Where?
She unlatched a small white gate and said: Here. He stopped walking and looked at the house, situated up a length of sloped green garden. None of the windows were lit, and the facade of the house was not visible in any great detail, but his expression indicated that he knew where they were.
You live in the rectory? he said.
Oh, I didn’t realise you would know it. I would have told you at the bar, I wasn’t trying to be mysterious.
She was holding the gate open for him, and, with his eyes still on the figure of the house, which loomed above them facing out onto the sea, he followed her. Around them the dim green garden rustled in the wind. She walked lightly up the path and searched in her handbag for the house keys. The noise of the keys was audible somewhere inside the bag but she didn’t seem to be able to find them. He stood there not saying anything.
She apologised for the delay and switched on the torch function on her phone, lighting the interior of her bag and casting a cold grey light on the front steps of the house also.
He had his hands in his pockets. Got them, she said. Then she unlocked the door.
Inside was a large hallway with red-and-black patterned floor tiles. A marbled glass lampshade hung overhead, and a delicate, spindly table along the wall displayed a
wooden carving of an otter. She dumped her keys on the table and glanced quickly in the dim, blotchy mirror on the wall.
You’re renting this place on your own? he said.
I know, she said. It’s much too big, obviously. And I’m spending millions on keeping it warm. But it is nice, isn’t it? And they’re not charging me any rent. Shall we go in the kitchen? I’ll turn the heat back on.
He followed her down a hallway into a large kitchen, with fixed units along one side and a dining table on the other. Over the sink was a window overlooking the back garden. He stood in the doorway while she went searching in one of the presses. She looked around at him.
You can sit down if you’d like to, she said. But by all means remain standing if it’s what you prefer. Will you have a glass of wine? It’s the only thing I have in the house, drinks-wise. But I’m going to have a glass of water first.
What kind of things do you write? If you’re a writer.
She turned around, bemused. If I am? she said. I don’t suppose you think I’ve been lying. I would have come up with something better if I had been. I’m a novelist. I write books.
And you make money doing that, do you?
As if sensing a new significance in this question, she glanced at him once more and then went back to pouring the water. Yes I do, she said. He continued to watch her and then sat down at the table. The seats were padded with cushions in crinkled russet cloth.
Everything looked very clean. He rubbed the smooth tabletop with the tip of his index finger. She put a glass of water down in front of him and sat on one of the chairs.
Have you been here before? she said. You knew the house.
No, I only know it from growing up in town. I never knew who lived here.
I hardly know them myself. An older couple. The woman is an artist, I think.
He nodded and said nothing.
I’ll give you a tour if you like, she added.
He still said nothing and this time didn’t even nod. She didn’t look perturbed by this; it seemed to confirm some suspicion she had been nursing, and when she continued to speak it was in the same dry, almost sardonic tone.
You must think I’m mad living here on my own, she said.
For free? he answered. Fuck off, you’d be mad not to. He yawned unselfconsciously and looked out the window, or rather at the window, since it was dark out now and the glass only reflected the interior of the room. How many bedrooms are there, out of curiosity? he asked.
Four.
Where’s yours?
In response to this abrupt question she did not move her eyes at first, but kept staring intently at her glass for a few seconds before looking directly up at him. Upstairs, she said. They’re all upstairs. Would you like me to show you?
Why not, he said.
They rose from the table. On the upstairs landing was a Turkish rug with grey tassels.
Alice pushed open the door to her room and switched on a little floor lamp. To the left was a large double bed. The floorboards were bare and along one wall a fireplace was laid out in jade-coloured tiles. On the right, a large sash window looked out over the sea, into the darkness. Felix wandered over to the window and leaned close to the glass, so his own shadow darkened the glare of the reflected light.
Must be a nice view here in the daytime, said Felix.
Alice was still standing by the door. Yes, it’s beautiful, she said. Even better in the evening, actually.
He turned away from the window, casting his appraising glance around the room’s other features, while Alice watched.
Very nice, he concluded. Very nice room. Are you going to write a book while you’re here?
I suppose I’ll try.
And what are your books about?
Oh, I don’t know, she said. People.
That’s a bit vague. What kind of people do you write about, people like you?
She looked at him calmly, as if to tell him something: that she understood his game, perhaps, and that she would even let him win it, as long as he played nicely.
What kind of person do you think I am? she said.
Something in the calm coolness of her look seemed to unsettle him, and he gave a quick, yelping laugh. Well, well, he said. I only met you a few hours ago, I haven’t made up my mind on you yet.
You’ll let me know when you do, I hope.