“Now then,” said the woman on the doorstep of Domenica’s flat. “You must be Angus Lordie. Thank you for letting me in.
I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
“You have not,” said Angus, looking at the woman standing before him. “Not at all.” His portraitist’s eye, from ancient habit, noted the high cheek bones and the slightly retrousse nose; noted with approval, and with understanding too, as he knew that a feminine face such as this was subliminally irresistible to men.
Men liked women whose faces reminded them of babies – a heightened brow, a pert nose – these sent signals to men: protect me, I’m vulnerable. ‘Neuroaesthetics’ was the term he had seen for this new discipline; not that such a science could tell him anything that he did not already know as a painter and connoisseur of the human face. Regularity was good, but not too much regularity, which became tedious, almost nauseating.
Of course, there was far more that Angus was able to read into the physical appearance of Antonia Collie as she stood 14
before him. They had barely introduced themselves, and yet he was confident as to her social background, her interests, and her availability. The clothes spoke to the provenance: a skirt of cashmere printed in a discreetly Peruvian pattern (or, certainly, South American; and Peru was very popular); a white linen blouse (only those with time on their hands to iron could wear linen); and then a navy-blue jacket with a gold brooch in the form of a running hare. The navy-blue jacket indicated attachment to the existing order, or even to an order which no longer existed, while the brooch announced that this was a person who had lived in the country, or at least one who knew what the country was all about. Of course, the fact that this Antonia Collie was a close friend of Domenica’s would have told Angus Lordie all this, had he reflected on the fact that people’s close friends are usually in their own mould. Antonia would thus be a blue stocking, a woman of intellectual interests and marked views.
Angus smiled at the thought, relishing the prospect of a replacement for Domenica. It was all most convenient; his visits to Domenica, his enjoyment of her conversation – and her wine
– would now be replaced by the exact equivalent, provided by Antonia Collie. It was a very satisfactory prospect.
“Please let me take that for you,” he said, pointing to the small brown case beside her. “Is this all you have?”
“Sufficient unto the day,” said Antonia, stepping aside to allow Angus to pick up the suitcase. “I didn’t need to bring much of my own stuff. Domenica and I are the same size, you see. She said I could just wear her clothes if I liked. And drive her car too. She’s such a generous friend!”
Angus nodded. He did not show his surprise, but it seemed a very odd arrangement to him. Clothes were very personal and he could not imagine being happy in the knowledge that somebody else was wearing his clothes. He had once found himself wearing a pair of socks that he did not recognise and had been appalled at the thought that he had inadvertently taken his host’s pair of socks when he had stayed with friends in Kelso. What a dreadful thought! For the next few days he examined his toes carefully for signs of fungal infection; or would a normal wash
15
effectively rid socks of lurking fungus? His host had been a perfectly respectable person – a lawyer, no less – but athlete’s foot was no respecter of professional position: it could strike even a WS. Of course, women were much more relaxed about these matters, he thought; they shared clothes quite willingly.
Perhaps this was because they did not find one another physically disgusting. Men, in general, found one another vaguely repulsive; women were different.
With these thoughts in mind, Angus carried Antonia’s small suitcase through to the study and laid it down near the fireplace.
Antonia had moved to the window and was peering down to the street.
“It’s a long time since I was in this flat,” she mused, craning her neck to look. “I seem to remember Domenica having a slightly better view than this. Still, no matter. I doubt if I shall spend my time gazing out of the window.”
She turned and looked at Angus. “Domenica often spoke of you,” she said. “She enjoyed the conversations the two of you had.”
“And I too,” Angus said. “She was . . .” He looked at her, and she saw the sadness in his expression.
“Let’s not use the past tense when speaking of her,” said Antonia cheerfully. “She’s not exactly dead yet, is she? She’s in the Malacca Straits. That, I would have thought, amounts to being amongst the quick.”
“Of course,” said Angus hurriedly, but added: “That does seem a long way away. And it’s going to be months and months before we see her again.”
Antonia shot him a glance. Was this man Domenica’s lover?
It was difficult to imagine Domenica with a lover, and she had never seen her with him. But people such as Domenica liked a certain amount of mystery in their personal lives, and he may have been something special to her. Curious, though, that she should choose a man like this, with his intrusive stare and those disconcerting gold teeth; to have a lover with gold teeth was decidedly exotic. And yet he was a handsome man, she thought, with that wavy hair and those eyes. Dark hair and blue eyes were a dangerous combination in a man.
16
And Angus, returning her gaze, thought: she’s younger than Domenica by a good few years; younger than me, too. And she’s undoubtedly attractive. Does she have a husband? Presumably not, because a woman with a husband would not come to stay for six months in a friend’s flat and not bring the husband with her. A lover, then? No. She had that look, that indefinable yet unmistakable look, of one who was alone in this world. And if she were alone, then how long would that last, with that concise nose of hers that would break ilka heart, but no the moudie man’s? It was a play on a poem about the moudie and the moudie man, and it popped into his mind, just like that, as off-beat, poetic thoughts will break surface at the strangest moments, leaving us disturbed, puzzled, wondering. The mole’s little eyes would break every heart, but not the molecatcher’s.
