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 propor-tions 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.
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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 outside shone through the crack.
Pat glanced about her. There was a bed in the corner, covered with a white counterpane, made, at least, unlike Bruce’s bed, which was usually in a state of dishevelment. Then there were two easy chairs with brown corduroy slipcovers; the seat of one of these was covered with a pile of abandoned clothing – a shirt, a couple of pairs of socks, some unidentified underclothes and a pair of jeans. Peter reached down, bundled the clothing up and stuffed it in a drawer.
“This isn’t a mess,” said Pat. “Bruce – my flatmate – has a far messier room.”
Peter shrugged. “Every so often I have a blitz on it. But the vacuum cleaner’s bust and it’s difficult.”
“You could borrow ours,” said Pat. She spoke quickly, and immediately wondered whether this was the right thing to say.
It was as if she was offering to clean up for him, which was not what she intended.
“We’re all right,” said Peter, pointing to one of the chairs and inviting her to sit down. “We get by.”
Pat sat down and looked at the walls. There could be clues there, just to confirm. A picture of . . . who were the appropriate icons? She realised that she was not sure. There was a poster above the bed, a film poster of some sort; but it was for a Japanese film and she had no idea what that signified.
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And above her head, behind the chair, was a framed print of
Peter rubbed his hands together. “I’ll go and make coffee,”
he said. “How do you like it?”
Pat told him, and he went off to the kitchen, leaving her alone in his room. Once he had gone, she looked at his desk. There was a pile of books – a Jane Austen novel, a book of critical essays, the
She moved the letters slightly; of course she would not read them, she was just looking; a foreign stamp: Germany. And underneath the letters, two or three photographs, turned face downwards. She hesitated. She should mind her own business; one did not go into another person’s room and look at his photographs. But at least she
