He smiled, relaxed again. “Now, now, Donald. Sticks and stones. Can I at least have a carrier bag? You forgot to gift-wrap it.”
“The arrangement was for the picture. Nothing else.”
“You really are a petty-minded old bastard, aren’t you?” He tucked it under his arm and went into the hallway. I followed him.
“Before you leave, I’d like my cheque back. It will save me the trouble of cancelling it.”
He reached into his pocket. “Slipped my mind.” He crumpled the cheque and threw it on to the floor. I opened the door, not out of politeness, but for the satisfaction of closing it on him.
“Will you be seeing Anna when you get back?” I asked.
He pretended to frown. “Who?”
“In that case I needn’t ask you not to come to the gallery again.”
“I can’t think of anything I’d like less. Except you.” Zeppo went down the steps. “Have a nice life, Donald.”
I shut the door.
I did not go into the gallery until the middle of the week. I telephoned Anna with the excuse that I was ill. It was strange speaking to her. She sounded the same as ever, unchanged. I felt as though she were someone I used to know well, but who I had now lost touch with.
By Wednesday I knew I could no longer put her off from visiting me, and went in. I preferred to face her at work rather than in the intimacy of my home. She was very solicitous. Smotheringly so. It was an effort not to be terse.
“What happened with your friend’s collection?” she asked. “The one who was burgled,” she added, when I looked blank. It took me a moment to realise what she was talking about.
“Oh... it wasn’t as bad as he thought,” I said, vaguely.
“Have the police found anything out yet?”
“No, not yet.”
As soon as I could, I shut myself in the office. Anna seemed to sense my mood and left me alone. But I could not stay there for ever. After a while I went back downstairs, forcing a smile as I reassured her that I was all right. She went back to her work, and I cast surreptitious glances at her as she bent over her desk. She had on a thin vest that did little to disguise her breasts. They hung loosely under it, swinging ponderously as she shifted her weight. Her thighs were flattened on the seat, meaty and ungainly. She wore shorts, and I could see the tightness of cloth at the crotch. I thought of the undignified patch hidden there, and looked away.
When she stood up and crossed the room, I watched as the flesh of her moved. Legs, arms, breasts. There seemed a heavy, bovine quality about her that I wondered how I could have missed before. Suddenly, I could see her mother waiting behind the youthful facade, could detect the sagging fleshiness of the woman she would become. She turned and saw me watching her, and smiled. Her mouth stretched, and I remembered how it had slobbered over Zeppo. It struck me that it was too large for her face. Her lips were too wide, almost rubbery. I smiled back.
The anxiety I had felt about seeing her again faded. I wondered why I should have been so bothered. She was just a girl. Only her persistent intimacy prevented me from withdrawing into my old, now attractive isolation. It was a nuisance, but I was soon able to respond mechanically, without being touched by it. Even her frequent references to Zeppo left me unmoved. Like her, he belonged to the past. And that was something I chose not to dwell on.
“Have you had a postcard from him yet?” she asked one day.
“No.” Then, because I felt obliged to, I added, “Have you?”
She tried to sound casual. “No. I expect he’s been too busy. Or it’ll arrive after he gets back.”
“I expect so.”
Later, she said, “Donald, is everything all right?”
“Of course it is? Why?”
She shrugged. “Oh, I just wondered. You just seem a bit... I don’t know. Distant, lately.”
“Do I? I’m sorry. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“No. Thank you.” On impulse, I added, “One or two little financial problems. That’s all.”
She looked worried. “Bad?”
“Well... let’s see what happens, shall we?” I gave a brisk smile, and moved away. I felt a small grain of self-congratulation. I had prepared the ground. Now, if I decided to, I could always take it further. She was only an assistant, after all. There had been others before her. There would be others after.
One day she came up to me with a bright smile on her face. “Guess what? A friend of mine’s started work at the Barbican, and she can get us complimentary tickets for the Russian ballet this Saturday! If you can make it, of course.”
I looked disappointed. “This Saturday? Oh, I’d love to, but I’ve already arranged something.”
“Oh. Oh, well, never mind.” She smiled and shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I just thought you might like to go.”
“Another time, perhaps.”
I waited one more week before I called Charles Dryden.
“Good to hear from you,” he said. “Are you buying or selling?”
“Buying,” I answered.