Overlooked Bride Ch. 06

* * *

Marty Young remained gripped in melancholy. Very little seemed to interest him, he found himself only half listening to people with problems and an evening a gallop on Beckett failed to fire him with exhilarated freedom.

That convinced him he was a prisoner of his own stupidity.

There were several things he could do to dig himself out of this hole, but declaring he was no longer interested in Bianca was not an option. So, what to do? He sulked another day before the answers started coming; he concluded he could do some things alone but for real effect he needed assistance.

Marty called a staff meeting next day. "I haven't been frank with you," he said. "Had I been it perhaps would have made a significant difference. Just recently I have fallen head over heels for Bianca White, the consultant most of you persuaded me to reject her plan of reforms for this college. Bianca has walked out on me, not because of your defiance, but because she concluded I had not been prepared to support her when much of what she was advocating would benefit the college and students and improve profitability, allowing us to upgrade."

"It's unlikely that changing my stance over this will bring Bianca back to me. But I now know I have to do the right thing, even though it will probably cost me dearly because it puts me into conflict with you people. The truth is when you rejected Bianca you rejected me, knowing that I broadly approved of her proposals. The difficulty I have here is you had your reasons for rejecting her and in such a short period those reasons are unlikely to have changed. Therefore we have a problem and the purpose of this meeting is to try to find solutions."

Marty looked around the room and his heavy heart was not lightened by the expressions he faced.

"So, do I get these reforms underway with or without your co-operation? I must state you guys do not possess the winning hand. If necessary I'm prepared to close the college for two months and re-staff it completely. In a moment of weakness I unintentionally gave you as a group the opportunity to decide on acceptance of Bianca's proposals rather than examining each proposal critically and then deciding the best course of action. Let's start the review – but making one thing clear – reform will proceed and those who can't stomach the thought of having to cope with that may wish to consider resigning."

The meeting was adjourned at the end of the lunch hour, with one tutor definite about resigning and four others considering their position and the remainder not indicating where they stood at this stage.

The big thing Marty learned from the question and answer session that had followed was many of them were alarmed at facing the unknown; although tutors involved in teaching concepts they appeared unwilling to deal with planning concepts involving a structural changed to the college and to be followed by a total curriculum rethink and a significant increase of subject modes. These people work in their own little boxes; we need a far more vigorous refresher training program and encouragement to adopt broader vision, he concluded. We must nurture, positively, and weed out low-performers and, if we can, disruptive dissenters. At present we are deficient as managers in those areas.

Marty felt a little better after that bout of navel-gazing. But inside he remained emotionally a mess, yearning to have his Bianca back. As if saddling up his white charger, he reached for his phone.

"Lady Ashton-Jones – it's Marty Young; you won't remember me..."

"Oh yes, I remember you Marty with your enquiry eyes and the straight back of a horseman."

"Pardon me?"

"If I go on I may embarrass you on the phone. Please call me Alice."

It all came tumbling out. "Alice, I desperately require help. Bianca has abandoned me, all because of my stupidity."

"Well, personally I can't say that displeases me; it makes you available. But I admit you do make a lovely couple."

"Did."

"Think 'do' Marty; situations change, especially if you remain positive."

"I want her back, Alice." Out it flooded, in detail.

"Good girl, I would have dumped you in Bianca's position; it's just not cricket to act as you did Marty and ignorance is no excuse. I suppose you want me to woo her back to you?"

Marty's voice faded. "I was hoping."

Alice's voice became a command: "Straighten you back Marty, and act like a man. Bianca is too strong-willed for me to handle alone: I call her mother to my side."

"What – bring Mrs White all the way from France?"

"If I call her, she'll come, Marty; it's what real friends do."

"But..."

"That's enough, Marty. It's done so keep your phone switched on. Good-bye for now Marty. I believe I was within a whisker of having you pleasuring me but then I knew not to come between you and Bianca; Yvette would have expected that of me."

Marty stared at his phone, humbled. He'd just listened to a woman exhibit the true test of friendship – putting friendship ahead of self. He would have gladly trading access to his body in return for Alice assisting him reach out for Bianca. Instead Alice made the noble choice. The thought of her belief that Mrs White would come running halfway around the world to attempt to repair a hole in her daughter's love life was an awesome concept. This was exactly the level of commitment Bianca had expected from him.

"Oh God," he said to the wall. "I put the distaste of commercial risk ahead of commitment of someone in the throes of loving me. As the Bard might have written... my unworthiness has been exposed."

He wallowed a few minutes more until a light bulb flashed in his brain. Marty found Alice's personal card and Bianca's business card and read the names and addresses of both women to the florist and asked that the card simply state, 'Marty'.

"Is that the usual way or the French way?"

"With a 'y'. Two dozen red roses to both women please."

"Sir, have you any idea of the cost of red roses – it's mid-spring?"

"No but it doesn't matter."

"Well, I only have thirty eight – will ten short be acceptable?"

"No."

"I'll send out to other florists."

"Fine, I'll pay for that."

"You sound shattered sir; there will be no charge for out-sourcing."

"With a soft heart like that you'll be my florist for as long as you remain in business, ma'am."

"Florists love romantics. My name is Joyce, sir. I hope you get the young lady back."

"What young lady are you talking about?"

"This city's current heroine, Miss Bianca White. We mothers adore her. You are sending flowers to her."

"What's she done?"

"It's been on wireless all day and on the midday TV news. Watch the news tonight, sir, and you'll see a modern-day Joan of Arc. Miss White's mother Yvette is one of my original clients – she's only in the country for about six months of the year. But she always buys her flowers from me, Marty, if you don't mind me calling that. All florists have a client base that are loyal or as we say, staunch. Two dozen red roses will be delivered to both addresses within the hour. Alice is also a regular client. I take it you want your details you've given me on to my data base."

"Absolutely, Joyce and thank you."

Marty called his PA at the college and said he was not feeling sunny so was going home. He slept a while and then went out under an oak tree with a bottle of red wine, setting the dogs free to join him for company. He kept checking his watch for the three-hour count-down to the News at Six on TV-1.

Half an hour later Alice called. "You naughty man – what glorious flowers. I cried when I was handed them. Thank you very much. Now for two pieces of news – look at TV news at 6:00. Our smart Bianca has brazenly made a name for herself. Have you heard about it?"

"No, but someone has suggested I watch the news. What is it about?"

"I won't spoil the impact. You just be watching. I waited until it was a reasonable hour in the morning before phoning Yvette. She said I'm to tell you she's on her way and hopes you're worth it. I assured her you were. Are you drinking?"

"Yes."

"Well don't drink yourself to sleep before 6:00. Friends who known my connection with Bianca – I'm her godmother – have been phoning me to talk to me about it."

"What's it?"

"Nice try, Marty. You are a sneaky; that's a quality Bianca should like because she too knows how to be naughty. Good-bye. I'll call just before 6:00 ensure you're awake."

Marty stopped drinking thinking he must remain alert; there must be something in this; what did Joyce the flower lady call Bianca – the city's current heroine' wasn't it? Alice was also lauding her. Still a half hour to go and he kept checking his watch every few minutes hoping that his rising expectation wouldn't trigger an over-expectation.

It was the lead item: 'Look-alike Prostitutes Win the Day!' was the headline and with flashing eyes and a half-concealed smile the news reader Meg Barnes warned parents that the following item might be unsuitable for children.

Marty thought the six prostitutes outside the school gates looked like something out of an old Hollywood music hall film. But they put on a staggering performance of sauciness as they played up to the media cameras. It was staggering to think these wealthy mothers of teenage children could perform so well; obviously they'd been professionally coached.

The camera focused on the headmistresses with her strange accent. "This is only the beginning – we owe it to my girls to bring these commercial people behind this evil brothel venture to their knees. And by God we will" and as she thrust a fist skywards the surrounding mothers cheered the six 'prostitutes' broke into a pretty fair version of the Can-Can.

The TV camera panned along the two lines of jostling media representatives who obviously loved what they were witnessing.

The film cut to the village where another six 'prostitutes' – thin and sleazy women looking straight out of Alberto Moravia's 'The Women of Rome' had attracted a huge crowd and peak-hour traffic was slowed to a stop-start crawl.

A woman identified as Ruby Williams, chairman of the parents' liaison committee of Crucible Private School for Girls, was standing in front of the 'prostitutes' saying "We have no wish to have our daughters who walk to school passing the House of Ill-repute being established in this building."

She scowled, "The law may say it's now a permitted activity subject to passing local authority licensing requirements. Well, damn the stupid law. This is a village, not the impersonal heart of a downtown business district. So this is war – we give notice now that the investors in this horrendously badly sited brothel will rue the day they came into this neighborhood. Please cover the ears of any children present as my girls are about to sing a song a bawdy song sailors sang in bygone days when returning from sea and marching to local brothels before going home to their mothers or wives."

The song began, 'My body lies over the ocean; My body now lives over Maud...'

"We regret we must cut this beautifully sung song, said the news reader, but it became unbelievable risqué as it proceeded. Mrs Ruby Williams told the crowd if that song shocked them, they should wait until the sights and sounds outside the entrance to the brothel become an everyday occurrence."

"Today's remarkable display of light-hearted protest with a stern warning in its tail is attributed to this woman, Bianca White..." A photo of Bianca on the day she was capped appeared on screen.

"This photo supplied by Bianca's godmother Lady Alice Ashton-Jones is five years old. We tried to contact Miss White but learned she'd gone into hiding, saying she takes no credit for this morning's dramatically inspired protest that already has resulted in the syndicate behind the brothel venture announcing they were, and I quote, "No longer interested in establishing a business profit centre in this particular locality."

"Quite obviously the school authorities don't accept that Miss White simply threw some ideas together and handed the project over for others to sort out. School headmistress Dr Morag MacPhie says Miss White became a tireless, inspirational leader to drive the project through to what was seen today. The school's governing board has already decided to honor Miss White by declaring her a life associate of the school."

"We now speak to Peggy Thwait, our reporter at the protest today who is an old girl of Crucible."

Meg: Proud of your old school today Peggy?"

Peggy: I was absolutely overcome. An earlier protest campaign had dribbled into nothing within a week, so the revival team faced assured defeat. But then along comes this half French-half Kiwi almost thirty woman who, incidentally attended St Cuthbert's when not at school in France. Just one person, it's unbelievable.

Meg: Surely that's an over-exaggeration.

Peggy: Who pushed to get accesses to professional makep-up artists; who negotiated access to professional theatre wardrobes, who arranged professional coaching of the so-called prostitutes, who searched school records on the known backgrounds of mothers who were ex-pupils and personally met and assessed her short-list of sixty-six to hand-pick the final twelve scarlet women plus two under-studies?

Meg: I guess I'm suppose to say this Bianca White?

Peggy: You're dead right. But she also delegated after appointing the two site managers – head mistress Morag MacPhie at the gates and Ruby Williams, wife of the new Minister of Foreign Affairs and Overseas Trade, controlling action outside the premises of the proposed brothel. She produced a plan called Media Alert and another establishing a call centre utilizing a dozen mothers who each were given a list of local residents calling them to turn out to protests; not all targets were parents of Crucible but all had daughters.

Meg: Attention to detail won the day?

Peggy: Yes, but Bianca White also appears to be a brilliant strategists – perfect in everything even down to vanishing so no one person gets the credit.

Meg: Thank you Peggy. As you indicated a brilliant day for Crucible Private School for Girls. We return to world and national news after this commercial break.

Feeding the dogs, Marty's mind was still in a whirl when his phone went. It was Alice. She asked him for his opinion on what he'd just seen and heard.

"An amazing protest, as that reporter said. But even more amazing was so much of the TV presentation was about Bianca, when she wasn't even there – at least I didn't see her captured on film and she didn't stick around to be interviewed. I hope she is safe?"

Alice's voice dropped to a whisper. "She's here with me, Marty. In the next room – exhausted but deliriously happy. She came to kick butt as I gave the TV busy-body her photograph but she conceded if I was so proud of her I had no option."

"She's with you?"

"Yes, but leave it, Marty. Wait till her mother and I meet to discuss options. Just be patient. I'm glad you admired her performance on this protest project."

* * *

Bianca was tired. It had been an intensive week for her. She was glad it had gone well.

The success of the project had been unbelievable. Obviously the telephone call to turn-out had been remarkably successful, the big turn-out generating the feeling something big was happening, that it was a historic day for the community.

The media – the bloody media, a facilitator's nightmare. Usually they were unpredictable in every way – turning up, not turning up, turning up and reporting nothing, turning up and ridiculing everything. This time it had been a dream – the media had come, presumably expecting a few mummies acting a little hysterically about the brothel menace. Oh hum. But they'd arrived to find a well-worked presentation, so professional that some of the journalists felt compelled to chat up some of the so-called prostitutes. They'd been promised a display of look-alike prostitutes but obviously what they found far exceeded expectations. Support personnel had been truly amazing.

It had been lovely working exclusively with well-motivated, intelligent and carrying women. Not at all like that indifferent lot she'd been about to work with at the assimilation focused college, until Marty pulled the plug.

Acelebratory party was being held at the Royal Orange Hotel – orange because the exterior was painted bright orange. She mused, some projects go wrong, some like today run perfectly and it helped beyond belief by having the media acting like pet lambs. Bianca decided to go to bed instead of going to the hotel party. She didn't want to be centre of attention, not when she had a bleeding heart.

Thank God Alice hadn't asked her about 'your man, what's his name?' That's how Alice would act, pretending she'd forgotten his name, giving the impression she was not interested. Alice not interested in a guy under forty? Pull the other leg. Wait – why hadn't Alice mentioned him? This was suspicious, very suspicious indeed. Had Alice found out about the split and was playing some sort of game – but why? Well, sooner rather than later Alice's tongue would run away on her.

* * *

The 5:00 am call on a chilly morning to the White's 350 year old home in Dijon woke both Yvette and Max. Yvette de Beauvoir first met Max twenty years ago when he came to France as an engineering student to gain work experience. That French summer she went to New Zealand to visit Max and they slipped up and she found herself pregnant.

Her father brokered an agreement – Max would live in England with her while they completed their universities studies – going to Dijon for long weekends and term breaks. Max went on to become a pre-stressed concrete bridge construction consultant of internal national repute and had taken early retirement to pursue his handful of interests – travel, food, wine, theatre and Yvette.

"You're closest to the phone," he said to the groaning Yvette.

She spoke in French and immediately caught the accent when the caller replied in French.

"Alice, oh God, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, keep calm," Alice said, lapsing into English. I don't think your daughter's told you yet but there's this man, someone who's admirably suited to her in my opinion. The romance was building, she did some consultancy work for him, his staff rebelled and he aligned with his people."

"Don't tell me – God do you know its 5:00 in the morning here?"

"Yes."

"You callous bitch but I love hearing your voice; thank God you're speaking English, Your accent always gets up my nose. However, don't tell me how she reacted – up went that half-French snoot and she dumped him."

"Correct, I want you to come immediately to see if we can repair bridges."

"Max would be the right person for that," Yvette said dryly.

"Aren't you going to protest about my request?"

"No, it's a bit boring around here at the moment and is turning quite cold. I fancy some bikini weather."

"At your age you should never be seen in a bikini."

"You wear them."

"Oh yes, but that's different. I'm English and everyone knows the English are eccentric."

"I'll come as soon as I can get my bum on a seat, but seats are usually available for those traveling first class. Do you mind if I bring Max; I think he's bored?"

"No, I'd love him around me."

"You promise to keep your hands off him?"

"Yes, for as long as my promise lasts."

Yvette sighed and said the reason why she stuck with the English sexpot was because she was always interesting.

"Tell me about this guy. From your breathless mentioned of him I guess he had what it takes?"

"Excellent breeding stock I can verify. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, about six two and rides horses."

"Perhaps we should ensure this rescue mission doesn't work and we both could share him?"