance.

"Your sister?" she said and Frank nodded.

"I think I made a boo boo," she said and twisted the tear-soaked handkerchief in her hands as she told of seeing them holding hands and assuming, "well, you know."

"No babes, not me, not with my sister. That's kinda wierd even for me." Both women hit him. "Though maybe I could get into this; more, more," he said shielding his head as they hit him again, laughing.

"Jenny," he said after his beating, "look it's not just the two of us, I asked a few guys over from the theatre - thought we could celebrate." He paused and she frowned. He grinned and waved the reason why away for a moment.

"Look, you seem a bit washed out..."

She shook her head. "And about the doctor - he already said it was normal at this stage."

"You saw a doc?"

She nodded. "You're going to be a daddy Frank," she said and half grinned.

"Holy Moly," he mumbled as Kathy hugged Jenny, then he held her to him, tight and silently before holding her elbows and looking inher eyes. He shook his head and she couldn't help but laugh at his astonished look.

There was a knock at the door and without further invitation a gaggle of performers from the show began to come in, carrying drinks and glasses and food.

Joe Murphy, the ventriloquist ambled over to Frank and stuck out his meaty hand. "Congrats, Frank. You too, Jen."

Again Jenny put on her puzzled face. "Congratulations for what?"

Frank cleared his throat.

"Well, looks like we've got a couple of reasons to celebrate. Make that three - I hope. Now, I think I'm not going to get this in anything like the right order but, here goes. Jenny, you don't know yet but at the show the other night were people from NBC. Radio people. They want us to do a series of shows for them on WNBC-FM. They say a national sponsor might well pick it up."

Everyone applauded and Jenny put her hand to her mouth. "Really?"

"No I just made it up for fun. Of course really, that was why I invited everyone round. Sis here was passing through town and got to see the show and I didn't know she was here until afterwards so couldn't tell you but you'd gone. Anyway," he shrugged.

Jenny paced. "We're gonna be on radio. What do you wear for a radio show?" Everyone laughed and drinks were opened, toasts toasted, until Frank waved for silence.

"Seems I got some even better news when I came here to home away from home, thanks to Mr Bukowski," Frank looked for the big man standing at the edge of the crowd.

"Jenny here is sitting on the nest. We're going to have us a whole dynasty of comedians, starting with our first baby."

There was a cheer and Jenny was hugged more times then ever in her life, she recalled later.

"Now, well, like I said I don't know if I got the order here right but since you're all here, maybe you'll make sure she gets her lines right?" People looked puzzled.

Frank knelt down.

"Jenny, will you marry me?"

There was a happy sigh from the crowd then silence as they watched.

She looked down at Frank and a tear trickled from her right eye as the Vaudeville performers looked on, silently. She came to him and ran her hands through his hair before bending to kiss the top of his head.

"Of course," she said and an even louder cheer erupted, with more hugging and kissing.

The party resumed after the show, back at their more expansive suite in town. A few people slept over, finding they had temprorarily lost the use of their legs. Amid the clutter of glasses and bottles and people, Jenny and Frank swayed against one another, waltzing without music.

"You know, getting the radio show is good timing," said Frank, his cheek next to hers.

"Oh yes," she said, taking the straight woman role this time.

"Uh uh," he said, "I can keep you working longer when your bump shows than I could if we were on stage. Owww."

"Sorry, two left feet," said Jenny.

"Say good night Jenny," said Frank as he kissed her.



I've never forgotten
any of those people...


or any of the voices we used
to hear on the radio.


Although the truth is...


with the passing of
each New Year's Eve...


those voices do seem
to grow dimmer and dimmer.
Woody Allen, Radio Days, 1987.

Our tribute to the stars of Vaudeville, in the days when celebrity had to be earned.
 
The ending - or was it just the beginning - of the story had been upbeat, but Rebecca Sheldrake was sure there would be even bumpier roads ahead for Jenny Oliver and Frank Nash. It seemed to be the nature of the couple that there should be. What was it folks said about what didn't kill you making you stronger? She grinned. Not that she adhered to that particular train of thought. Uh uh. Nope. Not her.

A SPLASH OF NASH

Ingredients:
2 oz Cranberry juice
2 oz Soda water
½ oz Midori Melon liqueur
½ oz Creme de Banane

Mixing instructions:
Drop shot glass with banana & melon liqueurs into a 9 oz hi-ball glass containing soda water and cranberry juice. Drink in one shot.​

"Next?!?" she called out, looking up as the door to the Tabard opened yet again.
 
1.

The man came through the Tabard's door and shook off diamond like raindrops from his coat. He hung it up and took a seat at the bar.

"So, what did I miss," he said and winked at Rebecca.

"A few good tales," she replied, getting a glass for her customer.

"Blame it on the rain," he said and turned, leaning against the mahogany that had been burnished by many backs of coats and dresses over the years. He looked into the bar, into the faces of the audience and smiled.

"If Andrew Hood had let the rain put him off that day, there wouldn't have been a tale to tell. Well, at least not this one."

****

Andrew put the newspaper on the table and looked out of his kitchen window as a drizzle began to fall. He sighed and wondered whether to go to the antique fair he'd just read about in the small ads. He stood up and put his hands on his hips and arched his back, feeling his joints crack. He needed the exercise he decided.

Simba jumped up onto the table and he skritched her under the chin and she purred.

"You stay in," he said as she lifted her neck enjoying the attention. "No soggy moggy when I get back." He went to the hall and put on his waterproof jacket before stepping outside. He felt pleased with himself at leaving the car in the garage; it was only a couple of blocks and it was something to occupy him.

He walked quickly, his long gangly legs covering the ground rapidly until he came to the church hall that the small fair was housed in. He paid a modest admission and stood, wiping his glasses in the entrance way, which his why he peered myopically when he heard someone call out, "Andy! Good to see you."

He replaced the eyewear and smiled at a man a considerably shorter than himself (which wasn't difficult given his 6' 5") but more round and his equally diminutive female companion; in fact, his wife.

"Jack," Andy said and reluctantly took the man's hand. Jack squeezed it and pumped his arm.

"Not seen you for a while, not since whatshername left?" Jack was known for his sensitivity; his wife elbowed him in the ribs.

"Marcie." Andrew recalled his girlfriend of a year and a half and how she'd left two months ago.

"Must have been difficult," Jack's wife, Eileen, said.

Andrew shrugged. "I'm over it," he said in a monotone. Eileen gave him a knowing smile. "Come around for dinner one night soon. I'll ring you," she said.

"We can watch the game next week on TV," Jack said.

"Anything good in there?" Andrew prompted quickly to prevent Jack entering into some long football story.

"Naaw," said Jack and Eileen shook her head too.

"Well, I'll take a look around. Speak to you soon," Andrew said and walked towards the restrooms.

He'd mostly gotten the obsessive compulsive thing under control but recently he'd heard that colds were often caught through being passed on by handshakes. Marcie hadn't liked that about him. He dried his hands and walked into the hall.

The church's own stalls held pride of place and their content consisted of trinkets that spent their life doing the rounds of such sales. He wandered on looking at the tables at the outer parts of the hall; a few of these were more specialised.

He walked past jewellry, cunningly lit to make minute diamonds corruscate. He had his collection of jewellry though; six different enamelled brooches. Each collection he had had six pieces and no more. Once he had reached that figure if he wanted something else he had to get rid of one already in the collection. Marcie had quite liked that. To begin with.

His eye was taken by a stall laden with glassware. He began to poke around among boxes until his eye was taken by one marked "perfume bottles." They seemed of indeterminate date and he had no expertise on such things. He picked up a long cylindrical bottle of clear glass, with, carved into it, almost going the whole length of the tapering cylinder, smooth depressions that reminded him of the hull of a Viking long boat. It still had a spray attachment with it and he presumed that made it more valuable.

"It's French. From the 1930's," said a voice that made him jump and look around. The man wore a cravat, Andrew noticed, which was unusual in itself. A gaudy pink cravat and he seemed to have taken a liking to a particularly sickly aftershave. Andrew stepped back.

"Really?"

The man nodded his angular face and held out his hand for the bottle. When he was given it he removed the sprayer and covered the narrow opening with his finger.

"Smell," he said and handed Andrew the bottle back. He took another step away from the aromatic man and inhaled. His eyes widened and the man smiled.

"A scent," Andrew said, detecting traces on the very edge of sensation of an un-nameable aroma.

"From the time the bottle was made," replied the man.

He handed it back and said, "surely that's impossible."

"No, not if it is undisturbed, as this was." He replaced the spray attachment and the stall holder went behind his desk and rummaged, returning with a faded black and white photograph which he handed to Andrew. The picture was of a woman, a beautiful young woman, dressed in black. She had a slight smile upturning her rosebud lips but there was a sombre air to her.

"It was in a box when I bought a mixed lot a few years ago. "There were things in the house that had not even been opened from the 1960's, 70's - and this. A relic from long ago."

Andrew smiled and asked how much it was - with the photograph. He got them both for $50.

****

He put the bottle away in a drawer in the bedroom and forgot it for a few days but the strange hint of the scent kept insinuating itself into his dreams, as did the woman's face.

He woke up a few days later and lay on his back and wondered. He'd heard some amazing tales about perfumier's and their skill in recreating scents. For some reason, he wanted to recreate this one; perhaps because it lay there, on the edge of existence and he felt, strangely, that he wanted to save this odd link from the past from disappearing.

He sat up and wondered - how would he find a perfumier in Pittsburgh?
 
1. Was it just an... Illusion?

Andrew stepped into the dimly lit shop and looked around. There was a shelf of books, mostly new age and occult, as well as several glassed in cases of paraphernalia and apothecary jars filled with herbs and other indistinguishable contents for, he imagined, working spells and the like. The rear of the store was set up with several tables occupied by a motley looking group of people, some having their cards read, others drinking cups of tea and coffee. He drew in his breath and as a woman, who seemed to bounce on the balls of her feet (much like a boxer) as she walked, approached him.

"Merry meet," she purred, eyeing him up and down in a way that made Andrew a bit uncomfortable. "May I help you?"

He coughed into a handkerchief pulled from the inside pocket of his blue linen jacket and nodded. "I hope so. I'm looking for a perfumer."

"Well," the woman replied. "We don't exactly make perfumes here, but we do create scents from oils and... "

"Isn't that what a perfumer does?" he interjected.

"In a way. Ours are... special." The woman's look became catlike and almost predatory as she glanced down at the carved teak box he held in his left hand. "What exactly is it you're looking for?"

Andrew sighed. "I'm not sure you... "

"Give me a try," she said superciliously. "I've never turned away a dissatisfied customer before."

While he had his doubts, Andrew moved toward a counter and slowly opened the lid to the small box he held.

"You're looking for perfume bottles?" she asked. "We have several, but none as old as this one."

"No," he replied, thinking he was about to be made a fool of. "It's not the bottle that I am looking for. I have that." It was his turn to be supercilious and he almost laughed aloud. "I am looking for, as I said earlier, a perfumer. Someone who can tell me what this perfume was and, perhaps, recreate it for me."

The woman nodded, and held her hand out palm up. "May I?"

Andrew lifted the bottle from its nest and unscrewed the atomizer from the top. "It's circa 1930," he informed her. "French."

She nodded and, holding the bottle tentatively to her nose, inhaled. "It's... "

"Lovely, isn't it?" he offered almost too eagerly.

The woman nodded. "Oriental. I can recognize some of the scents but I'm not sure... " She sniffed again.

"Can you... "

She sighed and handed the bottle back. "It will be pricey, of course."

He could almost see the dollar signs replacing the pupils in her eyes. "Yes, well... " He replaced the bottle into the box, and was just closing the lid back when she reached out to stop him. His skin crawled. Heavens knew what she had touched with those meaty paws.

"I never said I couldn't," she said breathily.

"You never said you could. Look, miss... I am not interested in playing games. I'm looking for a perfumer. Can you tell me where I might find one?"

"Finders fee?"

"Only if the contact is legit," he countered, rather annoyed by the avarice that shone in her eyes.

"Fair enough. There is someone I know who might put you in contact with... "

This time Andrew did laugh aloud as he retrieved the box from the table. That person would know another person who knew another person. "Thank you for your time." Ignoring her protests, he opened the door and walked back out onto the sidewalk. He'd have to rethink his search and approach it from a different angle.

He had almost reached his car when a hand on his arm and a quiet whispery voice stopped him. The man was tall and almost skeletally thin, a junkie at first glance. Andrew clutched the box close to his chest and reached in his trouser pocket for his keys.

"I overheard you talking to Kali," he blurted in a low, steady tone as he lifted his hands to show that they were quite empty of any sort of weapon.

Andrew looked at him again. His hair dark, long and his goatee was meticulously trimmed. In truth, despite the severity of his body shape and the color of his clothing (black, all black) the man's eyes were gentle and his smile was kind.

"As I said," he continued. "I heard you talking and I just... "

"Happen to know a perfumer in Pittsburgh?" Oh, brother.

"No. But I do know a perfumer. He's retired now and doesn't live here."

"I see. And of course, you want a finder's fee as well?"

The man shook his head sadly. "No. It's my uncle, actually. But he lives in... "

Andrew stepped back as the man reached into the front inside pocket of his leather. "I'll write the address and give you the phone number. He's not online or I'd give you that." He laughed, another different sort of whispery sound. "His name is... " Flipping through pages of a small notebook, he scribbled as he spoke. "Paul. Paul Sneddon." He ripped the page from the book and handing it to Andrew, began to walk away.

Glancing at the paper, Andrew looked up. "Hey!" he called to the man who was disappearing around a corner. "Wait!"

"Good luck!" the man called back. "You can tell him Martin gave you the address."

Andrew looked at the address again and sighed. "France. Right around the corner."

Unlocking the car door, he slid into the seat and set the ornately carved box on the seat beside himself before looking at the paper again. "Well, it can't hurt. And what's a phone call?" He turned the key in the ignition and eased his car into what was now the beginning of rush hour traffic. It would take him more than forty five minutes to get home.
 
Last edited:
2. Illusion

Rebecca looked up and smiled, sliding an Illusion down the bar to the Tabard's current storyteller.

"So? Was the perfumer real?"

"Yeah. That chick from the shop probably set all this up to fool that poor sap, right?"

The man took a sip of his drink and spun the stool around, leaning back on his elbows and looking out over the room. "Everyone doesn't have their hand out for cash," he replied. "Patience."

Rebecca couldn't help chuckling. "That's what they ALL say."

Andrew set the teak box in the center of the dining room table and continued into the kitchen where he washed his hands and set a kettle on to boil. His next stop was the bedroom, where he undressed, exchanging his jacket, shirt and trousers for a pair of shorts and a polo shirt; he left his shoes off, but kept his socks on. The kettle shrilled.

Lapsang souchong. He poured the water over the tea bag, inhaling it's smoky aroma and carried it to the kitchen table where a tin of shortbread cookies was calling his name. One more stop took him to the cupboard where the phone book sat on a shelf; he took it down and was halfway back to the kitchen when he turned around to retrieve the teak box as well. He slid into a chair and, with what he considered a well-deserved sigh, removed the tea bag and reached for the sugar bowl. The teaspoon tinkled a calming tune as he stirred.

Satisfied that the sugar had dissolved, Andrew took the first sip of the steaming brew and reached for the cookies, opening the tin and removing four. No more, no less. He replaced the lid and made a mental note to pick up more on his next grocery run. Now, he thought, taking a bite and chasing it down with a second gulp, now... He reached for the teak box and opened it, staring down at the perfume bottle nestled in its red velvet lining.

"So what are we going to do with you?" he asked, considering the odd coincidence of a man showing up out of nowhere with the name, address and phone number of a perfumer. Andrew didn't believe in coincidences. He opened the phone book to check the country and city code against the one on the scrap of paper.

They matched. He closed the book and pushed it aside, glancing up at the clock on the wall. Five hours or six, he wondered. Either way, it might still be early enough to make a call. He leaned back in his chair to ponder what he would say. Another bite of shortbread and another swallow of tea. A deep breath and he reached for the telephone. If he didn't do it now, he would never do it.

Argenteuil, France​

Dressed in a red velvet dressing gown and a pair of slippers that had seen better days, Paul Sneddon shuffled into his study, a book and a cup of warm milk in his hands. Setting them on the table, he turned on the radio and eased himself into an overstuffed chair that quite dwarfed the small, elderly man. He was seventy seven.

His wizened face, reminiscent of a dried-apple doll's, was merely the backdrop for his bright blue eyes and, he reached for his reading glasses and set them gently on the bridge of his nose, which was, of course, the centerpiece. Overlarge and bulbous, his nose had served him well - providing the luxurious home he lived in and all the niceties a retired gentleman of his age and status could possibly require.

Days and evenings for him had begun to run one into the other since he had retired, though he still lectured occasionally at Givaudan Roure, a school that offered in-house training for its own perfumers. He sniffed the air out of habit and was leaning over to pick up his mug of milk when the phone rang, leaving him to wonder who would be calling him at this hour. It was nearly eight o'clock at night.

"Oui?"

"Hello. Mr. Sneddon?"

"Oui."

His voice was dry as dust, but not unpleasant sounding. Andrew Hood took a deep breath. "You don't know me but... "
 
Andrew narrated his story, half in broken French, part in English, part they both stumbled through together as Paul Sneddon, it seemed to Andrew, snagged just the right words to express what he was trying to say.

"I am surprised you do not speak better French," Paul said.

"Oh?"

"You are clearly a born romantic," Paul said by way of explanation.

Andrew smiled as Sneddon continued, "I could advise you of people in New York - who I used to work for they have some - how do you say? Off-growth?"

"Off shoot?"

Paul grunted. "They do work there. However, it all depends." He paused.

"On what?" Andrew interjected as the pause lengthened.

"How serious you are about this."

Andrew realised he hadn't thought about it that deeply. He suddenly realised that he was speaking to a man in France about a perfume long since vanished. He frowned.

Paul spoke again. "If you are serious, then there is only one course of action you should take. You should come to me."

Andrew found himself nodding then saying, "I couldn't possibly - the time - the cost..."

"The cost is negligible. Get yourself here, you can stay with me. I will work for nothing as this mystery intrigues me. We shall see if it can be done."

Andrew spluttered and smiled. As if it had been sensed via the phone line, he heard Paul chuckle. "Let me know when you are coming."

****

Sally from the street over was used to Andrew's ways. She'd looked after Simba before and she crooked a finger at him and walked into the kitchen. Andrew followed the sound of her flip flops clattering on wood.

"I have the list from last time," she pointed to his neatly typed catalogue concerning caring for his puss. "I crossed the one about the dog at 4226 off, they moved. So, tell me, you excited about the trip? What are you taking off for France for?"

Andrew shrugged and mumbled about a vacation and having to brush up on his French.

"Ooo la la! Oui!" she laughed to herself and then saw his anxious look. She patted his arm. "You'll be fine. Have a great time. Call me if you want to hear Simba purring, OK?"

****

He was still brushing his French on the plane via his iPod but was pleased when he managed to buy his train ticket to Argenteuil with little misunderstanding. Paul, as he had told Andrew, was there to meet him at the other end. Andrew smiled at the older man and followed him out into the station car park towards a Citroen DS whose once olive green had faded to a tepid shade of leaf.

"A classic car," Andrew said over the roof as he waited for M. Sneddon to persuade the driver's door to perform the door-ish duty of opening. It creaked and the small man got in and unlocked the passenger door.

"A bugger," he said in English. "But it reminds me of when I was young. When she and I were both young." He winked at Andrew and patted the steering wheel.

"Come, we will go to Givaudan first. Might as well make a start." Andrew nodded thinking it might have been nice to have a shower and change but he had realised in their few conversations Paul was a little - eccentric.

Paul had either forgotton or it was to pass the time on the drive, Andrew thought but he re-told his story of they years he had worked for the perfume company.

"They still let me come in and tinker. So long as I look suitably ga-ga they allow me to play - though I know a couple of perfumers who listen to what I say. One is a pretty thing...Annette." He gave his trademark chuckle and drove up to the gates of the factory, where security waved him inside without a second glance.

****

Something to his dismay, Andrew was introduced to everyone - which meant a lot of shaking of hands. He then had to tell his story several times, which resulted in much sighing from women technicians and seemingly knowing smiles from the men.

"Now, don't let this lot fool you as to what a real perfumer does. Nowadays it's all Alcohol C 11 Undecylenic, Aldehyde C 12 MNA Pure." He wrinkled his prodigious nose. "Pah! Come - we will use the real thing."

They walked through a laboratory to a cabinet labelled Original Ingredients. "They think if it doesn't come out of a test tube, analysed by gas chromatograph it won't smell sweet on the neck of some beatiful woman."

Andrew smiled and Paul peered at him beadily. "So. You have brought the bottle I hope?"

Andrew grinned before fishing in his carry on bag that he had brought with him. He pulled out the box and handed it to Paul.

The perfumer opened it and his eyes sparkled. "Let's get to work."
 
3. Illusion

Andrew watched expectantly as the gnome-like man set the bottle reverently on a table and donned a crisp white lab coat and a pair of rubber gloves which completed the picture in his mind's eye. The room was pristine, not unlike the way he envisioned a medical laboratory and he couldn't help comparing Paul Sneddon to a crazed scientist as he muttered to himself, seemingly oblivious to the younger man's presence. Cooing and murmuring, he scraped a few flakes from the long-dried dregs of the bottle with an implement that quite resembled a scalpel and gently eased them into a petri dish.

"Nowadays," he said with no small amount of derision, "they use synthetic substances in perfumes. In my time," he added "we used ambergris, castoreum, civet, musk... " He snorted. "Far too pricey now for most and not... " He cackled. "Environmentally correct." Sneddon cupped his hand over the precious flakes and scooped the air in the direction of his bulbous nose. Nostrils flaring he uttered a quiet "Ah!"

"Ah?" Andrew moved as close to the perfumer as he dared, wondering skeptically whether the old man was going to follow his monosyllabic interjection with a "Eureka!", "The Eagle has landed!", or even a victorious "I found it!". It couldn't possibly have been that easy. Could it?

Sneddon nodded, repeating "Ah" as if it explained everything, which, of course, it did not. At least it didn't for Andrew.

He watched with mounting anticipation as Paul placed a cover over the dish and moved toward a cabinet that held bottles labelled with exotic sounding words. Fragrances, Andrew guessed, nearly bumping into Sneddon as he drew up short and was summarily directed to find himself a seat and take it.

"Fragrance," the older man said, "can be divided into three notes: top notes, middle notes, and base notes." Andrew nodded, trying to balance himself on a stool, one leg of which seemed to have a faulty or missing caster. Sneddon continued, his fingers caressing some of the bottles as he spoke. "The top note is the first part of the fragrance and is composed of the lighter and more volatile fragrance materials. This is the first impression or first impact one experiences as one opens a bottle of perfume. The middle note is the second part or body of the fragrance. This is the heart of the fragrance, which really defines its main character. Base notes, the third or last part of the fragrance, are made up of the least volatile, long lasting ingredients such as powders, plant resins. These ingredients have a fixative character and can be discerned on the skin long after most of the fragrance has evaporated."

But Andrew stopped listening for a moment, his thoughts wandering at the mention of the word "skin" and the photograph of the woman that had accompanied the bottle of perfume, its scent forever etched into his memory. He imagined the way she might tremble as his lips grazed over her skin, the way she might moan softly, the way she would smell, taste... He felt himself growing aroused only to be startled back into the now.

"I said," the old man reiterated something Andrew had obviously missed. "This perfume denotes lust and seduction. Does it not?"

Andrew nodded, blushing as he tried to situate himself on the stool in such a way as to not give away his preternatural reaction to thoughts of the scent. This whole thing was crazy. Had he lost his mind? He certainly wasn't working on all cylinders. Yet, here he was - obsessed with a photograph and an empty bottle of perfume - in Argenteuil, France - wild goose chase well underway. Why? he wondered, not for the first time. Why?

"It is," Sneddon continued, as much to himself as to his companion, "oriental. Yes," he nodded. "Quite."

Suddenly longing to be on his own, to be alone with his thoughts, Andrew sighed and murmured. "Perhaps I should find a hotel. It's getting... "

"Nonsense!" exclaimed the gnome. "We agreed that you would stay at my home and that is where you will stay. Glancing at the wall clock, for he wore no wristwatch, the old man grunted. "But you must be tired and hungry after your trip." He began to put things away, and though he indicated that Andrew should reclaim the bottle, it was with reluctance that he labelled the dish holding the precious flakes of perfumed bits and placed it, almost reverently Andrew thought, on a shelf in a cabinet that he locked securely and tested the fastness of before turning aside. "Come."
 
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Paul took Andrew out to a small restaurant near his house. They ate leisurely, sharing a few stories though it was mostly Andrew listening to the tales the old perfumer told.

It didn't seem long before Andrew was stifling yawns.

"Let's get you back home. Tomorrow, you will have your recreated your perfume."

The house was comfortable and the bed inviting...

****

...As was the one he woke up in. The room was smaller and it was morning. The window was open, a white net curtain billowed inwards caressed by a breeze that could not keep to itself it's hints of the sea.

He sat up and looked around; he had heard about such lucid dreams but had never had one himself. The satin sheet slid down his smooth, naked chest. From the other side of the half open bedroom door he could smell fresh baked bread and coffee.

He was wondering about getting out of bed when the door opened wider and a woman came in, carrying a tray. Andrew smiled. It was the woman in the picture that had accompanied the perfume bottle. She looked up and grinned at him, and he had to close his eyes for a second.

She sat on the bed. "Is something the matter?"

Her voice was soft, sensual like the warm breeze that caressed their bodies. He leaned back against the headboard, shaking his head from side to side slowly. He opened his eyes and swallowed, meeting her gaze.

"I didn't know what love was, until right now."

She tilted her head; loose curls tumbled to her shoulders, which were covered by the pale blue silk wrap. She reached out and put her hand on his knee, where his bent leg made the bedclothes peak.

Andrew sought out the sensations he had never felt in his life about any woman and luxuriated in them. She didn't reply, just poured coffee and handed him a cup. He took the clean white porcelain and sipped the black liquid.

They ate warm bread and butter. She looked at him, a seriousness in her large, dark eyes.

"What are we going to do today?"

He studied her face then said, "What's your name?"

She laughed. He sat up, kneeling on the bed beside her, the sheet falling away from his nakedness. He took her hands.

"That's what we'll do today. We'll be getting to know each other like strangers, like new lovers." His hands strayed up, stroking her forearms gently, back and forth.

Slowly she nodded. "All right. For the morning - then, perhaps - something else." She moved closer to Andrew; he felt the warmth of her next to him. She reached out her hand on his cheek and he shivered, a breath that he was to take delayed by her touch.

His arms went around her and he kissed her unruly hair. His hand slid across her breast, feeling the nipple pressing at the taut fabric. He opened his eyes and looked at the dressing table.

Slowly he rocked back. He bent towards her kissing her lips fleetingly, taking his own turn to stroke her face. Then he stood and walked to the table, picking up the perfume bottle.

"Put some on for me?"

She stood up and turned towards him. Slowly she undid the thin belt and let the silk slide from her body. She walked over, her hips rolling. She put her hands behind his neck and he felt her lace her fingers together. Her smile was like a flame flickering over her face.

"You put it on me," she breathed.

He took the stopper and ran a streak of the fragrance behind her ears. She bent her head, shaking it a little.

"You tickle."

He smiled and wet the glass again. He drew the end of the stopper down between her breasts. She watched it slide down to her abdomen then looked up at him. He half turned in her arms and set the bottle down carefully.

When he turned back, he pulled her to his chest and kissed her, hard and deep. When they broke the kiss he was hard and they wriggled to trap his erection between them. She put out the tip of her tongue and placed her feet on his. He took her wrists, like she was one of the dancing dolls he had seen occasionally. As he stepped forward, he carried her towards the bed.

They kissed again. he suckled her neck; she didn't complain that he was tickling her. He felt her knead his shoulders with her nails and they fell back into the bed. It creaked a little. His mouth travelled down her skin to revel in her breasts, her nipples. She mewled her pleasure.

Andrew felt her hands on his back, over his ass, pulling him to her. He rubbed against her sex with the base of his cock. as they moved his balls were made wet by her juices.

They kissed harder. He prayed the dream would not end yet.
 
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4. Illusion

Her skin flushed, her breath quickened and her hips arched up as the hot length of his sex slid inside. She was moist clay, formed and reformed for his pleasure and her orgasm came with this first sweet thrust.

"Call me... Elle," she murmured as the duel began. Each of their bodies trying to impress the other, the scent of her perfume now mingled with the dark musk of their lovemaking.

A distant knocking. Getting louder. Louder.

A voice. Calling out. Insistent. Exigent

Who is that knocking? Knocking at my door?​

Andrew's eyes were wide and desperate as he gazed into hers; into Elle's. Sweat glistened on his skin like tears as he whispered. "Don't leave me! Elle... Don't... "

The door burst open and the gnomelike perfumer raced into the room to find Andrew, face down in his pillows, calling out softly, desperately for a woman that was no longer there.

It took every bit of self-control for Andrew to to keep from shouting at his host, but after several deep breaths and a few determined pokes in his shoulder accompanied by an envelope being thrust repeatedly at his cheek, he rolled over and started vacantly at the old, wizened face with twinkling eyes that peered at him over the top of wire-rimmed bifocals.

"Well?" Paul Sneddon demanded. "Well???"

Andrew blinked. "Well what??"

"What do you think I have here? Well? What do you... "

His eyes followed the blurred path of a yellowed envelope as it was waggled in front of his face. Timing his move, Paul lunged forward, reaching out to grasp Paul's wrist firmly. "How can I tell when you don't keep it still long enough for me to see?"

As the old man began to laugh, Andrew eased the envelope from Paul's gnarled fingers and glanced at the front. It was addressed to someone named Eric Schulmann, the postmark was from the United States and very, very old. He turned it over and back again before looking up at Paul. "And this is?"

"Open it, you twit! Open it!!"

Doing as he was told, Andrew lifted the flap of the envelope and pulled out a letter which was accompanied by a vague trace of... He held the stationery to his nose and inhaled. Could it be? He inhaled again.

"Well? Well?? Aren't you going to read it?"

Andrew's hands were shaking as he carefully unfolded the page to reveal a photograph. A photograph of... No! It couldn't be! He peered through tearfilled eyes at a picture that was unmistakably... Elle. "Wha... " His eyes searched the return address on the envelope before turning back to the letter. As he began to read, Paul started to explain.

"Eric. He was my,,, Well, nevermind that now. This was among his papers, you see. He is the one who created that perfume. She is the one he created it for. After he was... gone... I opened it, you see. I opened all the letters." The old man sighed deeply. "I missed him so. We'd had so little time and I... I wanted to find more pieces of him. More memories to... cherish." Paul's voice cracked. "Coffee. It's made. Breakfast. Come."

As quickly as he had entered the room, the perfumer was gone, leaving Andrew to continue reading the letter on his own.

13 May 1937​
Dear Mr. Schulmann,
I made inquiries at Givaudin Roure where my perfume was made and, after several correspondences was finally given your name. I was wondering if...

The letter went on, but Andrew stopped reading, his attention back on the photograph. It was her! There was no mistake. He leaned back against his pillows and stared at the face, trying to conjure her into the room. Into his arms. Into his bed. "Elle... " It was like talking to the wind, but there was no reply. There was no reply."

In the gloaming...​

The old woman sat unnoticed in her chair, a single tear rolling down her cheek.
 
Paul was sitting in his study when Andrew found him. On the red wood of the polished desk sat an old book bound in wrinkled leather. The leaves inside had brown edges. Paul's hands sat either side of the volume, his thumbs occasionally flicking across the worn cover.

When Andrew entered, the perfumer leaned back in his chair. The wood of the seat creaked.

"This is a strange tale, M. Hood, don't you think?"

Andrew took a seat opposite the old man. A scent of blossoms wafted in from the garden; Paul had the window open. A car passed by on the road. Andrew met Paul's gaze but tilted his head.

"Strange?"

Paul smiled and leaned forward. "You have the letter?"

Andrew looked down; he seemed almost surprised to find it still in his hand.

"There was a photograph..."

Paul drew in a breath, then chuckled. "Of course there was." He placed his reading glasses on his nose and studied the letter, shaking his head and smiling. He glanced up, looking at his companion.

"Tres etrange. Tres." Paul opened the book in front of him. "My friend, Eric, he kept this book all his life. He like me worked as a perfumer though he was more independent. He had his private clients and the fragrances that he made for them, he kept the notes in here." He smiled, enveloped in a memory. "We would study it, sometimes, in the evenings, reclling the scents in our minds. You think that odd?"

Andrew smiled and shook his head.

"It was our passion. It kept us together for forty years." He cleared his throat and paused a moment, chewing his lip. He swallowed.

"It wasn't all that he included in the book. Although we found pleasure in each other, he was a romantic, a flirt with his clients and from each he asked one special favour." He smiled, opening the book at an early page.

"They all agreed, the ladies loved Eric as a friend." He came to a page and glanced down.

"What did he ask?" Andrew prompted.

Paul picked up the photograph that was in the letter to his lover.

"This. A photograph of his client."

Andrew's eyes widened. His hand came to his chin, covering his mouth.

"You mean," he said at last, "This woman was a client of Eric Schullman?"

Paul nodded. "The letter is proof that she wanted to be and tracked him down. The book means that he had included her as such, even though, it seems, they never succeeded in meeting personally."

"The woman whose perfume bottle I bought back home? She wrote this letter."

Paul nodded again as Andrew stated the obvious. He crooked a finger, inviting Andrew around to his side of the desk to show him the entry. A near italic script in a light ink covered the pages; next to each was a small picture of a woman. Except for one.

Elle Ginzberg, 28, Rue de Vaugirard. Following the address were symbols. Andrew pointed to them.

"They tell the make up of the perfume." Paul explained, then laughed and tapped his nose. "I must say, I did well. We have recreated it exactly."

Andrew smiled but then a troubled look came over his face. "This is incredible."

"Eric had clearly known Elle before we met," Paul said, "it is why her entry is so early in the book. 1936, I think." He lifted two photo mounts from a small bowl on the desk and gently attached the picture to the page, where it had belonged, so many years before.

"I don't recall him speaking of her," he said. "Since the letter from her went astray he must have thought she didn't require his services any more and she that he had ignored her request for more of the..." he looked at the letter and quoted, "exquisite fragrance." He sighed. "She must have been replying to him, explaining how she had found him, responding to his request for a photograph," Paul mused to himself.

Andrew nodded then asked, "the perfume - it is here?"

Paul nodded and reached into a drawer. He pulled out Andrew's box.

"I took the liberty of filling the bottle," he said with a smile.

Andrew took the casket but didn't open it. "May I have some time? I will go to my room for a while."

Paul shrugged and waved a hand. "I will bring you a late lunch if you haven't surfaced by then."

****

Andrew didn't even have to open the bottle, just the case was enough. He was back in the apartment on the Rue de Vaugirard looking out of the window onto the courtyard garden.

Arms snaked under his and around his chest; he felt her body against his back, her face turned to the left against his neck. He held her hands, knowing this was some sort of parting.

He turned, facing the dressing table and caught sight of himself in the mirror. He was wearing a uniform; he didn't recognise it but knew it was military. He turned to face her. She looked up to him. She had been crying but had wiped her face.

He lifted his hands to her cheeks, under her soft curls and he tried to smile.

"I'll miss you," he said.

She laughed, mirthless. "Don't say it again, you'll set me crying. Just make sure you have your pen and paper and you write to me as often as you can. Even the International Brigade must be able to get letters out of Spain."

He nodded. The Spanish Civil War.

"Elle."

She looked at him, her dark eyes brooding and damp.

He kissed her forehead.

"I love you," he said. He breathed in the perfume that Eric had created. In the distance, the doorbell rang and he felt her small hands on his back grab at the rough serge of the uniform.

"I'll see you again soon," he said. He felt her nod against his chest.

"I love you," he said. He breathed in the perfume that Eric had created. In the distance, the doorbell rang and he felt her small hands on his back grab at the rough serge of the uniform.

"Wait," she said, wiping her eyes. She went to a cupboard and bent down. From a cardboard box she extracated a small Beau Brownie camera. She smiled hesitantly and held out a hand to him. He nodded and they went to the door and down to the street.

A large man in a uniform similar to that worn by Andrew stood waiting. His weathered face curled into a Gallic smile when he saw Elle, his impressive walrus mustache curling upwards.

"Would you?" she asked, holding out the camera. after a few instructions, the man who had called for Andrew took the picture.

Andrew hugged Elle again.

"Write to me," she whispered in his ear.
 
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5. Illusion

"Bon jore. Je ma pell Humphry Carlson. I... "

André smiled, watching with amazement as his hand disappeared into that of the ruddy-faced man's as they shook. "Andé," he said. "André Belmonte. I... " He struggled to reclaim it. "I have some English... Humphry. We will both learn, I think."

Humphry grasped André's hand again, shaking it even more vigorously than before. "Humph," he said, grinning broadly. "Call me Humph, Andy. I am honored to... " He bit back the rest of his sentence and looked around surreptitiously, his already ruddy complexion deepening to an alarming crimson hue.

André laughed and clasped his comrade's shoulders in a show of fraternity. "It will be well with us... Humph."

"Jolly good."

André grinned and nodded. The man's enthusiasm was contagious.

Humphry Carlson was one of hundreds (soon to be thousands) of French, British, German and Americans who shared a similar vision and goal - ending Fascism. With Paris as the meeting point, these men and women - soon to be known as the International Brigades - were boarding trains that would take them to a training base in Albercete, Spain.

It was all clandestine, of course. With the anti-intervention policies held by both France and Great Britain, these volunteers were risking more than just their lives. To be caught was treason.

Communications between the anti-Fascist volunteers was poor at best. Some spoke a little French, some spoke a little English, some spoke a little German - few spoke Spanish. Yet here they were, united in a common cause and "Saluda Comarado" quickly became the common greeting, no matter the individual's nationality.

Humph and Andy, as the giant Brit insisted on calling him, became friends out of both their common goal and necessity. "You have to have someone you can trust to watch your back, old man," Humph said repeatedly. As time passed, they both saw the truth in this as certain other truths soon became apparent - one of them being the shortage of weapons and the fact that most of the ones they did have were antiquated and inaccurate. Despite this, or maybe in spite of this, their morale remained high. Their cause was just. Wasn't it? Right over might. That was true. Wasn't it?

As reports of entire battalions being decimated by the opposition reached them, André's faith never faltered. Perhaps it was the perfume and thoughts of Elle that kept him going. He had taken a bottle from her dressing table on the morning that he left. The perfume that he had had created especially for her - bergamot and Indian jasmine, a heady, sultry blend that made his body ache for her and brought back memories...

Humph had left a girl behind as well - his wife of twenty years. Her name was Sadie and the two men spent hours reminiscing and sharing stories - both good and bad. Somehow that seemed to help to alleviate the loneliness they both felt. In the interim, letters from their respective beloveds gave further reprieve.

******​

Elle kept herself busy with work and little else. Her days were long and nights longer still. Never a church-goer, she found herself going to morning mass and making promises that she swore to keep if only André would come home safe. If only.

His letters to her were light-hearted at first, there was little talk of war or fighting but as months passed he began to share vignettes of what life (and death) in Spain was like. He told her how, at first, when anything whistled, buzzed or whizzed he would duck. Later, he explained with an embarrassed sort of tone that someone had finally explained that one was never to worry about any bullet that you could hear. Those were the ones that were already past you.

Elle added "Please, God, let him keep hearing them" to her list of pleas and promises.

And then a letter came. The letter she had dreaded from the first. It wasn't an "official" one; after all, these men and women were all volunteers. This one came in a smudged envelope from the man André had written about so very often.

Dear Elle,

I hope you will forgive me the familiarity, but it is the way I have come to think of you over time. Andy spoke of you long and often, though I did my bit sharing bits of my own life, my wife Sadie.

I regret having to write this, but your Andy was killed several days ago - December 11th to be exact. We were in an advanced position with the boys in the mountains and I was in the observation tower not far from where he was positioned.

Things had been quiet when suddenly the enemy began to attack with trench mortars. After each, I would call out "You okay, Andy?" His reply was always "I'm okay, Humph." At least that was his reply until one landed near him. I called out again, and getting no answer, I crawled to the trench where I found him severely wounded. He was already unconscious.

I ran for the medic but there was nothing that could be done. He passed away on my knee within minutes. He never regained consciousness.

That night we carried Andy down into the valley and buried him in a grove of almond trees. We took turns saying our farewells before leaving him in his final resting place. Dearest Elle, he is not alone there. Our Andy is surrounded by many other graves - those of French, English and Americans who gave their all to defeat Fascism. God help me, I have to believe that our cause is justified.

Elle, I never thought I would have to write this letter, but he and I promised each other that we would do it, each for the other, if the time and situation arose. I can't claim to have loved him the way you did, but he had become like a brother to me and I know that he loved you more than life. More than death.

Oh, my dear, I am so very very sorry for your loss. So very very sorry.

My heartfelt condolences,
Humph (Humphry Carlson)

******​

"What he hadn't told her was that he had kept the bottle of perfume. Perhaps she wouldn't miss it. Perhaps."

"Well that was dirty!" called out one of the listeners.

"Was it?" the storyteller asked in turn. "Maybe so, but wait until you hear the rest of the story before you pass judgment."

******​

Elle walked around in a daze for months it seemed. Someone had returned André's personal belongings - among them all of the letters she had written to him. It brought her little solace. All she could think of was that she had lost the other half of her soul; perhaps the better half.

In the fall of 1937, with an even greater war burgeoning in Europe, Elle Belmonte boarded a ship for the United States. Her brother lived there and she couldn't think of any other place further from the sounds of guns and the images of other men and women dying that seemed to haunt her every waking moment.

But she always had the nights. The nights were when he came to her in dreams. Elle wondered if he woke when she did.
 
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Simba sat on a kitchen chair and let Andrew scratch her under her chin. She had decided to forgive him for leaving her, having spent the first day of Andrew's return from France refusing to leave Sally's house. She decided a day was enough punishment and now allowed herself a purr to see him smile.

Andrew, however, was distracted. Every evening he would look at the bottle of perfume and wonder about the strange story that had led to its creation and now ressurection. He spoke a few times with Paul, who asked him the obvious question."

"What will you do now?"

Andrew was silent a moment then cleared his throat. "I'm not sure."

"Tell you what, find yourself a nice young lady. Tell her you have had a perfume made for her by the great Paul Sneddon of Paris."

Andrew smiled. I might just do that." After I look for - her, he added to himself in his mind. He had a vision of Elle, naked in bed with him. Where would she be now? Had she even stayed in the United States or gone back to France? Would she still be alive? Andrew sighed and absent mindedly stroked Simba's ear.

"A puzzle, puss, a puzzle."

A puzzle that he could not solve - himself. But he did know where he might get some help.

The genealogist was a small white haired woman in her sixties; her office impressed him with its order and she took down the details on a computer. Her eyes were gimlet sharp and she smiled more as the story unfolded.

"I do like a good mystery, don't you?"

Andrew was put in mind of Miss Marple and he left her to it.

****

It took three weeks before she called him.

"Success," she said, then began explaining the trail of clues that had led her to Elle Ginzberg until Andrew cleared his throat.

"Ah. Yes. Sorry, I sometimes - forget not everyone is quite so interested in the ways and means of these matters. Well, yes it seems she is still alive and living in a nursing home in Los Angeles." She gave him the address. After he put the phone down he looked at it, then to Simba. She knew; it was back to making him feel guilty for leaving her again.

****

The Gardenia was more like a hotel than a nursing home. When Andrew arrived he was first taken to the nurse's office. The thin black woman smiled a smile he was hoping not to see. His face fell.

"It's all right Mr Hood. You're in time. Just."

Andrew nodded.

"She's not expected to live much longer and - well, she's not much family locally. There's one grand-daughter who is with her now, other family we're trying to trace."

"Is she still lucid?" he asked, paushng his glasses up his nose and swallowing his emotion.

The nurse nodded. "It comes and goes. I'll just check with the granddaughter, then you can see her if she says it's OK."

Andrew sighed and felt in his jacket pocket for the reassuring touch of the perfume bottle.

****

The room was neat. Roses in a vase were by an open window and the distant sound of a bird singing came and went with the breeze. The woman who met him at the door was tall, willowy, seemingly swaying with the same breezes that caught the songbird's voice. The sat at the dressing table.

"My grandmother's sleepig Mr - ?"

"Hood. Andrew." He shook her thin hand with no hesitation and slowly began to tell his tale. All apart from the dreams. It was only part way through that he learned that she too was called Elle.

"Named after my grandmother," she said, her voice deliberately low so as not to disturb the woman asleep in the bed. She furrowed her brow. "It is strange - you seem familiar to me," she said, still clearly trying to place him. It was then that her eyes widened and she stood up. She took two steps backwards, still looking at Andrew in disbelief. She turned and went to the bedside table, picking up a silver photo frame. She looked at it and back to Andrew, shaking her head.

Slowly she walked back to him and held out the frame, with no word of explanation. Behind the glass was a beau brownie print of Elle and Andrew - taken in his dream.

There was a cough from the bed and the grand-daughter quickly returned to the bedside. Andrew stood.

"Gran, there's someone here to see you."

Another cough and the frail old woman turned onto her back, allowing Elle to help her sit up a little.

"Holy Mother be praised," the old woman said, a tear trickling from her eye. She held out bony arms.

"Andre...is it really you?"

Andrew moved forward and sat on the edge of the bed taking the old woman's hands in his.

"I am so pleased," he said before he had to cough and blink back a tear. "I am so pleased to meet you," he said, suppressing the urge to say, "again." With her remaining strength she sat up and hugged him. As she lay back on her pillow again he said, "I have something for you."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the perfume bottle. Both women gasped. Slowly he removed the stopper and held it out so she could smell the fragrance. The young Elle came and stood at Andrew's side, putting her hand on his shoulder.

"So many times she has told me stories of the wars and when she accidentally lost the perfume bottle in a move, she was distraught."

Her hands gripped Andrew tightly, her eyes full of smiles.

"Andre," said the old woman. "You came back."

****

The funeral was the following week. He stayed on to help Elle with the arrangements. The family had fragmented over the years and no one was that interested in the old woman in the home - except her grand-daughter, who, for her care over the years had inherited her house. In the days before and after the cremation, she and Andrew and become close.

It was something that just came to him, as he was preparing to leave for home and he was so pleased she said she would do it, that he lost his usual composure and just kissed her as they stood in the middle of the living room. She didn't complain.

"Paul said I should give his perfume to a beautiful woman." He stroked her face, his hands sliding under her soft curls. "I had the chance to give it to two beautiful women."

They kissed again and she whispered, "put some on me," taking his hand and placing it between her breasts. "Here..." she moved towards her bedroom. "And here."

She also wore it when they did what he suggested. Wearing the fragrance in the hills around Zaragoza, around where the grave of Andre had lain for so many years. It was done without official permissions, on the red soil of the hillside overlooking the grapevines in the valley.

They buried the urn with Elle's ashes in the soil as near as they could judge where Andre's last resting place was also. They then wet the earth with a few drops of the perfume, before walking hand in hand back down the hill.
 
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The end of the tale was met with a round of applause and the sound of a few sniffles and throats being cleared. The denizens of the Tabard obviously approved.

Rebecca turned away for a moment before sliding a refill down the bar toward the latest storyteller. "Bravo," she said quietly, adding "You know... I can almost smell that perfume."

ILLUSION

Ingredients:
1 oz. Malibu rum
1 oz. Midori melon liqueur
1 oz. Vodka
½ oz. Cointreau
1 splash Pineapple juice

Mixing instructions:
Mix in shaker. Pour into a glass and top with a splash of pineapple juice.​

"So... " Rebecca Sheldrake asked after some moments. "Drinks on the house for the person who steps up to tell another tale."
 
1. Cosmo Pearl

A woman walked in and looked around before walking toward the bar. She seemed a bit distracted, and more than a little lost.

"May I help you?" Rebecca asked, returning a freshly-washed glass to a shelf beneath the bar.

"Yes... I. I don't know. I was on my way to... "

Rebecca eyed the woman up and down and gestured toward her husband. "Get the lady a chair, dear. I'll get her a drink."

The latest arrival to the Tabard looked a bit relieved though still distressed as she began to rummage in her purse. "I know it's in here... "

Rebecca stayed her hand. "What'll you have? It's on the house. All you have to do is tell us a story."

"Have? A story?" The look on her face had turned to bewilderment, but then she smiled. "Ahh, yes," she said at last. "I'll have a Cosmo Pearl and yes, I do have a story."

"Curiosity killed the cat, Lana," Martha, her long time companion and right-hand woman, said. She didn't like the fact that Lana was letting a complete stranger into her private life. They had been there and done that a million times over the years and nothing good had ever come of it.

"I'm tired of being alone, Martie. I know I'm not as well-known as I used to be and that some of the parts I'm picking up now are to get the oldsters into theaters again, no matter what they say. But this man... "

"Jack Baker."

She nodded and continued. "He's been running that website for years now."

"He's probably a psychopath."

"Stop it," Lana interjected, more than a little displeased with Martha's immediately turning her nose up at him, but not surprised by the fact. "I need people in my life, Martha. Real people. Not other actors and actresses, or publicists or directors and producers. Real people. Folks that still go to McDonalds and KFC. Sit in movie theaters and restaurants without being mobbed. People who go to the beach, walk on the boardwalk."

"You have me," Martha retorted bluntly.

Lana grumbled something not so polite and rather unintelligible before stalking off to my bedroom. Why didn't Martie understand? She couldn't help sighing. She was always around, like a favorite old sweater or a dog-eared book that someone read over and over. Not that that was a bad thing, but she needed something fresh and new. A friend maybe.

The car had already left to pick him up and it wouldn't be long before Lana got the first look at someone who had known her - or at least the public side of her - for more than a decade and she couldn't help wondering if he would be disappointed.

The years hadn't been unkind to her, She'd even managed to get away without visiting the local plastic surgeon to the stars. Her eyes, a vivid chestnut brown, were still bright and a bottle of Clairol every few months covered up the rapidly increasing gray in her dark brown hair which she'd let grow to shoulder length after having it cut into an almost boyish bob for her last flick.

Exercising when she could, Lana's body was in good shape, and the deep purple dress she had chosen to wear today was perfect against the natural, Mediterranean tone of her skin -- Lana Mitchell had been born Olivia Benedetto nearly forty five years ago.

Running a brush through her hair, she checked her makeup and slipped into a pair of high heels. The things we do for "the public" to maintain our "images".

"He's here," Martha said, peeking around the door of Lana's room some moments later. "In the living room."

Lana nodded and smiled, suddenly nervous. What if she didn't measure up?

As if reading her mind, Martha tilted her head and looked Lana Mitchell up and down. "Gorgeous as always, Lana. Now go strut your stuff." She squeezed her arm adding, "and don't give him too much."

Lana grumbled again and nodded. She knew what Martie meant, but she was her own woman and knew what she wanted.

"I'll be in my office."

Brushing past her as she stepped aside, Lana went to where her "biggest fan" stood, looking at a painting that hung over the mantel of the fireplace. An orchid, or maybe something else. It was an abstraction and if you looked at it "just so", it clearly resembled a woman's vulva. "It's genuine," she said. "Georgia O'Keeffe. Untitled."

He turned to face her and Lana extended her hand. "Lana Mitchell," she said, smiling. "And you must be... Jack."


“Untitled? Yes. Perhaps that was for the best! Interpreting abstract is best left to the individual. Why burden that process with unnecessary titles?”

Lana's delighted laugh at Jack's rather sedate response to the painting was genuine, but she felt she should explain. "I don't have much company these days," she began. "In fact, I never have company. I suppose this might offend some, but I like it, and since no one else sees it but me... " Suddenly feeling a little awkward, she shrugged and quickly changed the subject. "I've arranged a lunch for us on the terrace. I thought maybe we could talk and eat at the same time?"

Through pristine glass of the sliding doors he could see a small table and two chairs centered amid several large plants on the ornate balcony which was inlaid with terra cotta tile. From the penthouse's perch above the low-lying layer of smog, the view in the distance was breathtaking.

She paused before leading the way. "I like dining al fresco, but I should have asked what your preference is. Do you mind? We can eat inside just as easily."

Jack smiled and shook his head. "Outdoors is fine, Miss Mitchell."

Lana sighed, watching as he stepped past her to slide the door back. "Thank you," she said as she walked outdoors. "but let's just be Lana and Jack, okay? Formalities are bad for digestion."

Surprisingly, or maybe not so, she walked toward a portable bar that had been brought outside. "It's stocked," she commented wryly. "Since I didn't know what you drank, I thought... " Lana shrugged. There was ice in a bucket on the counter surrounded by several bottles of liquor and liqueurs, but she opened the mini fridge and pulled out a bottle of diet Coke. "I know, I know. Not very exotic, am I?" She grinned when he started to say something, using tongs to add a few cubes into a tall glass. "Don't let my decision influence yours. After all, I've chosen the menu."

Not wanting to hover or make him feel as if she was directing every part of their meeting, she winked and eased into one of the chairs at the table. Once settled, she lifted the cover off of a porcelain tureen set in the center and ladled out two bowls of, "Gazpacho," she said. "It's lovely on a hot day." She wouldn't tell him until he tasted it that she had made it herself.
 
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Jack Baker sat in the back of the limo, clutching his briefcase on his knee for the first half mile. He convinced himself that he could smell "Avarice" in the back of the car; Lana's favourite scent. At least, that was what the publicist's said in that article in 1998; just before she got the TV ad for it. Then there was that unfortunate business of him buying it for his wife, just after he'd become chair of the fan club and Lana's picture was on billboards nationwide.

Ex wife, he should say.

He'd never understood how Sandra reacted, he just liked the scent; it was a coincidence it was Lana's favourite too. He'd told himself that every time the advert came on TV, every time he went to visit the children after the divorce.

He relaxed a little, after that first half a mile and put the battered case down on the seat next to him. He looked towards the chauffeur.

"You been with Miss Bene...Miss Mitchell, long?" he small talked.

"A few years now," came the gruff reply. "There's a bar back there. Or TV. Enjoy the trip." A darkly tinted glass screen slid soundlessly up, cutting Jack off from his companion.

"Right," he said to himself. He opened his brief case and pulled out some cuttings he wanted to ask her about but then pushed them back in the case. He wanted to ask her about so many things but the thought that suddenly overwhelemed him was - he was going to meet her. After all this time. "Come on Jack, don't screw this up," he muttered to himself.

When the door opened in the house in Santa Barbara, Jack's smile cracked his tanned if slightly crazy-paved face. "Jack Barker," he said, just remembering to hold out his hand as he saw a familiar face.

"Martha," said the rangey woman whose grey eyes ran gimlets through his dark blue pin-stripe suit. He didn't detect a smile and her hand felt cool and she immediately released his. "The living room's this way. I'll tell Ms Mitchell her - guest - has arrived."

As she disappeared, Jack's mind for Mitchell related rumour whirred away. Had he just met Lana's lover? That's what some of the papers hinted at, especially as Lana hadn't been married since...a while back. He put his briefcase down and wandered around, halting his permabulations in front of the fireplace.

"Oh God," he said to himself. "So, it could be true then." He looked down at the rug in front of the fire and covered his eyes to try and blot out the imagined scene that rose before him. It took a voice to dispel the image of the two naked women.

"It's genuine. Georgia O'Keeffe. Untitled."

He turned to face her and Lana extended her hand. "Lana Mitchell," she said, smiling. "And you must be... Jack."

He regretted not being able to recall that first touch of her hand as his synapses overloaded, as his body reacted mechanically, shaking her hand over vigorously. It was a few minutes later that the words he used floated back through is head. He could have been witty. sensuous. Knowledgable.

“Untitled? Yes. Perhaps that was for the best! Interpreting abstract is best left to the individual. Why burden that process with unnecessary titles?”

He felt sure he had squeaked as a final imagine of lesbian lovers floated through his head.

She had at least seemed pleased, he reflected analytically when his head had almost recovered from the shocks of those first few moments - but what had she said?

"I don't have much company these days. In fact, I never have company."

Yes, well done Jack, you could say anything and she'd have been pleased. Oh, God...His toes curled in his shoes at the way he was embarrassing himself and no doubt the woman he admired more than any in the world. He heard the word "lunch," and smiled appropriately. Then he comprehended the word, "terrace."

The next words had a peculiar reverberation attached to them in his head.

She paused before leading the way. "I like dining al fresco, but I should have asked what your preference is. Do you mind? We can eat inside just as easily."

Jack smiled and shook his head. "Outdoors is fine, Miss Mitchell."

He looked at the allegedly and indeed, practically, breathtaking views and held onto the edge of the sliding door to the balcony to prevent himself falling, his breath having been taken away.

"Gazpacho," he echoed and then tried to say something else before he quickly turned and ran inside the room, moving to a wall, away from the terrace.

Lana Mitchell followed quickly. "Jack?"

Breathing a little more easily, Jack smiled and wiped beads of cold sweat from his forehead. "Sorry," he said. "It's an odd combination of vertigo and... well, I'm not comfortable with balconies." He looked downcast. "Sorry," he said again.

She smiled and winked again, going outside, recovering crockery and cutlery and reassembling the meal before him.

"Now, as I was saying. Gazpacho."

"Wonderful," he said after tasting it and smiling at her, the first time he realised fully what he was doing since he had first shaken hands with her. "You must give me the recipe," he said before regretting it. 1987, said the idiot savant in his head. Woman's Own, United Kingdom magazine. "When the Cook's Away..." The Star's Favourite DIY Recipes. This week, Lana Mitchell's Gazpacho.

She laughed; her open, happy laugh that was not at his expense and admitted that she had made it - but the rest, well, she'd had helped the cook. He realised, over the course of the meal that it was these real things, the helping of the cook, the talks with ordinary people, that she craved.

He had recovered enough to notice the purple of her dress and how it complimented the olive of her skin; the flow of her hair that she played with occasionally as they spoke more freely. The wine they eventually shared accompanied tales about actors that he knew he would never be able to put on the website.

They were both revelling in her memories; he gasping at the revelations that his archives did not include. They sat close and she touched his arm easily as she described a scene from her latest film.

Slowly, they lapsed a little into a friendly quiet until Jack chuckled.

"What?" Lana said, and giggled back. His shoulders shook.

"I had a thought," he said.

"Not too much of a strain?" she said and coughed as she drained her glass of Shiraz. That made him laugh more.

"There's a retrospective of your films on. Well, you'll know that. I mean, I E-mailed you - got a reply from Martha that you wouldn't be appearing." He guffawed and cleared his throat. "Why don't we go?" He met her gaze, his eyes sparkling. "You could be incognito."

She bit her lip. "Dark glasses?"

"Naturally."

She grinned. He waited for her reply.
 
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