They rang off and he returned to staring at the ceiling. He was pleased that Sasha had approved of his decision to invite Bruce – which he had not previously consulted her about.
Lizzie would like it, he was sure, and although there was something odd about that young man – the mirrors and that substance on his hair – he was probably perfectly all right under the surface. Todd was concerned about Lizzie: she wanted a boyfriend, he knew, but did not seem to have had much success in finding one. Most young men went out with Goings-on in London
59
one another these days, he had observed, which meant that there were rather few young men left over for the girls. Terrible pity.
Perhaps something would come of this. And what would be wrong with that? If Bruce and Lizzie made a go of it, then they could take him into the partnership and the succession would be assured. And the responsibilities of marriage would soon sort Bruce out. Yes. Not a bad idea at all.
23. Goings-on in London
Gordon Todd stood by a window on the first floor of the building he had been inspecting in London. The position of the property impressed him – tucked away in a mews avenue off the Fulham Road, but close enough to really fashionable parts of Chelsea and South Kensington to attract tenants with the means to pay a substantial rent. It would be a good office, he thought, for a design studio or an advertising agency.
His client, who had inherited the property, was wondering about selling it. That would not be difficult, Gordon thought, because the place was in good condition and he could not imagine any obvious planning drawbacks. But it might be better to hold on to it for a couple of years and see whether its value went up appreciably. He could do the arithmetic after he had spoken to his London contacts and worked out just what might be paid for a place like this.
Gordon looked out of the window. The street was quiet – a good sign, he thought, as it suggested that the mews houses on the other side of the road were still being used as houses rather than as offices. And they were attractive, he thought, with their white-painted fronts and their panelled doors. London was full of pleasant corners, he reflected, even if there were trackless wastes further out. One might even live in London, at a pinch, 60
Goings-on in London
provided that one were not too tall and in danger of bumping one’s head at every turn on their ridiculously low ceilings, and provided one were not too readily shocked by what one saw in the street.
As he thought about this, he noticed that a light had gone on in a room in the opposite house. It was a living room, not very large, he thought, although it was comfortably furnished with a few easy chairs and a sofa . . . Gordon stopped. There were two people on the sofa, a man and a woman, and . . .
Well really! You would think that people would close the curtains if they proposed to engage in that sort of thing. Of course they must have thought that the building opposite was empty – that was reasonable enough – but how would they know that there might not be a surveyor in it, or a possible purchaser? And there they were, obviously on very close terms, completely unaware of the fact that anybody might be able to see them.
He was about to turn away when he saw a small and expensive sports car draw up in front of the house in question and a man step out. The man reached into his pocket, took out a key, and opened the front door. Gordon caught his breath. The window at which he was standing afforded a good view not only of the living room, but of the hall outside it. Now, as he watched, he saw the man’s head appearing above the level of the stairs and then, a few moments later, he was standing in front of the door to the living room, his hand upon the door-knob.
The man paused. Then, leaning forward slightly, he appeared to put his ear to the door. Gordon stood quite still. This was the husband, obviously, and he had arrived home unexpectedly, to find his wife in flagrante with a lover. It was a very trite scene, but seeing it enacted in front of him seemed quite extraordinary.
Would he knock on the door, or would he creep away, shocked and disappointed?
The man did neither. Slowly he tried the handle of the door, twisted it, and found it locked. He stood back, appeared to think for a few moments, and then moved towards the hall window –
Goings-on in London
61
the window through which the unobserved observer was now watching him.
Gordon looked on in amazement as the man opened the window – which was a large one – and began to climb out onto the small ironwork window box. Then, very slowly, the man inched himself towards the neighbouring window – the window of the room in which the woman and the man were still unaware of the danger of discovery.
Gordon thought: so this is the sort of thing one sees in London! It’s obviously a hotbed of adultery and goings-on.
And then the man on the ironwork window box slipped.
Gordon saw him grab at the brickwork and, quite slowly at first, topple backwards. Gordon gave a cry, involuntarily, and closed his eyes. Then he leaned forward and saw the man lying on the top of the canvas roof of the small sports car, which had been parked directly beneath him. He was staring up at the sky, and for a moment their eyes met. Then, without moving the rest of his body, the man raised a hand and waved to Gordon, a wave that one might give to a friend one has just noticed in a café, or on the other side of the street.
24. Unwelcome Thoughts
That morning, when Pat had been given the unnecessary ride in the custard-coloured Mercedes-Benz belonging to Domenica Macdonald, an invitation to dinner had been extended, and accepted.
“I’ll knock together a few bits and pieces,” said Domenica airily.
“I’m not a very good cook, I’m afraid. But we can talk. Sans Bruce.”
They had exchanged a look.
“He’s all right,” said Pat. “But it would be nice to talk.”
“I can tell you all about everyone on the stair,” promised Domenica. “Not that there’s much to relate, but there is a bit. You may as well know about your neighbours before you meet them.”
Pat had been told to ring Domenica’s doorbell at six-thirty, which gave her time to get back from the gallery and have a bath before she crossed the landing. Bruce had already arrived at the flat when she came home and he was sitting in the kitchen reading a catalogue.
“Sold any paintings today?”
“No.” She paused. “Well almost, but not quite.”
Bruce laughed. “I don’t think that gallery is going to do spectacularly well. I was hearing about him, you know, your boss, Matthew. Walking cash-flow problem. It’s only the fact that his old man pays the bills that keeps him going.”
“We’ll see,” said Pat.
“Yes,” said Bruce. “We’ll see. And if you need a new job, I can get you one. A friend of mine needs somebody to do some market research. He said . . .”
“I’m fine,” said Pat.
“Well, just let me know,” said Bruce, returning to his catalogue.
“And by the way, have you seen my hair gel?”
For a few moments Pat said nothing. She opened her mouth, but then closed it again.
“Well?” asked Bruce. “Have you seen it?”
Pat swallowed, and then replied. “I broke it,” she said. “I’m very sorry. I’m going to buy you some more. I’ll get the same stuff if you tell me where to get it.”
Unwelcome Thoughts
63
Bruce lowered his catalogue. “Broke it? How did you do that?”
Pat looked up at the ceiling. She was aware that Bruce was staring at her, but she did not wish to meet his gaze.
“I was looking at it,” she said. “It fell out of my hands and it broke. I was going to tell you.”
Bruce sighed. “Pat,” he said. “You know that it’s very important to tell the truth when you’re living with people. You’ve got to tell the truth. You know that. Now, what really happened?