What's the Matter with Mary Jane? by Candas Jane Dorsey

Author:Candas Jane Dorsey [Dorsey, Candas Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: ECW Press
Published: 2021-10-19T00:00:00+00:00

56. £500 a year and a room of one’s own

“Do you still have a chequebook?” Nathan asked me the next afternoon. Back from across the world, with no sign of jet lag. The man really was made of Teflon™.

“Somewhere around here. Why?”

“I need a void cheque.”

“What for?”

“The foundation.”

“Why do you need a cheque of mine for the foundation?”

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.” He grinned at me. I glared at him as long as I could stand it, but I ended up giggling.

Me.

Giggling.

“Trust me. I’ll tell you in a minute. It’s perfectly legal.”

“Why wouldn’t it be legal?” I said.

He snickered. Almost a giggle.

“Hanging around with you has me not recognising myself,” I grumbled as I dug my chequebook out of my shoulder bag and handed it to him.

“Well, likewise, so shut up,” he said fondly, and went back to tapping his keyboard.

Two could play at that game. I had bills to pay, so after a while I went online and signed into my credit union account.

When the account balances displayed, I let out such a shriek that Bunnywit came running in from the bedroom, skidding on the hardwood as he turned the corner.

Nathan had leapt up too, and the two of them danced around each other for a moment. “What? What’s the matter? Bun, look out! What are you yelling about?”

“You know damned well. What is all this fucking money doing in my account?”

He had the grace to look away, but the shit-eating grin came back.

“Expense money,” he said. “For the foundation, mostly, and also to keep up with the Joneses, if you have to. Keep up with the Bierces and Lockwoods and Gills. We’re an expensive habit.”

“I have money.”

“Yes, but not enough. And the foundation was my idea, so you shouldn’t be paying for it. And if we need to stay somewhere nice, or if you want to come to Gaborone with me next time and you need to board this useless piece of fur you call a cat, I don’t want you suffering financially.”

I was silent for a long moment.

Finally, “I am not for sale,” I said with difficulty.

He looked at me and quit grinning. “My dearest dear, I am not even trying to rent you. I am just evening things up a little. Lock would say ‘levelling the playing field’, but I am trying to avoid clichés. Including the cliché of money being equivalent to ownership.”

I could see his point, but still — “Money was a huge issue in my family. They were always economizing, and we would eat lots of Kraft Dinner™ and fish sticks.”

“Food of the underclass. You forget that I have the same kind of history.”

“You do?” How could I forget what I didn’t know? “How could I forget what I don’t know?”

“Yes, I do, except with compulsive gamblers and fisticuffs.” He stood behind me, hands lightly resting on my shoulders. Maybe it was easier to have this conversation in parallel than face-to-face.

“Really? Shit.” I continued processing bill payments as I replied.

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