Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

it’s a case of can’t. A lot of men are like that but women will never understand. They go on giving. And they think if they go to bed with the twenty-per-center, and they give that last fifteen per cent, they’ll miraculously wake up next to a hundred-per-center. Wrong. If they wake up next to him anyway, it’ll be a miracle. Probably find a note on the pillow saying, “Gone home to feed the dog,” or something like that.’
    Agatha remembered nights with James and mornings when he was always up first, when he never referred to the night before or hugged her or kissed her.
    ‘Maybe I was just the wrong woman,’ she conceded.
    ‘Trust me, dearest. Any woman is the wrong woman for James.’
    ‘Perhaps I would have been happy to settle for twenty per cent.’
    ‘Liar. Here’s our food.’
    To Agatha’s surprise, the ham was delicious and the salad fresh and crisp.
    ‘So we’re never to go detecting again?’ Charles asked, pouring ketchup on his chips.
    ‘I can’t go around finding bodies to brighten up my life.’
    ‘No more public relations work?’
    ‘None. All my efforts are going towards providing tea and cakes for the ladies of Ancombe.’
    ‘You’ll stir something up, Aggie. No new men on the horizon?’
    ‘One very gorgeous man.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘My hairdresser.’
    ‘Ah, the one that’s responsible for the new elegance.’
    ‘Him.’
    ‘Hairdressers are fickle. I remember . . . Never mind.’
    ‘What about your love life, Charles?’
    ‘Nothing at the moment.’
    They passed the meal reminiscing about their adventures in Cyprus and then he drove her home.
    ‘Am I going to stay the night?’ asked Charles as they stood together on Agatha’s doorstep.
    ‘No, Charles, I’m not into casual sex.’
    ‘Who says it would be casual?’
    ‘Charles, you demonstrated in Cyprus that I am nothing more than a temporary amusement to you. Has it ever dawned on you that you might be a twenty-per-center yourself?’
    ‘Ouch! But think on this, Aggie. Any eighty-five-per-center who hangs around with twenty-per-centers is just as afraid of commitment.’
    He waved to her and went off to his car.
    Agatha let herself in, feeling flat. No messages on the phone for her. And what had Bill Wong been thinking of not to phone her?
    The sensible thing would be to phone him, and yet Agatha dreaded the idea of finding out she had lost the affection of her first friend.
    Life went on. She had to keep moving. Perhaps she would accept Mr John’s invitation after all.

Chapter Two

    The heat mounted. Ninety-nine degrees Fahrenheit was recorded at Pershore in Worcester. Incidents of road rage mounted, tar melted on the roads, and Agatha Raisin longed for her old shorter haircut.
    She realized that the reason she had not the courage to ask for it to be cut was in case she was accused of having low self-worth. Having come to this conclusion, Agatha decided it was all too ridiculous and made another appointment with Mr John. Back to Evesham, where the women had swapped their leggings for shorts. Acres of white, mottled flesh gleamed in the sunlight.
    The hairdresser’s was as busy as ever. Mr John had two male assistants, one female, and two juniors. Agatha asked if she could use the toilet. The window at the back of the toilet was open to a little weedy yard.
    Then Agatha heard a woman whisper urgently, ‘I can’t go on. You’ve got to let me off the hook.’
    There was the answering mumble of a man’s voice.
    ‘I’ll kill you!’ shouted the woman, suddenly and violently.
    Agatha poked her head out of the window, but she could not make out where the voices had come from.
    She went back into the salon, had her hair washed and then braced herself to tell Mr John that she wanted her hair cut short. She found herself wrapped into that anxiety of writing scripts of ‘I’ll say and then he’ll say.’ It was the lawn-mower syndrome.
    Mr Jones goes out to mow the lawn but finds his lawn-mower has broken down. ‘Why don’t you ask that nice Mr Smith next door if you can borrow his?’ suggests his wife.
    ‘I can’t do that,’ protests Mr Jones. ‘Bit of an imposition.’
    ‘Don’t be silly,’ says his wife. ‘You’re being childish. Mr Smith is a very nice man.’
    All afternoon Mr Jones frets. He will ask Mr Smith for the loan of his lawn-mower and Mr Smith will say, ‘Sorry, old chap, I’m using it myself.’ Mr Smith will say, ‘I don’t like lending out things.’ Mr Smith will lie. Mr