for herself, and placed it in front of me.
“I’m so sorry, Ray, but I’ve got to get back to the office now. There are two meetings I absolutely can’t miss. If only I’d known how you’d be, I wouldn’t have deserted you. I’d have made other arrangements. But I haven’t, I’m expected back. Poor Raymond. What will you do here, all by yourself?”
“I’ll be terrific. Really. In fact, I was thinking. Why don’t I get our dinner ready while you’re gone? You probably won’t believe this, but I’ve become a pretty good cook these days. In fact, we had this buffet just before Christmas …”
“That’s terribly sweet of you, wanting to help. But I think it’s best you rest just now. After all, an unfamiliar kitchen can be the source of so much stress. Why don’t you just make yourself completely at home, have a herbal bath, listen to some music. I’ll take care of dinner when I come in.”
“But you don’t want to worry about food after a long day at the office.”
“No, Ray, you’re just to relax.” She produced a business card and placed it on the table. “This has got my direct line on it, my mobile too. I’ve
got
to go now, but you can call me any time you want. Now remember, don’t take on anything stressful while I’m gone.”
FOR SOME TIME NOW I’ve been finding it hard to relax properly in my own apartment. If I’m alone at home, I get increasingly restless, bothered by the idea that I’m missing some crucial encounter out there somewhere. But if I’m left by myself in someone else’s place, I often find a nice sense of peace engulfing me. I love sinking into an unfamiliar sofa with whatever book happens to be lying nearby. And that’s exactly what I did this time, after Emily had left. Or at least, I managed to read a couple of chapters of
Mansfield Park
before dozing off for twenty minutes or so.
When I woke up, the afternoon sun was coming into the flat. Getting off the sofa, I began a little nose-around. Perhaps the cleaners had indeed been in during our lunch, or maybe Emily had done the tidying herself; in any case, the large living room was looking pretty immaculate. Tidiness aside, it had been stylishly done up, with modern designer furniture and arty objects—though someone being unkind might have said it was all too obviously for effect. I took a browse through the books, then glanced through the CD collection. It was almost entirely rock or classical, but finally, after some searching, I found tucked away in the shadows a small section devoted to Fred Astaire, Chet Baker, Sarah Vaughan. It puzzled me that Emily hadn’t replaced more of her treasured vinyl collection with their CD reincarnations, but I didn’t dwell on this, and wandered off into the kitchen.
I was opening up a few cupboards in search of biscuits or a chocolate bar when I noticed what seemed to be a small notebook on the kitchen table. It had purple cushioned covers, which made it stand out amidst the sleek minimalist surfaces of the kitchen. Emily, in a big hurry just before she’d left, had been emptying and re-filling her bag on the table while I’d been drinking my tea. Obviously she’d left the notebook behind by mistake. But then in almost the next instant another idea came to me: that this purple book was some kind of intimate diary, and Emily had left it there on purpose, fully intending for me to have a peek; that for whatever reason, she’d felt unable to confide more openly, so had resorted to this way of sharing her inner turmoil.
I stood there for a while, staring at the notebook. Then I reached forward, inserted my forefinger into the pages at the mid-way point and gingerly levered it up. The sight of Emily’s closely packed handwriting inside made me pull my finger out, and I moved away from the table, telling myself I had no business nosing in there, never mind what Emily had intended in an irrational moment.
I went back into the living room, settled into the sofa and read a
“I’m so sorry, Ray, but I’ve got to get back to the office now. There are two meetings I absolutely can’t miss. If only I’d known how you’d be, I wouldn’t have deserted you. I’d have made other arrangements. But I haven’t, I’m expected back. Poor Raymond. What will you do here, all by yourself?”
“I’ll be terrific. Really. In fact, I was thinking. Why don’t I get our dinner ready while you’re gone? You probably won’t believe this, but I’ve become a pretty good cook these days. In fact, we had this buffet just before Christmas …”
“That’s terribly sweet of you, wanting to help. But I think it’s best you rest just now. After all, an unfamiliar kitchen can be the source of so much stress. Why don’t you just make yourself completely at home, have a herbal bath, listen to some music. I’ll take care of dinner when I come in.”
“But you don’t want to worry about food after a long day at the office.”
“No, Ray, you’re just to relax.” She produced a business card and placed it on the table. “This has got my direct line on it, my mobile too. I’ve
got
to go now, but you can call me any time you want. Now remember, don’t take on anything stressful while I’m gone.”
FOR SOME TIME NOW I’ve been finding it hard to relax properly in my own apartment. If I’m alone at home, I get increasingly restless, bothered by the idea that I’m missing some crucial encounter out there somewhere. But if I’m left by myself in someone else’s place, I often find a nice sense of peace engulfing me. I love sinking into an unfamiliar sofa with whatever book happens to be lying nearby. And that’s exactly what I did this time, after Emily had left. Or at least, I managed to read a couple of chapters of
Mansfield Park
before dozing off for twenty minutes or so.
When I woke up, the afternoon sun was coming into the flat. Getting off the sofa, I began a little nose-around. Perhaps the cleaners had indeed been in during our lunch, or maybe Emily had done the tidying herself; in any case, the large living room was looking pretty immaculate. Tidiness aside, it had been stylishly done up, with modern designer furniture and arty objects—though someone being unkind might have said it was all too obviously for effect. I took a browse through the books, then glanced through the CD collection. It was almost entirely rock or classical, but finally, after some searching, I found tucked away in the shadows a small section devoted to Fred Astaire, Chet Baker, Sarah Vaughan. It puzzled me that Emily hadn’t replaced more of her treasured vinyl collection with their CD reincarnations, but I didn’t dwell on this, and wandered off into the kitchen.
I was opening up a few cupboards in search of biscuits or a chocolate bar when I noticed what seemed to be a small notebook on the kitchen table. It had purple cushioned covers, which made it stand out amidst the sleek minimalist surfaces of the kitchen. Emily, in a big hurry just before she’d left, had been emptying and re-filling her bag on the table while I’d been drinking my tea. Obviously she’d left the notebook behind by mistake. But then in almost the next instant another idea came to me: that this purple book was some kind of intimate diary, and Emily had left it there on purpose, fully intending for me to have a peek; that for whatever reason, she’d felt unable to confide more openly, so had resorted to this way of sharing her inner turmoil.
I stood there for a while, staring at the notebook. Then I reached forward, inserted my forefinger into the pages at the mid-way point and gingerly levered it up. The sight of Emily’s closely packed handwriting inside made me pull my finger out, and I moved away from the table, telling myself I had no business nosing in there, never mind what Emily had intended in an irrational moment.
I went back into the living room, settled into the sofa and read a
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