He raises his eyes and looks at Nikki, the source of his suffering. A pretty girl. Not spectacular, not anything that anyone would say was out of his league, though he supposes that eyebrows might be raised at the difference in their ages. It was all I ever wanted, he thinks. A nice girl. No great ambition, no overwhelming passion like they play out in the movies, no champagne and roses. Just someone to stay with me, someone who wouldn’t go away.
The cat is standing by the wardrobe now, sniffing at the crack between the doors. The Lover leaps to his feet and shoos it off, claps his hands and hisses so that it tenses; then, with a baleful yowl, it jumps on to the bed and out of the window. He considers closing it to keep the cat out, but in this heat his dwelling space has become stifling, overwhelming, and he’s afraid that the smells it draws out will spread through the house. He wipes his salty face on his sleeve and tries to pull himself together. We can have a nice evening, at least, he thinks, as he looks back at his silent companion. I’ll have a glass of wine, hold her hand. Maybe she’d like to watch a film with me, before we begin.
Her right hand, knocked by the cat’s passing, slips suddenly from the arm of the chair and hangs in mid-air, still and soft. Such a pretty hand, he thinks, the nails always clean and scrupulously shaped. I noticed that about her the first time I saw her; always wanted to take that hand in my own, to press its smooth skin between my palms.
No time like the present. He fetches the fold-up chair and plants it beside the armchair. Funny, he thinks. She looks smaller than she used to. More fragile, more frail. More like someone who needs my protection. He puts the forearm back, along the chair’s arm, and goes to the kitchen drawer to fetch the scissors. Cuts, very slowly, very carefully, through the duck tape around her neck, then lifts the plastic bag it holds there – thick, heavy, transparent from her head, carefully, so as not to mess up her lovely hair. He’ll give her a bath, later. Strip off her stained clothing and run it through the washing machine, shampoo her sweaty locks and comb them down, dust her with baby powder. In heat like this, it’ll all be dry in no time.
‘There,’ he says kindly and plants a loving kiss on her temple, where no pulse beats any more. He takes his seat and lifts the hand, just briefly, to his lips. ‘There,’ he says again, and enfolds it between his own, larger, rougher palms, as he has always imagined.
‘This is nice, isn’t it?’ he asks, rhetorically.
Chapter Three
Despite the cloying heat he wears a cardigan that smells of tobacco, frying, and those dark creases on the body that the air never reaches. His male-pattern baldness is accentuated by a scurfy comb-over, and a pair of smeary spectacles hide his eyes. And he’s fat, front-buttock fat, bulge-over-your-waistband fat. He wheezes as he leads the way slowly up the front steps, his bulk making a flight that was designed as a graceful decoration for a house of substance look narrow and mean as he climbs.
The wheezing, she thinks. It’s not just the weight. There’s something more to it. He’s excited. Feeling pleased with himself. There’s… lust in those laboured breaths. I can feel it. The way he looked me up and down on the steps; he wasn’t just deciding if I seemed respectable; he was checking out my tits.
She dismisses the thought, impatiently. Get over yourself, Collette. And so what, anyway? A dirty old man getting a thrilclass="underline" it’s not like you’re not used to that, is it?
The Landlord stops for a rest on the small landing outside the front door, one hand leaning on the wall, and stares down at her. She shifts the Adidas bag further up her shoulder, giving herself a chance to surreptitiously pull her scarf over the open neck of her shirt. She’s as modestly dressed as the heat of the day will allow, but she’s suddenly uncomfortably aware that her clothes are clinging damply to her skin.
He takes a couple of breaths before he speaks. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone yet, you see,’ he says, clearly believing that he is offering an explanation for something.
She stands and waits, unsure how to respond. The bag is heavy and she wishes he would just move on to their destination, so she can drop it on the floor and shake out her arm.
‘They usually start coming round the next day,’ he says. ‘Or in the evening, anyway. After the advert goes in. Not, like, an hour after. You caught me on the hop.’
‘Sorry,’ she says, not sure why she’s apologising.
He takes a key from his cardigan pocket, whirls it by the tag around his index finger. ‘Luckily I was here anyway,’ he says. ‘Had a bit of admin to deal with downstairs. Thing is, it’s not ready. I was going to get a cleaner in to deal with it, but I thought we had all day.’
‘Oh, that’s okay,’ says Collette. ‘I’m good with a bottle of Flash. There’s a hoover, right? In the house?’
He has wet lips. They smack together, a nasty shade of blueish pink. ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘We’ve got one of those. But it’s not that.’
He turns to fit the key into the front door. It’s a heavy door, two panels of glass patterned with etched ivy leaves allowing light into the hallway beyond. A graceful door, made to match the aspirations of a Victorian on the way up, not the security needs of a run-down rooming house. ‘It’s the last tenant, you see. She skipped out on her rent and left her stuff behind.’
‘Oh,’ says Collette.
‘Must’ve wanted gone in a hurry, is all I’m saying,’ he says. ‘Because she’s left pretty much everything. I kept it all for as long as I could… but I’m not a charity.’
‘No,’ says Collette. ‘Of course not.’
‘So it’ll need clearing out. Just so you know.’
‘Mmm,’ she says, uncertainly. ‘I was hoping to move in today.’
‘Well, that doesn’t give me much time to check out your references,’ he says, smugly. ‘Does it?’
‘No,’ she says. She wishes he hadn’t followed him into the hall. It’s airless in here, even with the door open. The smell from his clothes bursts over her in gusts as he reaches round and pushes it to. She peers into the gloom and sees a stained grey carpet, a Utility table piled with post and a payphone attached to the wall. Haven’t seen one of those in years, she thinks. Wonder how much he gets out of it each month?
A drop of sweat works its way loose from beneath the bag strap over her shoulder and trickles down into her cleavage. From behind the door to her left, to her surprise, she hears the strains of a violin playing some classical air. Not what she’d expected to hear in a place like this. If she’d thought about music at all, she’d have put her money on hip hop. ‘But I really don’t want to have to spend money on a hotel, if I can manage it,’ she says.
‘Haven’t you got anyone you can go and stay with? In the meantime?’
She’s got her story all lined up and ready to go. ‘No,’ she says. ‘I’ve been living in Spain for the last few years. I’ve sort of lost touch with a lot of people. But my mum’s in the hospital and I want to be near her. And, you know, you come back and you realise you don’t really know anybody, any more. You know how people move around, in London. I lost touch with my school friends, and we never had any other family. It was just Mum and me…’
She stops, and, just as she’s practised in countless mirrors over the last few years, turns big, hurt eyes up to look at him. This look has helped her though more awkward situations than anything else. ‘Sorry,’ she concludes. ‘You don’t want to hear about my problems.’
Lying is easy. It’s so, so easy once you’ve got into the swing of it. Just say what you’ve got to say confidently, keep it as close to the truth as you can get away with, then look vulnerable and find an excuse to duck out of the conversation as quickly as you can. Ninety-nine per cent of the time, people will just go along with whatever you tell them.