roof and not see her. They each had their own room of course, but there was the bathroom and the kitchen, which were shared, and the front door and the stair too. She wondered what she should do if they both came back at the same time and had to climb the stair together. Would they do so in tight-lipped silence, or would one rush ahead to get away from the other? No, it was impossible. She would have to move out. She would have to find somewhere else to live.
She looked at Matthew. She should not be offended that he had taken against Wolf as he had. It was flattering, really, to have about her somebody like Matthew, who at least liked her enough to feel jealousy. And if his fondness for her was sometimes awkward, then perhaps indifference would have been more difficult.
She gave his hand a squeeze. “I’m sorry, Matthew,” she said.
“I’m sorry. I know that you . . . that you worry about me.”
Matthew smiled reassuringly. “I suppose I do worry,” he said.
“I don’t want you to get hurt. That’s all.”
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Pat moved her hand away from his, but did so gently. She began to explain to him about Tessie and her hostility, and she told him about her snatching the telephone from Wolf.
“She’s frightening,” she said. “She really is. It seems that she’ll do anything to keep him.”
Matthew’s expression was grim. “You can’t go back there,” he said. “Or you can’t go back there by yourself. Why don’t I go back with you and help you get your things?”
Pat looked relieved. Tessie would hardly try anything if Matthew were present, and then she could . . . She stopped. It was all very well planning to collect her possessions and move out of Spottiswoode Street, but where would she move to? She could not go back to Scotland Street, and she could think of no particular friends on whose floor she could ask to stay. She would have to go home, and that, in spite of the comfort and security which it represented, would be an unacceptable admission of failure. Her father would be nice about it, she thought, and her mother, if she was there, would hardly notice. But it would be so demeaning to have to go home after trying so hard to establish her independence.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t know. I haven’t got anywhere to go, you see. I can’t think . . .” She looked around her, mentally sizing up the gallery for living purposes. She could have a bed in the back room – it was easily big enough – and she could keep her clothes in the walk-in cupboard they used to store paintings. It would be possible, just possible, particularly if one ate at Big Lou’s and did not have to bother too much about cooking.
Matthew reached forward and took her hand again. “Now listen,” he said. “I have a suggestion to make, and I want you to take it very seriously. I’m not just saying this – I’m not. You come and stay in India Street. I’ve got plenty of room and you can have the spare room at the back. It’s nice there. It’s very quiet.”
Pat looked down at the floor. There was no doubt in her mind but that Matthew was trying to be helpful. There was no ulterior motive in this invitation – she was sure of that – but it would be a major step to share a flat with him. What if he wanted to be something more than her landlord, more than her
flatmate? And he would want that – of course he would; she was sure of that.
But in spite of this conviction, this certainty, she thanked him for his offer – and accepted.
“Good girl,” said Matthew, and closed his eyes at the thought.
– rather earlier than he had wanted to – and had found it difficult to get back to sleep. Now it was six o’clock, and still dark.
In the summer, when the mornings were so bright and optimistic, he would sometimes make his way into his studio and paint for several hours. He loved those summer mornings, when the city was quiet and the air so fresh. Life seemed somehow richer in possibilities at that hour; it was like being young again; yes, that was what it was like, he thought. When you are young, the world is in better definition, clearer; it is a feeling not dissimilar to that which one had after the first sip of champagne, before the dulling effect of excess. But now, in the autumn, with the drawing in of days, the morning hours lacked all that, and painting could only begin much later on, after breakfast.
What produced this sense of disgruntlement on that particular day was the fact that Angus was due to entertain that night.
He enjoyed dinner parties – in fact, he relished them – but in general, he preferred to be a guest rather than a host. It was such a bother, he thought, to have to cook everything and then to serve it. He found it difficult to relax and enjoy the conversation if he had to keep an eye on the needs of his guests. And at the end of it all, of course, there was the mess which had to be cleared up. Angus kept his flat tidy – it was rather like the galley of a well-run ship, in fact; somewhat Spartan, with everything neatly stacked and stored.
Of course, this preference for being entertained rather than entertaining had not escaped the notice of others. If records 138
and that was never done in Edinburgh – then Angus Lordie’s debit columns would heavily outweigh anything in his credit columns. In fact, his credit columns would be completely blank, unless one counted buying lunch for one or two friends in the Scottish Arts Club as a credit. And the friends for whom he had bought lunch were themselves noted more for the eating of meals than for paying for them. And as for those who had invited him to their large parties in places such as East Lothian, they did so in the sure and certain knowledge that their hospitality would never be repaid. Not that they minded, of course; Angus was witty and entertaining company, and nobody expected a bachelor to be much good at reciprocation.
“He’s such a charming man,” remarked one hostess to a friend.
“Men like that are such fun.”
“But he’s absolutely no good,” said the friend. “A convinced bachelor. No use at all.”
“Such a waste,” said the first woman.
“Criminal.”
