“So when you went into that building at No 87 Eton Terrace, you were doing so on trust. You were . . .”
Bruce sat up straight. “Number 78.”
Todd paused. “Number . . .” He looked at the file in front of him. “Number . . .”
Bruce closed his eyes with relief. Yes, there had been a flat for sale at No 87. He remembered somebody saying something about it over coffee. Todd had confused the two.
Todd had now extracted a diary from a drawer and was checking a note. He closed the book, almost reluctantly, and looked up at Bruce.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “This is my mistake. I’m very sorry. I was mixing up two properties. You see . . .”
Bruce shook his head. “You don’t need to apologise, Todd,”
he said. “We all make mistakes. All of us. You really don’t need to apologise to me.” He paused, before continuing. “The important thing is to remember that, and to own up to one’s mistakes when one makes them. That’s the really important thing. To tell the truth. To tell the truth about one’s mistakes.”
Todd rose to his feet. “Well,” he said. “We can put that behind us. There’s work to be done.”
“Of course,” said Bruce. “But I was wondering whether I
25
could possibly have the afternoon off. I’m pretty much up to date and . . .”
“Of course,” said Todd. “Of course.”
Bruce smiled at his employer and rose to leave.
“A moment,” said Todd, reaching for the file. “Was there an old or a new tank in the roof space? Some of those places still have the lead tanks.”
Bruce again hesitated, but only for an instant. “It was fine,”
he said. “New tank.”
Todd nodded. “Good,” he said.
Bruce left the room. He was trying to trap me, he thought.
One would have imagined that he had learned his lesson, but he was still trying to trap me. As if I would lie,
What hypocrites! Masonic lodges! Golf clubs! – even though he’s not a member of the golf club he really wants to be a member of, thought Bruce, with a certain degree of satisfaction.
Pat was hardly surprised when Matthew announced that he was going to take a coffee break. She had been sitting in her cramped office at the back of the gallery, retyping the now somewhat grubby list of paintings which Matthew had handed her. Matthew had been reading the newspaper at his desk in the front, glancing at his watch from time and time and sighing. It was obvious to Pat that he was bored. There was nothing for him to do in the gallery and his mind was not on the newspaper.
Shortly before half-past ten, Matthew folded up his newspaper, rose to his feet and announced to Pat that he was going out.
“I go to that place on the other side of the road,” he said.
“The Morning After, it’s called. Not a very good name, if you ask me, but that’s what it’s called. Everyone calls it Big Lou’s. If you need me, you can give me a call.”
“When will you be back?” asked Pat.
Matthew shrugged. “Depends,” he said. “An hour or so. Maybe more. It all depends.”
“I’ll be fine,” said Pat. “Take your time.”
Matthew gave her a sideways glance. “It is my time,” he muttered. “It goes with being your own boss.”
Pat smiled. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I just wanted you to know that I think I’ll be all right.”
“Of course, you will,” said Matthew. “I can tell you’re going to be a great success. I can tell these things.” He touched her lightly on the shoulder. “Smart girl.”
Pat said nothing. She was used to condescension from a certain sort of man, and although she did not like it, it was better than what she had experienced on her gap year – her first gap year.
Alone in the gallery, Pat seated herself at Matthew’s desk and looked out onto the street. She watched Matthew cross the road and disappear into The Morning After. She would make herself a cup of coffee in a few minutes, she thought. She rationed herself to three cups a day, and eagerly looked forward to the first cup of the morning.
27
Matthew had left his newspaper on the desk, and she picked it up. The front page was filled with political news, which she skipped over, in favour of an article on an inside page about a new film which everybody was talking about but which nobody, apparently, had seen. The violence in this film, it was said, was particularly graphic. There were severed heads, and limbs, and the breaking of bones. This, the writer said, was all very exciting. But why was it exciting, to see others harmed in this way? Were we addicted to fear, or dread? Pat was reflecting on this when she heard the muted note of the bell which announced that somebody had entered the gallery. She looked up and saw a man of about forty, wearing corduroy trousers and a green sweater. He was not dressed for the office, and had the air of a person with no pressing engagements.
