another person. It occurred to him that it couldn't have been much fun being a medieval messenger. There was every chance you'd end up without a head, or else employed as a human cannon-ball for some monstrous catapult.
He waited for her to go away. She didn't. He thought, shit. And then, resigned, put his hands in his pockets and descended the steps to join her.
She bit her lip. 'What a shame. It's miserable when something like this happens.'
'I can't think what's gone wrong.'
'What's worse,' she told him, in the tones of one determined to look on the bright side, 'is when you arrive on the wrong night, and they're not expecting you. I did that once, and it was dreadfully embarrassing. I'd got the dates mixed up.'
This did not help. 'I suppose you think I've got the dates mixed up.'
'It's easily done.'
'Not this time. I only got the postcard this morning. The thirteenth.'
She said, 'But this is the twelfth.'
'No, it isn't.' He was quite firm. 'It's the thirteenth.'
'I'm terribly sorry, but it's the twelfth. Thursday, the twelfth of May.' She sounded deeply apologetic, as though the mix-up were all her fault. 'Tomorrow's the thirteenth.'
Slowly, his punch-drunk brain worked this out. Tuesday, Wednesday… damn her eyes, she was right. The days had run into each other, and somewhere he had lost track of them. He felt shamefully foolish, and because of this he instantly began to come up with excuses for his own stupidity.
'I've been working. Flying. I've been in New York. Got back this morning. Jet lag does ghastly things to your brain.'
She made a sympathetic face. Her dog smelled at his trousers and he moved aside, not wishing to be peed upon. Her hair in the evening sunlight was astonishing. She had grey eyes flecked with green and milkmaid skin, bloomy as a peach.
Somewhere. But where?
He frowned. 'Have we met before?'
She smiled. 'Well, yes, actually. About six months ago. At the Hathaways' cocktail party, in Lincoln Street. But there were about a million people there, so there's no reason why you should remember.'
No, he wouldn't remember. Because she was not the sort of girl that he would register, would want to stay with, or even talk to. Besides, he had gone to that party with Vanessa, and spent most of his time trying to keep track of her, and stop her from finding some other man to have dinner with.
He said, 'How extraordinary. I am sorry. And how clever of you to remember me.'
'Actually, there was another time.' His heart sank, fearing to be faced with yet another social gaffe. 'You're with Wenborn and Weinburg, aren't you? I cooked a directors' lunch for them about six weeks ago. But you wouldn't even have noticed, because I was wearing a white overall, and handing round plates. Nobody ever looks at cooks and waitresses. It's a funny feeling, as though you are invisible.'
He realized that this was true. By now feeling more friendly towards her, he asked her name.
'Alexa Aird.'
'I'm Noel Keeling.'
'I know. I remembered from the Hathaways' party, and then for the lunch, I had to do a placement, and write names on cards.'
Noel cast his mind back to that particular day and recalled in satisfying detail the meal she had produced. Smoked salmon, a perfectly grilled fillet steak, watercress salad, and a lemon sorbet. The very thought of these delights caused his mouth to water. Which reminded him that he was ravenously hungry.
'Who do you work for?'
'Myself. I'm free-lance.' She said this quite proudly. Noel hoped that she was not about to embark upon the history of her career. He did not feel strong enough to stand and listen. He needed food, but, more importantly, he needed a drink. He must make some excuse, take his leave, and be rid of her. He opened his mouth to do this, but she spoke first.
'I suppose you wouldn't like to come and have a drink with me?'
The invitation was so unexpected that he did not immediately reply. He looked at her and met her anxious gaze, and realized that she was, in fact, extremely shy, and to come out with such a suggestion had caused her some courageous effort. As well, he found himself uncertain as to whether she was inviting him to the nearest pub or to some grotty attic pad filled with cohabiting colleagues, one of whom would doubtless just have finished washing her hair.
No point in committing himself. He was cautious. 'Where?'
'I live two doors down from the Penningtons. And you look as though you could do with a drink.'
He stopped being cautious. 'I do.'
'There's nothing worse than arriving in the wrong place at the wrong time, and knowing that it's all your own fault.'
Which could have been more tactfully put. But she was kind. 'You're very kind.' He made up his mind. 'I'd like that very much.'
3
The house was identical to the Penningtons', except that the front door was not black, but dark blue, and a bay tree stood in a tub beside it. She went ahead of him, opened it with her key, and he followed her indoors. She shut the door behind them and then stooped to unfasten the little dog's lead. The dog instantly went to drink copiously from a round dish that stood, handily, near the foot of the stairs. The dish had dog written on it.
She said, 'He always does that when he comes in. He seems to think that he's been for a long, long walk.'
'What's his name?'
'Larry.'
The dog lapped noisily, filling the silence, because, for once in his life, Noel Keeling found himself at a loss for words. He had been caught on the hop. He was not certain what he had expected, but certainly not this-an instant impression of warm opulence, loaded with evidence of wealth and good taste. This was a grand London residence, but on a miniature scale. He saw the narrow hallway, the steep staircase, the polished bannister rail. Honey- coloured carpeting, thick to the wall; an antique console table upon which stood a pink-flowering azalea; an ornately framed oval mirror. As well, and this is what really threw him, the smell. Poignantly familiar. Wax polish, apples, a suggestion of fresh coffee. Pot-pourri, perhaps, and summery flowers. The smell of nostalgia, of youth. The smell of the homes that his mother had created for her children.
Who was responsible for this assault of memory? And who was Alexa Aird? It was an occasion to fall back on small talk, but Noel couldn't think of a mortal thing to say. Perhaps that was best. He stood waiting for what was going to happen next, fully expecting to be led upstairs to some rented bedsitter or tiny attic apartment. But she laid the dog's lead on the table and said in hostessly fashion, 'Do come in,' and led him into the room that lay beyond the open door.
The house was a twin of the Penningtons' but about a thousand times more impressive. Narrow and long, this room stretched from the front of the house to the back. The street end was the drawing-room-too grand to be called a sitting-room-and the other end was set up for dining. Here, French windows led out onto a wrought-iron balcony, bright with geraniums in terracotta pots.
All was gold and pink. Curtains, padded thick as eiderdowns, hung in swags and folds. Sofas and chairs were loose-covered in the best sort of country chintz, and scattered haphazardly with needlepoint cushions. Recessed alcoves were filled with blue-and-white porcelain, and a bulging
It was all very elegant and grown-up, and did not match up in the very least with this quite ordinary and not particularly attractive girl in her jeans and sweat-shirt.
Noel cleared his throat.
