44 Scotland Street - Alexander McCall Smith [30]
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 –
Goings-on in London
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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.”
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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.