'But, something's wrong,' he said perplexed, shaking his head, 'and I don't know what it is.'
'It's not your cat,' she laughed.
'Eh?'
He let his hands drop and he wriggled his fingers nervously.
'You've dragged someone else's cat into the flat.'
'No,' he said quickly.
'Yes! Surely you can see it's not Goya. Goya has a white chest and grey paws. This one has a grey chest and white paws. It's also smaller and it's frightened out of its wits because it doesn't know you. It wants to get out, but it can't find the way. Alvar, go and open the door. I bet you Goya is sitting out on the step wanting to get in.'
Alvar stared at the strange cat, his arms still hanging limply. He felt like a complete idiot. She was still laughing. A silvery, playful laughter tinged with superiority.
'You really are something else,' she hiccupped. Alvar wanted to laugh, but he could not manage it. He went out into the hall and opened the door. Goya shot in. The strange cat darted across the floor like an arrow and was gone in a flash. Alvar's cheeks flushed scarlet. That he could be so absent-minded, it was unbearable. Angrily he marched out into the kitchen and put the frying pan back on the heat; he heard the butter starting to sizzle again and added the eggs. He frantically began talking about other things. How much he needed a holiday and how he was thinking about maybe going away for a few days. He peered furtively at her to see how she would react.
'I can look after your flat for you,' she suggested enthusiastically. 'And water your plants. Can I stay overnight? It's so comfy. I won't bring anyone here, I promise.'
He didn't reply, but he thought about what she was saying.
'And I can clean the floors and collect your post.'
He folded the omelette and eased it out of the frying pan with a spatula.
'But do you think you could leave me some money before you go away?'
He sighed. Found cutlery and poured himself a glass of milk, placed everything on a tray and carried it into the living room. She followed him.
'And I can feed the cat. You can't just leave him, you know, he needs his food.'
'I could put him in a home,' he argued.
'Oh, but that's so expensive,' she replied.
'You won't lose the key, will you?' he asked. 'I'm scared that it might fall into the wrong hands.'
'I'll take good care of the key,' she said. 'Look. It's around my neck on a piece of string.
She stuck her hand down the pink angora sweater and pulled out a blue string and there was the key.
'I won't let anyone else in, I won't talk to your neighbours and I won't tell anyone that you've gone away; I'm not stupid, Alvar.'
He believed her. In spite of everything there was a part of her that wanted to be honest.
'Where will you go?' she asked, flopping onto the sofa.
He pulled his chair closer to the dining table and started eating.
'Well, not far. Only a few days. A short break, to Copenhagen possibly. Or maybe Sweden, where they have all these hostels.' As he said it he realised that the idea of sharing accommodation with a group of total strangers did not appeal to him in the least. 'Or I might find a cheap hotel,' he said. 'I might drive around in the Mazda for a bit and see the countryside. Varmland, for example, is said to be very pretty, and a change is as good as a rest.'
'Yes, it is, isn't it?' she replied warmly. 'I fancy a change as well. I hate this town,' she went on, 'all those people staring at you, young guys fighting the whole time, I'm fed up with it. And it's so bloody cold in the winter, there's a wind from the river, it's like someone pinching your cheeks with icy fingers. Have you ever felt it, Alvar?'
Yes, he had. All the same one of his favourite things about the town was the river running through it. The bridge, the boats. The promenade where he liked to go for walks on Sundays.
'You're so good at managing on your own,' she said abruptly.
He looked up.
'You cook proper food. And it's always so neat and tidy in here, and so clean. Your plants thrive, all lovely and green.'
He shook his head, slightly embarrassed by her praise.
'I mean, single men are usually so messy.'
'Really?'
'I know a lot about that,' she said, 'I've visited a lot of them.'
I don't doubt that, Alvar thought, drinking his cold milk.
'Don't you have any vices at all?' she asked.
He considered this. 'I drink sherry,' he said, 'in moderate quantities.'
'Then it's not a vice,' she stated. 'Merely a harmless habit. It doesn't mean that you are genetically disposed towards dependency.'
'There is such a gene?' he asked.
'I swear on my life,' she said. 'In fact, addicts like me are innocent victims. You must realise that, Alvar.'
'I'm not judging anyone,' he said, hurt.
'I know,' she said softly. 'You're a sweetheart.'
Alvar choked on his milk and was overcome by a violent coughing fit.
'And you press your trousers,' she laughed. 'I don't know anyone else who does that.'
Alvar ate the rest of his omelette in silence. From time to time he glanced up at her, there was something he was dying to ask her. She lit a cigarette; he went into the kitchen as he always did to fetch her a saucer. He returned and placed it on the coffee table.
'What's your real name?' he asked, bending down.
She threw her head back and laughed. 'It's Ella,' she said, 'Ella Margrethe Riis.'
'And what will it be tomorrow?' he asked.
'Well, let me see, Linda, perhaps. Or Britt. You can call me what you like.'
'Heidi,' he suggested.
She snorted. 'What? That's just so naff.'
He pouted and pretended to look stern. 'You were the one who wanted to play name games so you'll just have to put up with it.'
'All right, all right then,' she conceded. 'My name's Philippa.'
'And I'm supposed to believe that?'
She shrugged. 'I'm supposed to believe that your name's Alvar. Even though I think it's a weird name. What were your parents thinking when they gave you that name?'
'How would I know?' he said. 'I imagine it's a family name of some sort,' he added. 'It might have been the name of my great-uncle or something, and I was named after him.'
She inhaled her cigarette.
'Do you have any family?' he wanted to know.
She was quiet for a long time. 'Perhaps. But I never see them.'
He frowned at her reply. 'Either you have family or you don't.'
'Of course. That's what I was just saying. I might have some family, but I don't know what they're doing.'
He sighed. 'You're not easy to get on with,' he said then.
'Is that what it's all about?' she asked. 'Being easy to get on with? I think you have turned being nice into a full-time job. I bet you're nice even when you're on your own.'
'Of course,' he said. 'Should I be nasty to myself?'
'Some people are,' she said. 'Some people are at their worst when they're alone. They get plastered, they overeat, they cut themselves, they bang their head against the wall, they play their stereo at full blast and blow their eardrums, they stand by the window and howl at the moon.'
'Do they?' he said, horrified. 'Why?'
'To relieve their despair, obviously. You know about despair, don't you?'
'No, not really. Not much,' he admitted. 'And surely raging against it won't make it any better?'
'Yes, it will. It gets the adrenaline flowing,' she said, 'and that's a great rush. You ought to try it
