the volume up and waited for a song to start. As soon as it did, so did the dog. He laughed and switched it off. ‘She doesn’t like Inner City either.’
He took out a Ray Charles album and slung it on. It began to play. The dog cocked her head, listened intently and then sat down.
‘Look at her! She’s an old crooner.’
He was preparing to change the record yet again when Ruby crawled over to the socket in the wall and pulled out the plug. She glared at him, still on her hands and knees. ‘If you’ve scratched any of my records you can pay me for them.’
‘I won’t scratch them.’
‘I bet you already have.’
He picked up one and inspected the vinyl. Ruby squatted down next to the dog and stroked her. She said, ‘She’s all upset. Her heart’s beating like crazy.’ After a few seconds she added, ‘You can tell everything you need to know about a dog’s condition when you stroke it. She’s got strong, wide shoulders, a good, firm back …’
I’ll get him to stay, she thought, at least for tomorrow. He can look after her while I’m out, until she gets used to this place. He can take her to Hyde Park.
She continued to stroke the dog, who rested her chin on the carpet and closed her eyes.
Vincent watched this. He realized something. They wouldn’t get around to sex now. That’s what the dog meant. He hadn’t really considered sex, planned it, wanted it. Even so.
He snapped the record he was holding in half. It was a sharp, clean break. They both stared at him: Ruby, the dog.
‘You’re going to replace that record.’
He smiled. Of course he would. He studied the two halves to see what it was.
Ruby picked up the dog’s lead and attached it to her collar.
‘Where are you going? You haven’t finished eating yet.’
She ignored him, pulled on her jacket, checked for her keys and then opened the door. He was a bastard. She wanted to punch him. She stepped out into the hallway, the dog at her heels.
He stood up. ‘If anywhere’s open,’ he shouted after her, ‘You’re completely out of milk.’
There was a painting in the living-room, a portrait, that Connor especially hated. ‘That’s her,’ he said, when he first showed Sam around his flat, ‘Sarah. I share this place with her.’
Sam liked the painting. It was creepy. A female nude. Lips, russet nipples, ribs.
‘Does she really look like that?’
He laughed. ‘She thinks she does. She’s so vain. You’ll meet her.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Los Angeles for a month. Helping to research a book on the paranormal.’
Sam was fascinated. ‘Para-normal. Not normal.’
‘She’s a researcher.’
‘And you don’t like her?’
The flat, she could tell, was the site, the centre, of subtle guerilla warfare. A picture; a wall-hanging; garish, orange hessian curtains. All Sarah’s contributions. Sam grew accustomed to spotting her in objects. Teapots, candles, cosmetics in the bathroom.
Connor claimed to be an aesthete. He said he hated clutter. But his bedroom, his territory, was full of musical flotsam: a drum-kit, African bongos, symbols, a tambourine. His records, his stereo.
Sam couldn’t learn much here, though. In the living-room, she inspected the bookshelves.
‘Henry James?’
‘Hers.’
‘Kurt Vonnegut?’
‘Mine.’
‘Psychoanalysis: the Impossible Profession?’
‘Hers.’
‘Dead Babies?’
‘Mine.’
‘Skinhead Escapes?’
‘Mine.’
She picked this book up. It was a cheap, trashy novella. She didn’t like it. She found it distasteful. ‘I wouldn’t want to own something like this.’
‘It’ll probably be worth a fair bit in a few years’ time.’
‘It’s exploitative.’
He nodded. ‘But sometimes that kind of stuff can be interesting.’
‘Oh.’
She put the book back on the shelf.
Connor. He was interested in everything. She’d learned this very quickly. He was pragmatic. And what was she? Idealistic. Full of ideals.
Connor’s problem, the way she saw it, was that he was interested in too much. He was funny and gentle, but he was fascinated by stupid, sometimes even bad, things.
‘My parents,’ Connor explained, ‘rented this place to Sarah while I was at college. She’s always been here.’
Sam liked her. I’ve been living with this woman, she thought, learning all about her.
It was early morning. Connor was still asleep. She’d risen to get herself a drink of water. On her way back to bed she paused in front of the painting. Bones, white flesh, red hair, red eyes. It was hung on the wall adjacent to Sarah’s room. Connor, she thought, is still sleeping. She touched the door handle, shuddered, pressed it down. Pushed.
Inside, the curtains were drawn. The bedspread was patchwork. She could smell patchouli oil. On the dressing-table, however, she noticed bottles of what appeared to be more sophisticated scent. She walked over and picked up a bottle of Rive Gauche, tentatively sprayed it into the air and sniffed. Next to the bed – she sat down and inspected it – was a book of women’s erotica. She opened it. Marilyn French. Anaïs Nin. She started to read, struggling in the half-light to focus on its ant-black print.
‘Hello.’
Samantha gave a start, almost dropping the book and the perfume. A tall, very thin woman stood in the doorway, grinning sardonically. She had bright, hennaed hair and a gaunt, striking face. In her hand she held a suitcase.
‘What are you reading?’
‘You must be Sarah.’
Sam stood up and quickly put the perfume back down on the dresser. ‘I shouldn’t
