44 Scotland Street (10 page)

“All right. And we’ll enjoy ourselves even if it’s a small party.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Todd, now mollified.

They rang off and he returned to staring at the ceiling. He was pleased that Sasha had approved of his decision to invite Bruce – which he had not previously consulted her about. Lizzie would like it, he was sure, and although there was something odd about that young man – the mirrors and that substance on his hair – he was probably perfectly all right under the surface. Todd was concerned about Lizzie: she wanted a boyfriend, he knew, but did not seem to have had much success in finding one. Most young men went out with

one another these days, he had observed, which meant that there were rather few young men left over for the girls. Terrible pity.

Perhaps something would come of this. And what would be wrong with that? If Bruce and Lizzie made a go of it, then they could take him into the partnership and the succession would be assured. And the responsibilities of marriage would soon sort Bruce out. Yes. Not a bad idea at all.

23. Goings-on in London

Gordon Todd stood by a window on the first floor of the building he had been inspecting in London. The position of the property impressed him – tucked away in a mews avenue off the Fulham Road, but close enough to really fashionable parts of Chelsea and South Kensington to attract tenants with the means to pay a substantial rent. It would be a good office, he thought, for a design studio or an advertising agency.

His client, who had inherited the property, was wondering about selling it. That would not be difficult, Gordon thought, because the place was in good condition and he could not imagine any obvious planning drawbacks. But it might be better to hold on to it for a couple of years and see whether its value went up appreciably. He could do the arithmetic after he had spoken to his London contacts and worked out just what might be paid for a place like this.

Gordon looked out of the window. The street was quiet – a good sign, he thought, as it suggested that the mews houses on the other side of the road were still being used as houses rather than as offices. And they were attractive, he thought, with their white-painted fronts and their panelled doors. London was full of pleasant corners, he reflected, even if there were trackless wastes further out. One might even live in London, at a pinch, provided that one were not too tall and in danger of bumping one’s head at every turn on their ridiculously low ceilings, and provided one were not too readily shocked by what one saw in the street.

As he thought about this, he noticed that a light had gone on in a room in the opposite house. It was a living room, not very large, he thought, although it was comfortably furnished with a few easy chairs and a sofa … Gordon stopped. There were two people on the sofa, a man and a woman, and …

Well really! You would think that people would close the curtains if they proposed to engage in that sort of thing. Of course they must have thought that the building opposite was empty – that was reasonable enough – but how would they know that there might not be a surveyor in it, or a possible purchaser? And there they were, obviously on very close terms, completely unaware of the fact that anybody might be able to see them.

He was about to turn away when he saw a small and expensive sports car draw up in front of the house in question and a man step out. The man reached into his pocket, took out a key, and opened the front door. Gordon caught his breath. The window at which he was standing afforded a good view not only of the living room, but of the hall outside it. Now, as he watched, he saw the man’s head appearing above the level of the stairs and then, a few moments later, he was standing in front of the door to the living room, his hand upon the doorknob.

The man paused. Then, leaning forward slightly, he appeared to put his ear to the door. Gordon stood quite still. This was the husband, obviously, and he had arrived home unexpectedly, to find his wife
in flagrante
with a lover. It was a very trite scene, but seeing it enacted in front of him seemed quite extraordinary. Would he knock on the door, or would he creep away, shocked and disappointed?

The man did neither. Slowly he tried the handle of the door, twisted it, and found it locked. He stood back, appeared to think for a few moments, and then moved towards the hall window – the window through which the unobserved observer was now watching him.

Gordon looked on in amazement as the man opened the window – which was a large one – and began to climb out onto the small ironwork window box. Then, very slowly, the man inched himself towards the neighbouring window – the window of the room in which the woman and the man were still unaware of the danger of discovery.

Gordon thought: so this is the sort of thing one sees in London! It’s obviously a hotbed of adultery and goings-on. And then the man on the ironwork window box slipped. Gordon saw him grab at the brickwork and, quite slowly at first, topple backwards. Gordon gave a cry, involuntarily, and closed his eyes. Then he leaned forward and saw the man lying on the top of the canvas roof of the small sports car, which had been parked directly beneath him. He was staring up at the sky, and for a moment their eyes met. Then, without moving the rest of his body, the man raised a hand and waved to Gordon, a wave that one might give to a friend one has just noticed in a café, or on the other side of the street.

24. Unwelcome Thoughts

That morning, when Pat had been given the unnecessary ride in the custard-coloured Mercedes-Benz belonging to Domenica Macdonald, an invitation to dinner had been extended, and accepted.

“I’ll knock together a few bits and pieces,” said Domenica airily. “I’m not a very good cook, I’m afraid. But we can talk.
Sans
Bruce.”

They had exchanged a look.

“He’s all right,” said Pat. “But it would be nice to talk.”

“I can tell you all about everyone on the stair,” promised Domenica. “Not that there’s much to relate, but there is a bit. You may as well know about your neighbours before you meet them.”

Pat had been told to ring Domenica’s doorbell at six-thirty, which gave her time to get back from the gallery and have a bath before she crossed the landing. Bruce had already arrived at the flat when she came home and he was sitting in the kitchen reading a catalogue.

“Sold any paintings today?”

“No.” She paused. “Well almost, but not quite.”

Bruce laughed. “I don’t think that gallery is going to do spectacularly well. I was hearing about him, you know, your boss, Matthew. Walking cash-flow problem. It’s only the fact that his old man pays the bills that keeps him going.”

“We’ll see,” said Pat.

“Yes,” said Bruce. “We’ll see. And if you need a new job, I can get you one. A friend of mine needs somebody to do some market research. He said …”

“I’m fine,” said Pat.

“Well, just let me know,” said Bruce, returning to his catalogue. “And by the way, have you seen my hair gel?”

For a few moments Pat said nothing. She opened her mouth, but then closed it again.

“Well?” asked Bruce. “Have you seen it?”

Pat swallowed, and then replied. “I broke it,” she said. “I’m very sorry. I’m going to buy you some more. I’ll get the same stuff if you tell me where to get it.”

Bruce lowered his catalogue. “Broke it? How did you do that?”

Pat looked up at the ceiling. She was aware that Bruce was staring at her, but she did not wish to meet his gaze.

“I was looking at it,” she said. “It fell out of my hands and it broke. I was going to tell you.”

Bruce sighed. “Pat,” he said. “You know that it’s very important to tell the truth when you’re living with people. You’ve got to tell the truth. You know that. Now, what really happened? Were you using it?”

The accusation made her feel indignant. Why should he imagine that she would use his hair gel? And why would he imagine that she would lie about it? “No,” she said. “I did not use it. I was looking at it.”

“Is hair gel that interesting?”

“Not yours,” she snapped.

Bruce looked at her and wagged a finger. “Temper!” he said. “Temper!”

Pat looked at him scornfully, and then turned and made her way back into her room slamming the door behind her. He was impossible; he was self-satisfied; he was smug. She could not live with him. She would have to move.

But if she moved, then it would be his victory. She could just imagine what he would say when he showed the next person her room.
There was a girl here, but she didn’t stay long. Very immature
type. Second gap year, you know.

She sat down on her bed and stared down at the bedside rug. There is no real reason to feel unhappy, she thought, but she did. She had a job, she had the place at St Andrews for next October, she had her supportive parents: she had everything to look forward to. But somehow her life seemed to be slow and pointless: it seemed to her that there was a gap in it, and she knew exactly what that gap was. She wanted a boyfriend. She wanted somebody to phone up, right then, and tell about what Bruce had said. And he would sympathise with her and ask her to meet him for dinner, and they would laugh about Bruce over dinner, and she would know that this other person – this boy – regarded her as special to him. But she had none of that. She

just had this room, and this emptiness, and that sarcastic, selfabsorbed young man out there, with that look of his, and his eyes, and his
en brosse
hair, and …

She stopped herself thinking about that. Her father had once spoken to her about unwelcome thoughts; thoughts that came into one’s mind unbidden. They were often rather disturbing thoughts – thoughts about doing something outrageous or shocking – but this was not something to be too concerned about. The whole point about these thoughts was that they were never translated into action because they did not represent what one really wanted to do. So one never discarded one’s clothes and ran down the street, nor jumped over the waterfall, nor over the cliff for that matter, even if one thought how easy it would be to throw oneself over the edge, and to fall and fall down to the very bottom. So easy.

25. Dinner with Domenica

“Now,” said Domenica with a gesture that embraced the room. “This is where I work. I sit at that desk over there and look out over Scotland Street. And if I run out of ideas, I go and sit in that chair and wait.”

“Until an idea comes along?”

“In theory. But I might just fall asleep or become restless. You know how it is.”

Yes, Pat did. She felt restless. The encounter with Bruce had unsettled her and her spirits had been low when she had knocked at Domenica’s door on the other side of the landing. Domenica, looking at her guest over her half-moon spectacles, could tell that something was wrong. So she asked Pat what it was, and Pat told her the story of the hair gel.

Domenica smiled. “Hair gel! All over the floor? The best place for it, in my opinion!” But she saw that Pat was worried, and her tone became concerned. “That young man, you know, is a narcissist. It’s perfectly obvious. Clear as day. And the point about narcissists is that they just can’t see anything wrong with themselves. They’re perfect, you see. And they are also quite incapable of laughing at themselves. So he would never think it remotely funny that his hair gel had come to an unfortunate end.”

“He didn’t make it easy for me,” said Pat.

“Of course he wouldn’t. He expects you to admire him, and he’s annoyed that you don’t appear to be falling at his feet. So he’s a bit uncertain how to deal with you.”

This discussion with an ally made Pat feel more cheerful and she put Bruce out of her mind. Domenica was far more interesting, she thought, with her sharp comments and her booklined study. She wanted to find out more about her neighbour, and what she did. Did Domenica have a job? She kept odd hours, she had noticed, and when she had driven her off in the custard-coloured Mercedes-Benz that morning she had not appeared to be going to work. And if she sat at her desk waiting for ideas, what were these ideas about?

“You’re wondering what I do,” said Domenica abruptly. “How rude of me. I know that you work in a gallery, so I have the advantage of you. And I have kept you guessing about me.”

“Well,” admitted Pat, “I suppose I was wondering.”

“I’m not gainfully employed,” said Domenica. “I’m a bit of a dilettante. I do this and that. Which doesn’t tell you very much. I produce the occasional article for obscure journals and I act as secretary for a society. And I write a great number of letters to people. And that, I suppose, is it.”

“Your articles?” asked Pat.

“Anthropological. I trained as an anthropologist, and I’ve dabbled in it on and off for years. But I’m not very professional about it and I imagine that the real anthropologists – the ones in institutes and universities – rather turn their noses up at me. Not that that ever bothered me in the slightest.”

Domenica gestured to a chair and invited Pat to sit down. Fetching an empty glass, she poured a generous helping of sherry into it and offered it to her guest.

“I take it that you drink,” she said. “This is a very dull sherry but it will have to do. It’s the sort of sherry that ministers serve in the manse. But let’s persist with it nonetheless, in the sure and certain knowledge that things will improve at dinner. I have a very nice bottle of something much less dull which we can drink at the table.”

Pat raised her glass and they toasted one another. So Domenica was an anthropologist. She had expected her to be something exotic, and an anthropologist seemed about right. “I’ve never met an anthropologist,” she said hesitantly. “It sounds so …”

Domenica interrupted her. “Sounds so, but isn’t. Anthropologists are really rather mundane people, for the most part. They used to be interesting in the days of Pitt-Rivers and Margaret Mead and all the others. But now it’s all very dry and technical. And of course they’ve run out of people to study. Everybody is more or less the same these days. I expect that if one went to New Guinea, for example, one would find that all those people who used to have a resident anthropologist attached to them are watching American television through their satellite dishes. No time for inter-group warfare or initiation rites when you have all that popular culture to absorb. So the anthropologists have a rather thin time of it.”