by Joan Smith
Returning from the vending machine in the corridor with a cup of scummy tea in one hand, Loretta realized she was hungry and wondered what to do about supper. There wasn’t much food left in the flat, although it was just possible that Sandra had gone out and stocked up. Possible but unlikely, Loretta thought, reaching for the phone. She dialled her own number and to her annoyance listened to it ring unanswered. Sandra had gone out; moreover she had failed to switch on Loretta’s answering-machine, in spite of being shown how to do it on Christmas Day.
‘God, that woman,’ Loretta said impatiently. Then she brightened. It had seemed to her that morning that Sandra was being unduly pessimistic about her chances of finding someone to fix her pipes or her water tank or whatever needed attention; perhaps she’d struck lucky with Yellow Pages, and had rushed over to Notting Hill. She might even be able to move back into her flat before the week was out, restoring Loretta to her much missed solitude. Feeling a little guilty at entertaining such selfish thoughts, Loretta sipped her tea and decided to leave the office in time to do some shopping on the way home. She flipped idly through the latest copy of Fern Sap, a feminist academic journal of whose editorial collective she was a member, pleased to discover a long article about the writing of George Sand, a novelist whose work she had recently read for the first time. It bore a promising title, Le style est la femme même, and Loretta made a mental note to read it that evening. Then she closed the journal, stuffed it into her shoulder-bag, and went back to work.
This time, things did not go so well. She could not recall where she had found the next quotation in the text, a pithy comparison of Edith Wharton’s work with that of Henry James by Eileen Chester, an American academic; Chester had not written a book on Edith Wharton, but she was an active contributor to quarterly journals and to volumes of American literary criticism. Loretta began taking books down from her shelves, gradually creating chaos in a room which was usually notable for its order, but the origin of the quote remained elusive. It must be in one of the journals, but which one? It was tempting to remove the passage altogether, she thought, looking back at the text on the screen, but it made a neat bridge between two ideas which dominated the middle section of chapter eleven.
‘Shit,’ she said, dropping her head into her cupped hand and staring fixedly at the screen. She had always known she was taking a risk in leaving the notes until the end of the book, a practice scorned as unprofessional by most of her colleagues in the English department, but Loretta prided herself on her memory, at least where academic matters were concerned. Now, it appeared, it had let her down. She rapped the desk in front of her several times with her knuckles, taking her frustration out on the nearest inanimate object. Then she sighed, pressed a key to instruct the computer to store the work she had completed that day, and removed the disc. She collected Edith Wharton’s novels together and put them in a neat pile on her desk, locked the computer disc in her top drawer, and let herself out of the department at ten minutes to five.
Loretta walked briskly towards Oxford Street, five minutes from her office, hoping her favourite Italian deli in Soho would still be open. She was suddenly ravenous; she amused herself by devising a menu of pasta shells with sun-dried tomatoes, followed by melanzana alia parmigiana if she could find a couple of aubergines. And she would buy one of the wonderful puddings the shop imported from Italy – tiramisú, perhaps, or a tartufo. This charming fantasy was rudely interrupted as Loretta rounded a corner into Oxford Street and found herself swept along by a tide of shoppers anxious to make the most of the January sales; they had started prematurely the day before, Loretta remembered, as she struggled through to the kerbside. She lost her balance for a second, propelled off the pavement by a couple carrying a colour television in a large cardboard box, and skipped back to avoid a taxi which had jumped the lights just as she lost her footing. It flew past, hooting furiously and spraying Loretta’s calves with dirty water from the road, and she looked down in dismay at the dirty splashes it had deposited on her black stockings. She shook her head, waited for the lights to change and crossed the street without mishap, striking off into Soho as soon as she got to the other side.
When she reached the little Italian shop, it turned out that it was closed for the whole week. Loretta looked at her watch: quarter past five, and the shops around her were getting ready to shut. She set off at a fast pace for another deli a couple of streets away, arriving just as the proprietor was locking the shop door. He relented on seeing her look of disappointment, and Loretta was able to buy everything on her shopping list with the exception of a pudding. The owner even produced two very battered aubergines from the back of the shop; they would be all right, he assured her, letting her have them half price, as long as she used them that evening. Thanking him profusely, Loretta left the shop and made her way to the nearest bus stop. She waited twenty-five minutes for a bus, and then had to stand all the way to Islington, crammed in between two elderly women who conducted a lively conversation across her chest about the numerous health problems of a mutual friend. Loretta breathed a sigh of relief when the bus reached Upper Street, jumping off at the first stop and gladly walking the rest of the way home.
Ten minutes later she turned the key in the front door of her flat. The aroma of roasting meat impressed itself upon her as soon as she pushed open the door, and at that very moment Sandra appeared from the kitchen. She was wearing an unattractive PVC apron Loretta had been given for Christmas by an elderly aunt, and held a grubby tea towel in one hand.
‘Surprise!’ she called out. ‘Dinner is served!’
‘But –’ Loretta thought of all the trouble she’d gone lo in order to get the ingredients for her Italian supper – the aubergines certainly wouldn’t last until tomorrow night. Then, watching Sandra’s smile fade, she made an effort to simulate pleasure. ‘Why, Sandra, this is – how kind of you. I had no idea –’
‘You didn’t leave me your number,’ Sandra said accusingly. ‘I had no idea how to get hold of you. I thought the least I could do was make you some supper. Obviously I shouldn’t have bothered.’ She turned abruptly and went back into the kitchen, leaving Loretta standing in the hall with her shopping. There were sounds of pots and pans being banged about, and a cupboard door slammed noisily. Loretta sighed, put down the plastic carrier bag, and took off her coat. Then she pushed open the kitchen door.
‘I’m sorry, Sandra, I didn’t mean to upset you,’ she said, addressing her back. ‘I did try ringing, but you weren’t here. . .’
‘I had to go and get the food – I can’t stay in all the time, you know.’
Sandra’s voice was muffled, and to Loretta’s horror she sounded on the verge of tears. Loretta took a step forward, putting out a hand to touch the woman’s arm. ‘Honestly, Sandra, I didn’t mean – What is it?’
Sandra shook it off without looking at her. She removed her glasses, dabbed at her eyes, and put them on again. Then she turned to face Loretta, her face flushed. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve had a terrible day,’ she said in a low voice. Loretta waited for her to explain, but she didn’t.
‘No luck with the flat?’ she asked after a moment, thinking it hardly accounted for Sandra’s tearful state.
Sandra shook her head. ‘I was on the phone most of the morning – I kept getting answering-machines, and the only man who was willing to come out worked for one of these big firms. They charge forty-odd pounds just for turning up this week, and to tell you the truth I’m a bit short of money. . .’ Sandra said this last bit with her head down, as though she found it an intensely embarrassing admission.
Loretta stared at her, wondering if she should offer to pay for the plumber herself. It would be worth forty pounds, she thought, then realized she had no idea what the eventual bill might be. And it would amount to buying Sandra out of the flat, she realized, suddenly ashamed of her lack of charity. Surely she could put up with a few more days’ inconvenience?
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It sounds as though you
were right this morning – never mind, you know you can stay here. . . Dinner smells delicious. Is there anything I can do? I’ll just put this stuff in the fridge. . .’ She went into the hall and picked up her shopping, smiling nervously as she returned to the kitchen. She was relieved to see that Sandra’s high colour was fading.
‘I was just about to make the gravy,’ Sandra said in a more normal voice, picking up a measuring jug and giving its contents a stir. ‘It won’t take long.’
Loretta began putting things in the fridge, pushing away the now familiar feeling of being a visitor in her own flat. She had got to the last item, a large piece of pecorino cheese, when she spotted a half-full tin of cat food on the bottom shelf.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, taking it out. ‘Where’s Bertie? Didn’t he want to be fed?’
‘I don’t think I’ve seen him all day,’ Sandra said offhandedly. ‘Where do you keep that carving knife you used for the pheasant?’
‘In the second drawer down. You mean – God, Sandra, you haven’t let him out?’ She stood staring at the other woman, horrified by the thought that the cat might have escaped into the street.
‘Of course I haven’t let him out. I expect he’s gone to sleep somewhere, that’s all. I don’t know.’
Loretta thrust the can back into the fridge, slammed the door, and rushed into the hall calling the cat’s name. She peered round the drawing-room, quickly averting her eyes from the untidy heap of bedding and clothes which Sandra had left in one corner, and rushed upstairs. There was no sign of the cat in her bedroom, and it was with a feeling of rising panic that she flung open the bathroom door. She was immediately aware of a faint miaow, and was looking anxiously round the room when she realized that the noise was coming from the airing-cupboard. She pulled open the door and was confronted by an angry cat who leapt down from the shelf above the hot water tank and walked in circles on the floor, letting out a series of disgruntled wails.
‘You poor old thing,’ Loretta said, bending down to stroke him. ‘Come downstairs and I’ll feed you.’
The cat preceded her down the stairs, disappearing into the kitchen before Loretta had reached the bottom step.
‘He was shut in the airing-cupboard,’ she told Sandra crossly, her sympathy of a moment before evaporating.
‘I’m not surprised,’ Sandra said, looking up from carving a joint of beef. ‘You know, Loretta, this flat is hardly a suitable environment for a cat. He’s under my feet all the time.’
Loretta opened her mouth, but decided against saying anything. She was perfectly aware that the flat was not an ideal home for an animal, but she had taken in Bertie when nobody else wanted him, and the two of them had developed a warm and comfortable relationship. She moved to the fridge, took out the opened tin of cat food, and emptied it into Bertie’s dish.
‘Where shall I sit?’ she asked, washing her hands.
‘There,’ Sandra said, indicating one of the two places she had set. ‘I hope you like your meat rare.’
The beef was not so much rare as raw, and Loretta ate as little as possible, picking half-heartedly at the rock-hard roast potatoes and overcooked green beans which accompanied it. Sandra appeared not to notice the meal’s shortcomings, carving herself two more slices of beef when her plate was empty. To Loretta’s relief she didn’t seem to be offended by her refusal of seconds, and Loretta was sufficiently cheered to venture a suggestion.
‘You haven’t – you don’t think it’s worth going back to the flat to see what sort of state it’s in?’ she asked. Sandra wouldn’t be able to move back until the place had been cleaned up, and that was presumably something she could do before the water system was mended. ‘I could come with you,’ she added nobly, ‘we might be able to do something with the carpets – get them to a cleaner or hang them up. . . I mean, they’re going to smell otherwise. . .’
‘I’m not worried about the carpets,’ said Sandra, looking at her oddly. ‘It’s a furnished flat, they belong to the landlord. I tried him again today, before you ask, and there’s still no answer.’ Her colour was beginning to rise again. ‘God, you really are anxious to get rid of me, aren’t you? I thought you said you had a book to finish – it doesn’t sound to me as if you’ve got time –’
‘I was only trying to help,’ Loretta protested, feeling obscurely that Sandra had wrong-footed her again. ‘I mean, it’s up to you what you do ... I know I’m not the best hostess, I’ve lived on my own for too long. . .’ She tailed off, wondering why she was apologizing for her offer of assistance. ‘I think I’ll make some tea,’ she said shortly. ‘Will you have some?’
Sandra sat back in her chair. ‘I do appreciate what you’re doing, Loretta,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘If I’d had anyone else to turn to, I really wouldn’t have troubled you –’
‘Oh well. . .’ Loretta got up, unable to cope with Sandra’s abrupt changes of mood. Had she always been as volatile as this? She seemed to have developed an aversion to any mention of the problem of her flat, but she’d have to face the mess sooner or later. Loretta stood by the table, wanting to point this out, but afraid of Sandra’s reaction; she was tired, hungry in spite of the meal, and she didn’t think she could face another scene.
‘Would you rather have coffee?’ she asked abruptly.
‘I’ll get it. No, I’d like to. I’ll make us both a nice cup of tea.’ Sandra was also on her feet. ‘You go into the drawing-room, and I’ll bring it through in a moment.’
Loretta paused, then obediently left the kitchen. She dropped on to the sofa in the drawing-room and leaned back, eyes closed. She was feeling utterly miserable, and she tried to work out how much longer she would have to put up with Sandra. It was Tuesday today, and Thursday was New Year’s Eve. Friday was a bank holiday, then there was the weekend. Things wouldn’t be back to normal until Monday – almost a week. Loretta wondered whether she could stand it. Perhaps she should go away – but it was ridiculous, was she going to allow Sandra to drive her out of her own flat? There was her book to think of. . . Loretta opened her eyes, sat up, and looked around for her shoulder-bag. It occurred to her that she’d left it in the hall and she went to get it, returning with the issue of Fern Sap she’d started reading that morning. A couple of minutes later she tossed it to one side with an exclamation of disgust, just as Sandra entered the room with a tray.
‘What’s the matter?’ Sandra put the tray down on a small table, balancing it precariously close to the edge while she moved the answering-machine a few inches.
‘Nothing – I was just reading a very silly article in this,’ Loretta said, indicating the journal. ‘It’s supposed to be about the style of George Sand, but it turns out to be about her clothes, not what she wrote. I can’t imagine how it got in. . .’ Now she had something else to worry about; the journal’s standards had been slipping since a damaging split in the editorial collective a couple of years before. Loretta thought she would have to make some phone calls before the next meeting, and tried to remember when it was.
‘My God!’ Sandra exclaimed suddenly. ‘It’s in French!’ She had picked up the discarded copy of Fern Sap and was regarding it in astonishment.
‘Some of it is,’ Loretta agreed. ‘It’s an international journal – we accept contributions in three languages.’
‘Hmmph. No use to me – my French doesn’t extend beyond reading menus.’ Sandra tossed the journal back on to the sofa and went over to a chair by one of the windows. ‘Well, Loretta,’ she said, picking up the tea strainer and starting to pour the tea. ‘You’re quite the intellectual on the quiet, aren’t you?’
Ten minutes ago, in the kitchen, Sandra’s tone had become conciliatory; now it was combative again. Loretta looked at her watch and saw it was only half past eight: the evening stretched unbearably ahead of her, and she made a decision.
‘Crikey, is that the time? I had no idea – don’t bother with tea for me, I’m going to be late!’ She jumped to her feet, smiled brightly at Sandra, and moved toward
s the door. Sandra was staring at her as if she had gone mad.
‘Sorry – film I want to see at the Screen on the Green,’ she said breathlessly, anxious to get out of the flat before Sandra could offer to accompany her. ‘Thanks for dinner – delicious! Don’t wait up. Bye!’
She was out of the front door and running down the stairs, coat and bag clutched in one hand, before Sandra had had time to utter a single word.
Chapter 3
At half past ten on Thursday morning Loretta typed the last footnote into her computer and sat back to gaze at the screen with a quiet sense of satisfaction. She had even managed to recall the source of the quotation which had eluded her on Tuesday, tracking it down in a long article from the New York Review of Books. Her one remaining task was the title; Loretta opened a drawer and took out a sheet of paper, feeling that this was a problem for old technology. Ten minutes later she stared at all the disjointed phrases and crossings-out which littered the page and realized she was no further on. She screwed it up into a ball, tossed it into the waste-paper basket, and started again. This time she wrote the only real candidate so far – ‘Edith Wharton: A Literary Life’ – at the top and looked glumly at it. It was accurate enough, there was no doubt about that, but it didn’t exactly. . . sparkle. Loretta had no illusions about having written a bestseller, but surely she could come up with something that wasn’t quite so dull? She wanted people to read the book, after all.
