A Suitable Vengeance

The building that housed Deborah’s flat was called Shrewsbury Court Apartments. St. James found it easily enough in Sussex Gardens, sandwiched in between two seedy rooming houses. Recently restored, it was a tall building faced with unblemished Portland stone, iron-fenced in the front, its door gained by passing across a narrow concrete walkway that bridged the cavernous entrance to additional flats below the level of the street.

St. James pressed the button next to the name Cotter. An answering buzz admitted him into a small lobby with a floor covered by black and white tile. Like the outside of the building, it was scrupulously clean, and a faint odour of disinfectant announced the fact that it intended to stay that way. There was no furniture, just a hallway leading to the ground floor flats, a door discreetly hung with a hand-lettered sign reading concierge—as if a foreign word might attest to the building’s respectability—and a lift.

Deborah’s flat was on the top floor. Riding up to it, St. James reflected upon the absurdity of the position into which Cotter had placed him. Deborah was an adult now. She would hardly welcome anyone’s intrusion into her life. Least of all would she welcome his.

She opened the door at once to his knock, as if she’d spent the afternoon doing nothing save awaiting his arrival. Her expression shifted quickly from welcome to surprise, however, and it was only after a fractional hesitation that she stepped back from the door to admit him.

“Simon! I’d no idea…” She offered her hand in greeting, seemed to think better of the gesture, and dropped it to her side. “You’ve quite surprised me. I was expecting…this is really…you’ve only…Oh, why am I babbling? Please. Come in.”

The word flat turned out to be a euphemism, for her new home was little more than a cramped bed-sitting-room. Still, much had been done to fill it with comfort. Pale green paint, refreshing and springlike, coated the walls. Against one of them, a rattan day bed was covered with a bright, multicoloured counterpane and embroidered pillows. On another, a collection of Deborah’s photographs hung, pieces which St. James had never seen before and realised must represent the result of her years of training in America. Music played softly from a stereo near the window. Debussy. Afternoon of a Faun.

St. James turned to comment upon the room—what a far cry it was from the adolescent eclecticism of her bedroom at home—and caught sight of a small alcove to the left of the door. It comprised a kitchen where an undersized table was set with a china tea service. Two places were laid.

He should have realised the moment he saw her. It was hardly in character for her to be lolling around in the middle of the day, wearing a soft summer dress in place of her usual blue jeans.

“You’ve someone coming. I’m sorry. I should have phoned.”

“I’m not connected yet. It doesn’t matter. Really.” She extended her arm to encompass the room. “What do you think? Do you like it?”

The entire bed-sit was, he thought, pretty much what it was intended to be: a room of peace and femininity in which a man would want to lie at her side, throwing off the day’s burdens for the pleasure of making love. But that was hardly the response Deborah wanted from him. To avoid having to give one, he walked to her pictures.

Although more than a dozen hung on the wall, they were grouped in such a way that his eyes were drawn to a striking black and white portrait of a man standing with his back to the camera, his head turned in profile, his hair and skin—both lit with a shimmering cast of water—acting as contrast to an ebony background.

“Tommy photographs well.”

Deborah joined him. “He does, doesn’t he? I was trying to give some definition to his musculature. I’m not at all sure about it, though. The lighting seems off. I don’t know. One minute I like it and the next I think it’s about as subtle as a mug shot.”

St. James smiled. “You’re as hard on yourself as you ever were, Deborah.”

“I suppose I am. Never satisfied with anything. That’s always been my story.”

“I’d say a piece was fine. Your father would agree. We’d bring in Helen for a third opinion. Then you’d celebrate your success by throwing it away and claiming we all were hopeless judges.”

She laughed. “At least I didn’t fish for compliments.”

“No. You didn’t do that.” He turned back to the wall. The brief pleasure of their exchange withered to nothing.