question came from behind her, in a deep, calm voice that sounded much less drunk than most people now seemed to be.
‘What? Oh, hi, I didn’t notice you coming down the stairs.’
‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’
The man dropped down with graceful ease and sat next to her on the step. She guessed he was about the same age as the snoring man in the chair below – mid-forties, perhaps – but they couldn’t have been more different. This man was slim and elegant, his hair was styled in the slick, dark waves of a Fifties leading man and there was a musky scent to him that made her want to fill her lungs. The deep inhalation turned into a yawn.
‘You’re tired.’ There was a note of concern in his voice. ‘Do you want me to call you a taxi? Where are you getting back to?’
‘Oh, I’m not. I’m staying here. I came with Alex Penrith. You know? She lives here …’
He nodded. ‘I know.’
The pianist was enjoying himself, letting rip on a clutch of high notes and that made conversation momentarily impossible. The man turned away, rifling through his jacket pocket. Misty took the opportunity to stare, noting the plush velvet collar against the pale skin of his neck.
‘Here,’ he said, turning back suddenly. ‘Want one?’
They were cocktail cigars, dinky and covetable. She’d never been tempted to smoke before, but she took one of these, wondering if her lack of experience would be obvious.
‘Are you the cabinet minister, then?’ she asked, emboldened by the alcohol. ‘Apparently there’s one here, but they all look the same to me on the news.’
‘The vegetables, eh?’ He laughed. ‘No, he left quite early. Sorry to disappoint. I’m just a second-rate academic. But then I always preferred parties to work anyway.’ He raised his cigar in a mock toast.
‘You work at the university then?’
‘Only when I really can’t avoid it. But, yes, they’ve not managed to get rid of me yet.’
‘I’m sure you’re not anything like what you’re making out. Is that how you know the Penriths, through work?’
‘Oh, darling, you’re exquisite.’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Eric Penrith. Delighted to meet you.’
She blushed beetroot up to her hairline and stammered some response, but he just shushed her embarrassment away.
‘Now, clearly my daughter isn’t being much of a hostess, and you look ready to drop. Let’s work out where she’s put your stuff and I’ll find you somewhere to sleep.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘If you can’t sleep in daylight, you’d better take your chance now.’
Feeling even more tired, she got to her feet and followed him into the labyrinth of upstairs rooms, the sound of the piano fading behind them.
A few minutes later, after a couple of false starts, he had located both her belongings and an unoccupied room – a cramped attic with a single bed neatly made up.
‘Servants’ quarters, I’m afraid, we’ll do better next time. Look, I don’t expect anyone to bother you up here, but there’s a latch on the door so use it, okay? Some people down there are rather blitzed. Better safe than sorry.’
She nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘Well, if I don’t see you tomorrow it was nice to meet you. Hopefully we’ll meet again. And merry Christmas!’
*
It was a merry Christmas, she supposed. At least it was the same as it always was, and it had never previously struck her as lacking in merriness. She enjoyed long mornings in bed, crispy winter walks with Mack, and her mother’s home cooking in which pastry featured strongly. In a day or two she felt fully recovered from her flu and she spent the week or so before Christmas knocking around with her little brother, Martin, or old school friends, and making inroads into the reading lists for next term.
There was a feeling of restlessness, though, that she carried with her as she sipped half-pints of snakebite and fended off teasing about Cambridge. It carried on through Christmas morning when they tucked into their fry-up and she dutifully opened and praised the presents she’d been bought without really noticing them. It carried on through lunch with Granny Mavis who was deaf and batty, as well as Auntie Cathy, Uncle Derek and the three young cousins all squeezed into the steam-filled kitchen. It was there as she watched her dad heckle the Queen’s speech and as they played gin rummy and as she drank a glass of advocaat with Granny Mavis and watched the creamy liquid coat the fine hairs of the old lady’s moustache.
She imagined Christmas at the Penrith house. Exotic food, jazz, unctuous expensive cheese and cocktail cigars. When she was here, it seemed like a fairy tale or a film set, something she’d dreamt up. But that wasn’t true; she might have got the details wrong in her daydreams, but the Penriths’ Christmas was just as real as her dad sitting in front of the telly, mechanically lifting KP nuts into his gob. She tried to shake herself out of it, but she fell into the same reverie over and over again.
The thing was, it wasn’t just the house and the party that had entranced her. Eric Penrith. She couldn’t close her eyes without seeing his handsome, laughing face. She couldn’t lie in bed without thinking about what it would feel like to have him lie next to her. A stupid schoolgirl-type crush – she didn’t need anyone else to tell her that – but it didn’t make it any easier to cope with. On Christmas night she drifted off to the sound of her brother’s snoring and the Christmas number one leaking tinnily from the wireless. Pet Shop Boys. ‘You Were Always on My Mind’.
Eric Penrith. She was desperate to get back to college in the hope she would see him. But she was equally desperate never to see him again.
Karen
2019
The evening traffic was slow although rush hour should have ended several hours earlier. The cab crawled along, at a speed that gave her an intimate view of the endless front rooms and front doors of the south-west suburbs. Where curtains and shutters were still open, vignettes of life in all its variety were illuminated amidst the winter darkness. She watched her breath steam up the window and replayed the meeting with Andrew.
It was coincidence that they were still in contact, really. After university had ended so badly, Karen had fallen out of touch with almost everyone. She’d left with a poor degree and little motivation to start job hunting. She spent a couple of years doing bar work before eventually getting a junior role with a copywriting agency, coming up with campaign wording for drinks companies. Jonathan had been an up-and-coming solicitor at the law firm used by the agency. He was seconded to her office for a fortnight, going through some documents for a case. They got chatting in the canteen and three years later they were married. She’d been pleased enough to leave the work – which bored her and came with an unavoidable side order of lecherous lunches and drinks events – at his suggestion. She just regretted not having the foresight to think about what it could mean for her for the future.
Jonathan
