Thirteen Steps Down

were close, he was going to do an abortion on her but she ran away.'

'You're giving me the creeps, Mix.'

He laughed. 'I'm going to open the other bottle. Don't get up.'

A quarter of an hour before midnight he put his clothes on, a male Cinderella, preparing to be home at the appointed hour. A real dump, he thought, looking round the room, not particularly dirty, but an untidy mess and not a decent piece of furniture to be seen. The curtains looked as if made from a bedsheet split down the middle. 'You can come to my place next time,' he said, carefully considering the implications and deciding St.Blaise House was safe and a lot more comfortable. It amused him to think how impressed she would be. 'About eight onFriday?'

'Can I really?' She looked at him with shining eyes.

'What a creep, he thought, hasn't got a clue. He didn't really like her. No, that was wrong. He hated her and he realized why. She reminded him of his mother. Here, in her, was thes ame weakness and passivity, the same inadequacy-look at the mess in that room of hers. Like his mother, she wasn't goodlooking or clever or successful at anything, she hadn't a scrap of pride and she let any man screw her who wanted to. The first time he and she went out she'd let him. To be worth having, women should be hard to get. Not that Colette was, but she was a nymphomaniac, all the reps said so. His anger with his mother was transferring itself to Danila. That was the effect she had on a man, he thought. She made him want to strike her just as his mother did.

He was relieved none of Danila's neighbors were about, no sign of the Middle Eastern man, and he had to tell himself not to be so anxious as he emerged into the cold night air, he wasn't Reggie, he wasn't a murderer fearful of being recognized neart he scene of a crime. 'What did it matter if anyone saw him? They'd forget in five minutes, anyway. Abstractedly, he fingered the cross in his pocket. These days he found he did this more and more, especially when in contact with the numberthirteen, passing 13 Oxford Gardens, for intance, or attending to the thirteenth treadmill at Shoshana's.

More deserving of his attention, he thought next day, was getting to know Nerissa. So far he was nowhere. His next move might be to put himself on the Shoshana Spa waiting list for membership. It would be a simple matter to get Danila to move him up the list, move him to the top, even perhaps let him in without his going on it at all. Then he'd be able to go there whenever he liked. And it would be good for him. He had to admit that he wasn't getting very far with his walking or cutting down on junk food. Only half an hour ago, on leaving Colette's, he'd bought a Cadbury's fruit and nut bar and a packet of crisps, all of which had mysteriously been consumed while he sat in the car thinking.

He'd ask Danila on Friday. Correction, he'd tell her on Friday, tell her what he wanted and to do it. If he went to the spa every day for a week he'd be bound to see Nerissa, and once he'd seen her… Mix told himself he was confident in his relations with women and he understood that it was because of this confidence that he managed to get the ones he wanted. Mostly. If he were strictly honest with himself, he'd admit that when it came to one he really wanted a lot, he wasn't so successful. 'Why was that? He must remember that and once he'd met Nerissa, go slowly, carefully. There was no doubt he wanted her more than he ever had anyone before. For herself, ofcourse, but also for the fame she'd bring him.

All this introspection wearied him and as he drove off to his next call, his mind wandered into a fantasy of escorting Nerissa to some glittering function, say the Bafta Awards ceremonywhere they laid red carpet out on the pavements for the stars towalk on when they stepped out of their cars. She'd be wearing a wonderful see-through dress and her own diamonds andhe'd be in a tuxedo, beautifully fitting his new slim figure. Mixhad never thought much about marriage, beyond knowing hed idn't want it, or not yet, not till he was approaching forty maybe. But now… If he played his cards right, why shouldn't he marry Nerissa? If he was going to get married one day, whowould suit him better than her and suit him now?

A letter was decided upon. Though it was many years since she had written a letter and as long since she had received one, Gwendolen believed she wrote well. Any piece of prose sheproduced would be a joy to read and kindle in the heart of the recipient a sensation of the good days gone by when people could spell, wrote good English without grammatical errors,and knew how to construct a sentence. A missive she had been sent by some company purporting to supply her with gas had contained the sentence, 'You will of received our communication.'

Of course she had replied in stinging words about the undoubted and rapid failure of any business unwise enough to employ illiterates, but had had no answer.

Now she was writing to Stephen Reeves and finding the task difficult. For the first time in her life she wished she had a television set so that she could have seen his programs about a country doctor. What a surprise it would have been to see his name come up on the screen! If she had known the series wasto be transmitted she could have stood outside the television shop in Westbourne Grove and watched it through the window. As things were, she couldn't write to him as she would have liked to, that she had seen his programs and enjoyed them. 'Watching your stories brought to life on the small screen inspired-no, prompted, no, encouraged?-impelled me to write toyou after so many years. Although in some doubt as to the author'sidentity, I acquainted myself with your website which-it wouldmake him see that she had moved with the times if she mentioned the website. Then Gwendolen remembered that ofcourse she hadn't seen the series, she hadn't got television, and she must start again.

Hearing from an acquaintance that you had ventured into the realm of television, I was moved to-the young man in the Internetcafe would surely count as an acquaintance. She was anxious not to begin by telling untruths. I was moved to renew oldfriendship-was that too forward? Most people would say fiftyyears was a long break in any friendship-I was moved to get intouch with you. She would have to say why. She would have tosay she wanted to see him. Gwendolen screwed up her fifth effortand sat disconsolate. It might be best to concentrate withoutpen and paper and resolve on her words before starting towrite them down.

A serious young man, Darel Jones was handling his move to a Docklands flat with tender care for his parents. Through school and university and his postgraduate studies, he had lived at home and now, at the age of twenty- eight, with a new and much better paid job, it was time to leave. Knowing he must do so before he was thirty, he had been careful once he came of age to do his own washing and ironing, eat out four times aweek, visit his girlfriends' places rather than bring them home for the night, and generally be independent. Thus he trod a fine line, for his mother would willingly and happily have done everything for him, welcomed girls, and forced herself not to apply the double standard, inwardly congratulating him on his choice while condemning them for their unchastity. He had spent at least two evenings a week with his parents, taken them out, gone to the cinema with them, been charming to their friends, and scrupulously thanked his mother for performing small services for him. Now he was leaving, to live at the other end of London on his own.

Neither parent had uttered a word of objection but on the eve of his move, the new furniture installed, his clothes in twosuitcases in the hall waiting to be put into his car, he saw a tear trickle down his mother's cheek.

'Come on, Mum. Cheer up. Suppose I'd been going to Australia like your chum Mrs. What'sher name's son.'

'I didn't say a word,' said Sheila Jones defensively.'Tears speak louder.'

'What'll you be like when he gets married?' Her husband passed his handkerchief, a move he had made on an average once a week during their thirty-year marriage.

'I hope he will. I know I'm going to love his wife.'

Darel wasn't so sure. 'That's a long way off,' he said. 'Look, I want you both to say you'll come over to dinner on Saturday. I'll be straight by then.'

Sheila began to cheer up. 'Tom and Hazel want us all to going next door for a drink this evening to say good- bye. I said wewould. Nerissa will be there.'

Darel considered, but not for long. 'You go,' he said. 'You can say good-bye for me.'

'Oh, we wouldn't go without you. There'd be no point. Besides,we'd miss our last few precious hours with you.'

If she hadn't said that model would be there he might have agreed. Nerissa Nash-why couldn't she have kept her father's interesting surname?-was very beautiful, any man would admit that, and according to his father, a nice