Wicked Women by Fay Weldon Read Free Book Online

their own accord. Unmade-up nice girls with straight hair, soft voices and unblinking stares ran in and out of their editor’s office, with faxes, copy and cups of herbal tea. Some were tall and gangly, others very short: many had buck teeth. A proportion wore saris or ethnic dress of one kind or another. “This is an equal opportunities concern,” said Dervish, “as you may notice. We run things on a point scale here. We make an exception for Weena, who is white and privileged and would not normally be eligible for employment, but she comes from a broken home and was a child-abuse victim. But we see the perpetrators as victims as well; and one of my staff pointed out we must not become ageist—no one on the New Age Times is above thirty and we need to address that—so I felt able to call you in, Ms. Dodds. You are a widow, too.”
    “Call me Francine,” said Weena’s mother, perched on the desk, legs dangling, high heels half-on, half-off her elegant little feet. “And let me point out that Weena is the victim of no more than her whiteness, her privilege, as loving a family as she would allow, her education and her looks, all of which have hopelessly spoiled her until now she is as poisonous as a pampered rattlesnake. That is not chatter you hear, that is the noise made as the serum is working through. Weena’s home was broken only by death, and no abuse occurred, although her father and I occasionally wished to beat her to death. Sometimes, if the truth be told, and though it is unfashionable to say so, a monster springs from the loins of the nicest people. Weena may have picked up on the vibes, I don’t deny it. For that I take responsibility. In my time, as I think you know, I have run a chain of magazines from Management Consultancy to Industrial Strategy, all of which did very well under my management. I am now training further in the field of Clinical Psychology with a view to research work, but could be tempted back into the commercial field. I abandoned my career when my husband fell ill: the better to nurse him, to devote myself to his last days. This Weena may have told you.”
    “No. She implied you were sacked for forging your time-sheets and shuffling your expenses. But the expenses we offer here are minimal—”
    “So it seemed a risk worth taking? Of course it is! Fire Weena, employ me as a contributing editor. I need the money. You need me. Circulation is falling. Fifty per cent of your staff need to go; I expect you know that. You just lack the courage to do it. Make me assistant editor—I’ll do it. Years with Weena have toughened me up.”
    “But they’re such nice, good girls,” said Dervish helplessly. “What would I fire them for?”
    “For being too young, inexperienced, half-starved and in need of animal protein to liven them up, but which they are too principled to eat. The media is no place for principle. Even the New Age Times must be a hot-bed of expediency and cynicism if it is to succeed. Look at it clearly—their T-shirts are grey and stiff from ecologically sound washing powder, but they are too full of integrity and regard for the environment to throw them away. Even Weena has this unhealthy obsession with old clothes. But at least she eats meat.”
    “Weena eats meat?” Dervish was startled.
    “Weena eats meat at home, and she can sleep herself into a job anywhere.”
    “So could you, if you wanted it enough.”
    She stared at him; he stared at her.
    Weena was on the phone to Hattie. She lay in Bob’s bed. It smelt agreeably of toothpaste, old socks, lust and despair. He had snivelled and wept into the pillow. Now he had gone to work.
“Hattie,” said Weena, “I think I can see my way through my life.”
    “I’m really glad for you, Weena,” said Hattie. “I can’t. I have my niece to stay. She’s three.”
    “Why are you so masochistic? Why do you do it?” asked Weena.
    “To help my sister out, I suppose,” said Hattie.
    “I drink you’re being the