Espresso Tales - Alexander Hanchett Smith [76]
Matthew felt ashamed. How did he look in the eyes of this man? And what would this man have thought had he known the nature of their conversation of a few moments ago? Matthew wanted to say: “Not me, not me.”
Chapter title 157
48. Private Papers
Pat hesitated at the door of Peter’s flat in Cumberland Street. It would be easy to turn back now, to return to Scotland Street and to call him from there. Something could have arisen to prevent her from seeing him as planned – there were so many excuses to stand somebody up: a friend in need, a headache, a deadline to meet. If she did that, of course, then she would not see him again, and she was not sure whether that was what she wanted. She was undecided. Men complicated one’s life; that was obvious. They made demands. They changed everything. In short, the question was whether they were worth it. And what was it anyway? The pleasure of their company? –
women were far more companionable than men. The excitement of male presence? – how long did that last, and did she want that anyway? She thought not, and was about to turn away when she remembered his face, and the way he had stooped to talk to her at that first meeting, and how physically perfect he had seemed to her then and was still, in the imagining of him. 158 Private Papers
She tugged at the old-fashioned brass bell-pull. There was a lot of give in the wire, but eventually there was a tinkling sound inside. Then there was silence. She tugged at the bell again and as she did so the door opened and Peter stood there. For a moment he looked puzzled, and then he raised a hand to his brow in a gesture of self-mockery over some stupidity.
“I forgot,” he said. “I totally forgot.”
Pat had not expected this. He had issued the invitation, after all; she was not self-invited. “I’m sorry,” she said lamely. “I’m sorry. We’d arranged . . .”
Peter shook his head. “Of course, of course. We’d arranged it. I’m so damn stupid. Come in.”
“If it’s inconvenient . . .”
He reached out and gripped her forearm, pulling her in.
“Don’t be silly. I was doing nothing anyway. Just come in.”
She entered a hall, a large square room of similar proportions to the hall of the flat in Scotland Street. This was in markedly worse order, though, with scuffed paintwork on the doors and skirting boards. The floor, which was sanded, was made of broad Canadian pine boards, covered in part by frayed oriental rugs; the planks were uneven, and caused the rugs to rise in small ridges, like tiny mountain ranges.
“This flat belongs to somebody who works in Hong Kong,”
said Peter, waving a hand behind him. “An accountant, or something like that. He’s mean. He never fixes anything, but the rent isn’t too bad and it suits us. I’ve been here over a year.”
“How many do you share with?” asked Pat.
“There are three of us,” said Peter, pointing to a half-open door off the hall. “That’s the biggest room. Joe and Fergus live in that. And that’s my room over here. We’ve got a sort of sitting room, but it’s a tip and we hardly ever use it.”
Pat looked at the half-open door. Joe and Fergus. Then she remembered. When she had seen Peter at the Film Theatre he had been with another young man, a boy who had stared at her while Peter had whispered something to him. I’m naive, she said to herself. I’ve missed the obvious.
Private Papers
159
Peter gestured towards the door of his room. “Are you easily shocked?” he asked, smiling as he spoke.
Pat thought quickly. She was not sure what to expect, but who could admit to being shocked these days? “Of course not,”
she said.
“Good,” said Peter. “Because it’s a bit of a mess. If I’d remembered, I would have tidied it up before you came.”
Pat laughed. “I’m a bit untidy myself.”
“Well,” said Peter. “That may be, but . . .”
They went into the room, which was dimly lit by a single reading lamp on the desk near the window. The curtains, made of a heavy red brocaded material, were drawn closed, but did not quite meet in the middle. A thin line of orange light from the streetlights