was the ceiling, mocking her.
Her own copy of Lolita lay, as always, beside the couch: her favourite book in all the world. She had picked it up, an old annotated edition with the smell of an antiquarian bookshop, the smell of childhood, hidden away in the corner of a musty shop. She had been with her mother, diaphanous and gauzily sunlit by the window, deep in silent flirtation with the man who owned the place, the slow creep of his hand onto her thigh, the pleasures of a nymphet. Susanna was sure that she was still one of Humbert Humbert’s nymphets although she had already stumbled into an awkward puberty, not yet blossomed into the beauty that she would become.
She stood and checked her dress, acceptably pretty, and picked up her keys from their place in the fruit bowl by thedoor. She locked it and tucked the key into a pocket. Ninth floor. There was no reason for her to be nervous but her palms were sweating anyway. A casual and perfectly explicable stroll, nothing more. She walked down the empty corridor. Her feet made barely a sound on the faded carpet. The light was misfiring, flicking on and off. She would let the caretaker know when she saw him next. I was just coming up here to check the light — I noticed it was misbehaving.
Misbehaving. Such a word. Not a word to describe a light bulb, but quite appropriate for the thing that Susanna did next.
His door was open. He was nowhere about. She stood in the corridor and negotiated an ethical warren of possibilities, until two possibilities emerged from the chaos. She could turn and go back to her own flat or she could walk into James Bacon’s apartment: the same position as hers, but one floor above.
She crept inside. No sign of him in the livingroom that was an exact mirror of her own. Like her, he had a bookcase beside the couch. She glanced at it, recognising several volumes that she owned herself. Steinbeck, Eugenides, Nin, Salinger, Canin and, surprisingly, Fitzgerald.
A sound. Footsteps and voices, or at least one voice. The sound came from the corridor, her only path of escape. She knew the way to his bedroom, of course, down a hall and to the left. His wardrobe, like hers, was recessed and, like hers, unrenovated. It smelled of his caramel aftershave and shoepolish. Male smells. She hadn’t smelled anything quite so masculine since she last saw David. The astringent reek of a male armpit, the strong, thick fug of a man’s shoe. She took a deep breath and held it as she heard the sound of the front door closing. A little bell of laughter.
His voice: ‘I should get that fixed.’
Her voice, whoever she might be: ‘I do think it’s romantic that you came downstairs to meet me. Escort me, so to speak’
More laughter.
‘I know you’re going to think I’m lying, but I’ve never, you know…’
‘Hired a woman for sex before? I believe you.’ Her voice was high and slightly grating. ‘Someone good looking as you doesn’t need to buy a girl.’
‘Treating myself tonight.’
‘Well let’s get straight to sweets, then.’
The sound of their voices getting louder as they moved down the little corridor towards the bedroom. Susanna crouched back as far as she could. She was surrounded by trousers. Pinstriped ones, black ones, fine soft cotton, the rough scrape of denim jeans.
The cupboard door was of slatted wood. It was dark inside but the lines of light draped themselves across her face and neck. Through the gaps she could see James and the woman, her short skirt tight around her hips, the low sweep of her singlet top. She was wearing stockings and when she turned to rest her hands on his shoulders, Susanna could seethe straight black seams running up her shapely calves. Her hips swayed. She took his hands in hers and slid them onto those shapely hips and suddenly it was a dance.
Susanna’s late-night adventures were so numerous now that she had quite forgotten the limited extent of her experience. One man, the silent language of their
Her own copy of Lolita lay, as always, beside the couch: her favourite book in all the world. She had picked it up, an old annotated edition with the smell of an antiquarian bookshop, the smell of childhood, hidden away in the corner of a musty shop. She had been with her mother, diaphanous and gauzily sunlit by the window, deep in silent flirtation with the man who owned the place, the slow creep of his hand onto her thigh, the pleasures of a nymphet. Susanna was sure that she was still one of Humbert Humbert’s nymphets although she had already stumbled into an awkward puberty, not yet blossomed into the beauty that she would become.
She stood and checked her dress, acceptably pretty, and picked up her keys from their place in the fruit bowl by thedoor. She locked it and tucked the key into a pocket. Ninth floor. There was no reason for her to be nervous but her palms were sweating anyway. A casual and perfectly explicable stroll, nothing more. She walked down the empty corridor. Her feet made barely a sound on the faded carpet. The light was misfiring, flicking on and off. She would let the caretaker know when she saw him next. I was just coming up here to check the light — I noticed it was misbehaving.
Misbehaving. Such a word. Not a word to describe a light bulb, but quite appropriate for the thing that Susanna did next.
His door was open. He was nowhere about. She stood in the corridor and negotiated an ethical warren of possibilities, until two possibilities emerged from the chaos. She could turn and go back to her own flat or she could walk into James Bacon’s apartment: the same position as hers, but one floor above.
She crept inside. No sign of him in the livingroom that was an exact mirror of her own. Like her, he had a bookcase beside the couch. She glanced at it, recognising several volumes that she owned herself. Steinbeck, Eugenides, Nin, Salinger, Canin and, surprisingly, Fitzgerald.
A sound. Footsteps and voices, or at least one voice. The sound came from the corridor, her only path of escape. She knew the way to his bedroom, of course, down a hall and to the left. His wardrobe, like hers, was recessed and, like hers, unrenovated. It smelled of his caramel aftershave and shoepolish. Male smells. She hadn’t smelled anything quite so masculine since she last saw David. The astringent reek of a male armpit, the strong, thick fug of a man’s shoe. She took a deep breath and held it as she heard the sound of the front door closing. A little bell of laughter.
His voice: ‘I should get that fixed.’
Her voice, whoever she might be: ‘I do think it’s romantic that you came downstairs to meet me. Escort me, so to speak’
More laughter.
‘I know you’re going to think I’m lying, but I’ve never, you know…’
‘Hired a woman for sex before? I believe you.’ Her voice was high and slightly grating. ‘Someone good looking as you doesn’t need to buy a girl.’
‘Treating myself tonight.’
‘Well let’s get straight to sweets, then.’
The sound of their voices getting louder as they moved down the little corridor towards the bedroom. Susanna crouched back as far as she could. She was surrounded by trousers. Pinstriped ones, black ones, fine soft cotton, the rough scrape of denim jeans.
The cupboard door was of slatted wood. It was dark inside but the lines of light draped themselves across her face and neck. Through the gaps she could see James and the woman, her short skirt tight around her hips, the low sweep of her singlet top. She was wearing stockings and when she turned to rest her hands on his shoulders, Susanna could seethe straight black seams running up her shapely calves. Her hips swayed. She took his hands in hers and slid them onto those shapely hips and suddenly it was a dance.
Susanna’s late-night adventures were so numerous now that she had quite forgotten the limited extent of her experience. One man, the silent language of their
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