“It’s up to you,” said Pat.
“Some girls like a bit of designer stubble,” Bruce said casually, peering again into the mirror. “What do you think?”
Pat got up and walked towards the door. “I can take it or leave it,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even.
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Bruce tore himself away from the mirror and watched her leave the room. “Sorry,” he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear. “If I didn’t have to go out . . .”
She left the room, shaken by what had happened and by her reaction to it. She did not know what to do, and went aimlessly into the kitchen and switched on a light. She would eat something, perhaps, or put on the kettle – anything to occupy herself for a few moments and take her mind off the encounter she had just had. Everything, it seemed to her, had changed. She had left the flat that morning as a different person; as a person who was in command of herself, and come back a person in thrall. It was profoundly unsettling, just as it was completely unexpected. And it was unwanted too.
She was aware of Bruce in the background, of the opening of the bathroom door and its closing, of the sound of footsteps on the stripped pine floorboards, of the sound of a radio which he had switched on. She felt restless and confused. It was a good thing that he was going out, as this would stop her thinking of him; no, it was a bad thing, as she wanted him to be there.
But I do not want him, she told herself; I do not want this. I do not.
On impulse, she left the kitchen and walked into the hall and opened the cupboard to retrieve the ironing board. She had some clothes to iron. It was a task that she never enjoyed, but it was domestic and mindless and it would take her mind off him.
She flicked the switch inside the cupboard. There was the ironing board and there, of course, would be the painting, the Peploe? that she was looking after. But it was not, of course, and she gasped at the discovery.
“Something wrong?”
He was standing immediately behind her, and she was aware of the freshly-applied hair gel.
“There was something I was looking after.” Her voice faltered.
“A painting . . .”
Bruce laughed. “Oh that. Well, I’m very sorry, I got rid of that. I didn’t know it was yours. I thought . . .”
She turned to him aghast. Now he became defensive. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “If you leave things lying about in that cupboard they’re fair game. Rules of the flat. Always have been.”
“I feel that I don’t even have to ask you,” she said as she led Pat into her study. “It’s him, isn’t it? Bruce.”
Pat nodded. She had fought back her tears while Bruce explained to her what had happened to the painting, but now they came, a cathartic flood. He had been unapologetic. “How was I to know?” he asked. “There are all sorts of things in there.”
“Can you get it back? You must know who has it.”
Bruce shrugged. “Some old couple won it. Ramsey something or other, and his gas-bag wife. I don’t know anything about them.
Sorry.”
Pat felt outraged. “You could ask,” she shouted. “That’s the least you could do.”
Bruce drew back, shaking a finger at her. “Temper! Temper!”
He had done this to her before, after the incident with the hair gel, and the effect had been the same: the provoking of a seething anger. But she had said nothing more; she felt too weak, too raw to do anything, but the exchange had ended with a weak promise from Bruce to ask Todd for the Dunbarton telephone number. A few minutes later she had heard the front door close as he left the flat, and she sat in her room, her head in her hands. How was she to tell Matthew, as she would have to do?
It occurred to her that she might lose the job at the gallery, and while she would be able to find something else, there was the ignominy of dismissal.
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“It’s not the end of the world,” she said, when Pat had finished.
“You should be able to get it back. After all, these people who won it have no right to keep it. It was not Bruce’s to give in the first place, and that means that they can’t acquire any right to it.
It’s that simple.”
This had encouraged Pat, although doubts remained. “Are you absolutely sure about that?”
“Of course,” said Domenica. “Bruce effectively stole it from you. It’s stolen property. And stolen property is stolen property.”
Pat wiped at her eyes. “I feel so stupid,” she said. “Coming in here and burdening you with all this.”
Domenica reached out and laid a hand on her forearm. “You shouldn’t feel that. I’m very happy to help. And anyway, we all feel weak and sniffly from time to time.” She paused. “Of course, there is something else, isn’t there?”
Pat looked at her. Domenica could tell, she knew, but she was not at all sure if she wanted to speak about
