She stands at the doorway dazzled by the light, pushing hair away from her eyes. Blake is toasting two slices of bread and does not see her. Her mind takes a picture of him, shirtless and wearing only his low-slung jeans. To be kept for later, when he is no longer around. When he spots her, he leans a hip against the work counter, and looks back at her, his arms crossed, his eyes unreadable.
‘Did I wake you?’
‘No. What are you making?’
‘I was working and I got hungry. Want some toast?’
She shakes her head, but comes into the room and sits on a stool. She puts her elbows on the island surface amongst the butter dish, knives, plates and open jars of foie gras and caviar. There is also a half-drunk glass of orange juice. She slides her body along the cold granite surface and pulls it over to her. She sips it and watches him.
He produces a spoon from a drawer. It is the smallest spoon she has seen. He scoops a tiny amount of caviar and holds it out to her.
She crinkles her nose. ‘Fish eggs?’
He shakes his head in disgust. ‘Philistine,’ he chides.
She opens her mouth and he inserts the spoon. Little salty balls explode intriguingly in her mouth.
‘Good?’
She smiles. ‘Tastes better than it looks. A bit like you,’ she teases.
He throws back his head and laughs.
‘You work very hard, don’t you?’
‘All rich people do.’
She watches him spread pâtè on a slice of toast. Watches his even, strong teeth bite cleanly into it.
‘You should eat something,’ he says.
She stands up and makes herself a jam sandwich. While she is eating it, she thinks Rosa was right. Jam sandwiches should be made with white bread. They simply don’t taste the same with healthy bread.
‘What do you feel like doing now?’ he asks.
‘Don’t you feel like sleeping?’
‘Eventually.’
‘Shall we play a game?’
A smile curves that straight mouth. ‘What kind of game?’
‘Let’s see who comes first.’
His eyes flash. ‘What are the rules?’
Billie didn’t mention anything about rules. ‘It’s quite a simple game really. We take turns to make each other come. We time ourselves with an egg timer. The one who lasts the longest in the hands of the other wins.’
‘What’s the prize for winning?’
‘The winner gets to ask the loser for anything they want?’
‘What if the loser is unable to provide that thing?’
‘Within reason and nothing dangerous, obviously.’
‘OK, do you want to go first? Or shall I?’
‘I will. You can do me first.’ She stands up and swipes the egg timer off the counter. He stares at her. She reminds him of a child. They go into the bedroom. It is easy to make her come. Then it is her turn.
‘Why did you let me win?’
‘How do you know I did?’
‘Because you’ve never come before me.’
‘So why did you want to play this game then?’
‘Because I had something special up my sleeve, but I didn’t even get a chance to use it.’
He laughs. ‘Something special. Is it another technique from Billie?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes, but you haven’t answered the original question.’
‘Because I wanted to know what you would ask for.’
‘Why?’
He shrugs. ‘Well, what do you want?’
‘I want you to cook for me.’
He lies on his side and props his head on his palm. ‘Why?’
‘When I was fourteen, I read a book where the hero sent the heroine to have a long soak in the bath while he cooked for her. He grilled two steaks and tossed a salad. It was a really romantic. He wore a black shirt and washed out blue jeans. I remember he had just had a shower and his hair was still wet. Oh, and he was barefoot.’
‘And what did the heroine wear?’
‘Er… I can’t remember.’
‘Dinner tomorrow?’
She smiles. ‘Dinner tomorrow. You won’t burn it, will you?’
‘Maybe just the salad.’
Twenty one
The next day drags slowly. Mr. Nair arrives at ten a.m. with his mug and they have a little chat. He tells her about his family in India. Before he worked in the coffee shop, he was a Hindu priest in a temple in India. He is interesting, but his break time is quickly over and he leaves.
Lana is required to idle away her days, but idling alone in a sumptuous flat, she realizes, is no easy thing. There is not much activity in the part of the park that her balcony faces, and daytime television has always bored her. How many times can one watch reruns of Wonder Woman? She is also lonely. Without her mother, Billie or Jack she feels quite lost. She wanders around the large flat alone and bored. Idling, she finally decides, requires thoughtful planning and effort—diligent effort. She orders some books from Amazon.
It is nearly five o’clock when Lana is able to Skype Billie. Lana sits cross-legged on the bed and looks at Billie’s dear face come alive on the screen.
‘Guess what?’ Billie shouts enthusiastically. ‘We flew first class.’
‘What?’
‘Yep, we arrived at economy check-in and we were bumped up to first class. Both your mum and me!’
‘How can that be?’
‘Must be banker boy. They said it was all arranged and paid for.’
Lana is speechless. Could it really have been Blake who paid the difference? But he didn’t even know which flight they were on.
‘Anyway,’ Billie says, ‘it was bloody brilliant. They called us by name and acted like we were celebrities or something. I drank nearly two bottles of champagne, and your mum got to sleep most of the way.’
‘How is my mum?’
‘She’s here. I’ll put her on.’
‘Hello, Lana,’ her mother says. She looks so white and fragile that Lana almost bursts into tears. When the call is over Lana lies on the bed and wonders why Blake did that. He is a strange man. So cold and distant sometimes and so incredibly kind and generous at other times.
At seven o’clock, Blake arrives. She runs out to meet him at the front door.
‘Did you pay for my mum and Billie to fly first class?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
He shrugs. ‘I liked your mother,’ he says shortly, and sends Lana into the Jacuzzi bath.
‘Dinner is at seven thirty sharp,’ he says. ‘Don’t come out before.’
She climbs into it and closes her eyes. It is heaven. She has bought Philip K. Dick’s Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, and puts it on the corner ledge. Blake comes in with a glass of red wine.
‘To get you in the mood,’ he says.
‘This is not in the scene, but impressive improvisation,’ she says as she accepts it.
She takes a sip and opens her book. Fifteen minutes later, she smells it. Burning. Before she can wrap herself in the toweling robe, the fire alarms go off. She rushes to the kitchen dripping soapsuds.
Blake has opened all the windows, and is standing on a chair waving a magazine at the smoke detector in the corridor. His hair is slightly wet, he is wearing a black shirt with two buttons undone and a pair of stone washed jeans. He is also barefoot. She begins to laugh.
‘Did you burn the salad?’ she shouts, above the racket.
He scowls down at her.
She goes into the kitchen and sees the blackened pieces of meat. She bins them. Shaking her head, she pops a piece of tomato from the salad into her mouth, and immediately spits it out. Salty. The salad goes the way of the steaks. The alarm finally stops blaring. She looks up and he is standing at the doorway.