The Landlord follows her in, and closes the door.
She whirls round at the sound of the latch clicking to, crosses her arms over her small breasts and backs against the sink. All legs and wide, wide eyes, she looks like a fawn overtaken in the forest. She’s taller than me, he thinks, but I’m so much bigger than her. I could do anything I liked, really.
The vulnerability doesn’t last for long, a couple of seconds at most. Then she masters her fear and the street-smart Scouser is back. ‘I thought I said to hold on,’ she says, and digs in the bag for her wallet.
He can see her surreptitiously glance through her lowered eyelashes in case of sudden movement, enjoys knowing that, however insouciant her demeanour, she is still ill at ease. A lot less friendly than last month, he thinks. But then she came up short and had to suck up, last month. ‘I thought you might want to give me a cup of tea,’ he says.
‘No milk,’ says Cher. Finds the wallet and starts pulling notes from it, fanning them out of the top of the slot like playing cards. Fifties, twenties… she’s had a good month, he can see that. ‘And no tea either. I don’t do tea. It’s the devil’s drink.’
‘Never mind,’ says the Landlord. ‘I’ll have a glass of water instead.’
He goes to the sink. She totters backwards on her stupid shoes, not fast enough to avoid a brush from his arm as he approaches. For a brief moment he feels the softness of that little breast against his forearm, through her flimsy top. Feels goose bumps raise themselves where they’ve touched. Then she’s away, striding purposefully over to the bedside table and picking up her cigarettes as though this was always her intention. She turns back round, lights one and blows smoke towards the ceiling, amateurishly, without inhaling.
The Landlord slows his movements down as he selects a glass from the choice of two, mismatched, on the drainer. An Arcoroc tumbler, like they had at school, and which the bistro on the High Street affects for wine, to stimulate the nostalgia of the local self-improvers, and a pint glass, complete with Weights and Measures markings. She’s got a few more bits and bobs than she had last month: nothing matching, all cheap; stuff that pubs and cafés use on street tables. A couple of side plates, a soup bowl, a chunky glass latte mug in a metal cage. Teaspoons, a knife, a fork. Building herself a home, bit by bit, with pickings from the edges of other people’s lives. There’s a saucer on the floor, encrusted with the remains of something brownish. She’s feeding that bloody cat, he thinks. Oh, well. If I ever need to get rid of her, I can add it to the list of Whys.
He chooses the pint glass – the heat and the climbing have made him thirsty – and runs the cold tap for a half minute to pass off the warm. Fills the glass and turns back to face her, drinking. Looks her up and down over the top of his hand.
‘Aaaaah,’ he says, ‘that’s better. So how are you, then, love? All cosy? I see you’ve got yourself some new bedclothes.’
She looks affronted that he would mention the place where she sleeps, though they are both standing in full view of it. There are etiquettes to bedsits, and one of them is that you treat the bed, in company, like a sofa. The duvet is pushed over to one side, a polycotton sheet rucked up where she’s clearly been sleeping. Too hot for proper bedclothes. He wonders if she wears anything under that sheet, hopes that she doesn’t.
‘Fine,’ she says. ‘Ta.’
She finishes counting out her money, steps forward and places it, at arm’s length, on the drainer. Steps back, refolds her arms, tries to stare him down.
The Landlord gets out his handkerchief, takes off his specs, polishes them, then mops his face again and picks up the notes. Starts to count them, relishing her mounting tension as he does so. ‘You’ll find it’s all there,’ she tells him. Sucks another drag off her cigarette and flicks the ash into a grimy saucer on the nightstand.
‘You’re not smoking in bed, are you?’ he asks, once again violating the unspoken rule. ‘Only that’s a fire risk, you know.’
Cher shrugs. She’s not going to rise to the bait. The Landlord finishes counting, starts to count again, for the pure pleasure of it. ‘All right?’ asks Cher.
He reaches the end, rolls the notes up and snaps them in alongside Collette’s in his rubber band. Slips the money back into his trouser pocket. ‘Yup,’ he says. ‘That’s fine.’
‘Good,’ says Cher.
He picks up his water glass and takes another drink, studies her again as she taps her foot on the carpet. He wonders if he might extend things by sitting down for a minute, but the chair is piled with clothes. Her clean laundry, he assumes, as there’s a small heap of underwear and a couple of skirts kicked into a corner beyond the bed.
‘Well,’ she says, uncomfortably, ‘I must be getting on. People to do, things to see.’
The Landlord finishes his drink and puts his glass back on the draining board for her to wash up later. ‘Thing is, I wanted a little word.’
A little frown plays across her face. Suspicion, mixed with boredom.
‘Thing is,’ he continues, ‘I’ve been charging you well below market rent for this place. I felt sorry for you. Wanted to help you get on your feet. But I’m afraid the rent’s got to go up next month,’ he tells her.
Cher’s chin jerks up. ‘What?’
‘Yes,’ he says, and gives her his oiliest smile. ‘I’m afraid so.’
She doesn’t look so bored now. ‘But…’ she says, ‘hang on a minute!’
‘Yes?’ he says.
‘I’ve only been here four months.’
He spreads his hands in the air before him. ‘Sorry. Prices are rising all over the shop.’
‘How much are you talking?’
‘I was thinking three hundred.’
Cher’s face colours. ‘I… are you serious?’
If there’s one thing the Landlord likes more than a young girl, it’s a young girl over a barrel. ‘You can always go somewhere else,’ he says. ‘No skin off my nose. There’s people queuing up for a room like this.’
‘But you can’t just… it’s not legal.’
The Landlord raises his eyebrows and smirks. ‘I think you need a contract for something to be legal, Cher, dear. And I’m sure you’ve got your pick of places that take tenants without a reference or a direct debit. It’s all the rage, in this day and age. Still, if you want to report me…’
He lets the sentence hang in the air as her blush spreads. She knows she’s stuck. Doesn’t stand a chance.
‘The council, perhaps?’
She looks away, covers her stomach with her arm and takes another puff of her cigarette.
‘Social services?’
She glares at him, defiant in defeat.
‘We could call them now, if you like,’ he offers, to ram his advantage home. ‘Give them your details?’
‘No, that’s okay.’ Her voice is dull, stripped of the lilt he found so irritating.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘That’s settled, then. Don’t worry. It’s only starting next month. Plenty of time. How is everything? You comfortable?’
Cher shrugs. ‘Whatever,’ she says.
He’s not going to get any more from her today. Launches himself off the kitchen counter and lumbers to the door. ‘Well, I’m always at the end of the phone, if you, you know, need anything.’
He turns in the doorway, and smiles at her. ‘Oh, and you really shouldn’t be smoking at your age,’ he says. ‘It’s not good for you.’
She doesn’t answer.
Out on the landing, he gets out his keys again and checks the house for noises. There’s music from the downstairs front, but otherwise the place is quiet. There’s not a sound from behind Cher’s door. He imagines her standing where he left her with her face in her hands, and smiles.
He goes over to his cupboard door. Undoes the padlock and lays it on the carpet, pulls the door wide to allow himself to pass through. It’s a tiny space – a triangle beneath the stairs, four feet deep, the street window, whitewashed, saving him from having to pay to light it – and there’s barely room for him, but the Landlord is skilled at manoeuvring his bulk through a thin man’s world. He squeezes in, plops himself into the old office chair – no arms, because there’s too much Landlord to fit between them – that sits inside, and pulls the door to behind him.