Homework by Margot Livesey

the last few weeks he had been unusually considerate, and even though I told myself that this was only because of my imminent departure, I had been seduced into remembering again how much I liked him. He had said Edinburgh was only an hour away by plane; perhaps he would fly up to see me.
    Eventually I persuaded myself to get out of bed. The flat looked even worse than it had in the gloom of the previous day. As I sat drinking instant coffee at the living room table, I made a shopping list of the many domestic items I required. There would be plenty of time for cleaning on Sunday. I spread out the map of the city, which Gillian had given me as a parting gift, and tried to decide in which direction I would be most likely to find shops.
    On my way out I looked quickly at the two other doors on my landing, and discovered on one side an L. Smith and on the other a Miss Lawson. From behind the door of the latter, there came the sound of shrill barking, followed by a woman’s voice raised in remonstration; guiltily I hurried downstairs.
    When I came home a few hours later, a tall, white-haired woman, very upright in her blue raincoat, was standing on the pavement outside the house; at her feet a brown and white Pekinese sniffed the base of the lamppost. As I moved towards the front door she said, “Hello. You must be my new neighbour. I’m Miss Lawson, and this is Rollo.”

    â€œI’m Celia,” I said. I explained that I was renting the flat for a year.
    Miss Lawson nodded. “Malcolm told me all about it,” she said. “I must say I don’t envy you. He’s a nice enough young man, but I don’t think he’s ever heard of housework. Like most men, I suppose.”
    â€œIt is a bit dirty. I’ve just been out buying cleaning supplies.” The handles of the shopping bags were cutting into my palms, but I welcomed this housewifely exchange, my first human contact in the city. I was about to ask where one put the rubbish, when Rollo, having finished with the lamppost, began to strain at the lead and pant.
    â€œQuiet, Rollo. I’m afraid I’m not much good at scrubbing nowadays, but if there’s anything you need, let me know. We’re going for our constitutional.” She gestured in the direction of the local park, which I knew from my map was called the Meadows. “Why don’t you drop in later for a cup of tea?”
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    On Sunday night I set my alarm clock with a sense of relief. The anxiety that beginning a new job would normally have aroused was held in check by the thought of having people to talk to and a working telephone. Next morning the sun was shining, and although still cold by London standards, the day was comparatively warm. I decided to walk to work. As I made my way down the hill and across Princes Street, stopping often to consult my map, I appreciated for the first time Bill’s commendation of the city. I found Melville Street without difficulty. It was an unusually wide street, lined with terraces of tall, grey stone houses; halfway down was a statue, and at the far end stood a church, so large that I thought it might be a cathedral. The office was only a hundred yards from the corner. I had a few minutes to spare and I strolled down one side of the street and up the other, looking
at the brass nameplates beside the doors: Campbell, Blair, Liddell, McNaughton, Stewart. I was indeed in Scotland.
    The offices of Murray and Stern were on the second floor. I turned the corner at the top of the stairs and found myself in a large room with books displayed all round the walls. At the receptionist’s desk a stoutish woman was watering a begonia. I introduced myself, and she put down the watering can and offered me a damp handshake.
    â€œI’m Marilyn. Bill isn’t in today, but I’ll tell Clare you’re here.” She pressed a button and sang into the phone, “Miss Gilchrist’s here.” There was an indistinct