“Is he yours?” said Crissie.
“No, no he’s not.”
The cat purred, and looked at Susan from half-closed bluish eyes. She reached out and stroked his forehead with one finger, but quickly.
“He’s gorgeous,” said Crissie. “Is he a stray? He looks too sleek. I’d have him, but I’m out half the time. It wouldn’t be fair.
“He belongs to 6A or B, I think, hazarded Susan. “I saw him going that way earlier.”
“Oh, what a con-artist. And I gave him a piece of ham.”
Crissie leaned fluidly down, with a dancer’s grace, and set the white cat on the wooden floor.
Instantly he shot past Susan into her flat.
“Oh,” said Crissie, “I’m sorry.”
“It isn’t your fault.”
The cat flew along the flat corridor, and bolted straight into the main room.
“Well, it is my fault, really. Shall I catch him?” asked Crissie.
That was all. It seemed quite uncomplicated. She too entered Susan’s flat, and as she went by, looked into Susan’s face with a quiet, “May I?” They were the same height.
They walked into the main room together.
“Ah, I do like your ceiling,” said Crissie, “mine’s a sort of puce. I keep meaning to repaint it, but I just haven’t got round to it.”
The cat stood in the middle of the floor, looking at them idly. He chirped a comment and leapt on to the round table, knocking two books off to the carpet.
“They say,” said Crissie, “a cat never knocks anything over unless it means to. Come here, Catty. You must return to your rightful owners.”
Susan was taken with the undeniable beauty of these two creatures. It occurred to her Crissie had precisely the cat’s quality, an animal quality, the good looks of an animal, which even clothing, and today’s cosmetics, did not lessen.
The cat let Crissie reach him, then sprang away and trotted to the floor-length window, which he stared at meaningfully. His meow was now very loud, masculine. “Is that what he wants?”
Susan crossed over and undid the French door.
The white cat flipped himself out and down the three stairs like spilled milk, then vanished through a gap in the fir trees.
“Not even a goodbye. That’s a cat for you. By the way, thanks again for bringing the parcel across the other night. It wasn’t from Gerry, it was poor old Ed. I’ll have to ring the agency.”
Unenlightened, shopping not unpacked, Susan wondered whether she wanted the girl to go, or to stay.
By daylight she looked even younger. Her skin had no markers, not the faintest frown-line, or infinitesimal lapse.
She was moving, leisurely, back towards the corridor and the front door.
“Would you like some tea?” said Susan. “I’ve just made some.
“I’d love some.”
“It’s not normal tea – I mean, it’s mint tea-bags.”
“Even better.”
In the kitchen, Crissie picked up a lemon, and then a lettuce, from the kitchen counter, and examined them reflectively. “The shape of fruit and vegetables is so intriguing. Everything is, really, when you look at it.”
They went back to the main room and Crissie sat on the couch, kicking off her shoes so her clean, exquisite feet could burrow in the carpet. There was black nail-varnish on her toenails.
“How long have you been in this flat, Susan?”
“Not long. A month or so.”
“I’ve only been in mine a few months too. Do you want to change a lot? Because you’re an artist, aren’t you? I noticed the easel and canvases in the other room.”
“Sort of an artist. I do book-jackets, sometimes.”
“That must be fascinating, to be able to do that.”
Susan said, politely, “What kind of work do you do?” She was curious as well, she half expected Crissie to say she didn’t have to work.
Crissie smiled her sweet and amiable smile. “I’m a prostitute.”
The months had gone by after R.J. Foolishly, believing the propaganda, Susan anticipated constantly that the hurt and sense of desolation would ease. They did not do so.
“Susan, you seem to need a break.”
“I’m sorry about not getting this done on time.”
“It’s okay. I understand. But well. Why not take some leave?”
Near Christmas, Susan saw his book in the display at Paragon. Then in the shops. The jacket illustration was very ordinary. She ordered a copy, but then, having got it home to Brashspeare Road, found she couldn’t read it.
She put it in the bookcase with his other eleven novels, the ones he had given her, and the one with her cover. And then in the New Year, she pulled them all out and took the books to a charity shop.
But it didn’t help. Of course not. Nothing could.
It was not that she thought of him, longed for him, every minute of every day and night. It was that a kind of sludgy darkness hung over her. She couldn’t be happy, even in little ways. And if ever she managed to be, for a moment or so, the darkness shifted and made a strange sound in her brain, resettling itself, reminding her.
She went through stages of misery and anger, sarcasm and self-dislike. She drank too much. Stopped drinking alcohol altogether. None of this led anywhere, except back to R.J.
In February there was a party Paragon gave, and she was asked and expected to go, but he might be there, so she didn’t.
However, she finished two covers on time that were all right.
Anne called and said she might come over in the summer, (alone, Wizz was always busy) but Anne had said this before at least ten times.
Anne now and then sounded old. Certainly sometimes elderly. Her voice would suddenly croak on random words. She was over sixty. Her laughter, too, was finally very American. She said, “Oh, boy, is Wizzy fat. He has to diet. What a blimp.”
Susan found she was oddly shocked. Never before had Anne said anything so derogatory about Wizz.
Anne said, “So, you’re still in that dump you told me about in Shakespeare Street?”
“Brashspeare. Yes.”
“Look, honey, I’m going to send you some money.” This too had often been said, but
