Read Online Authenticity by Deirdre Madden - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Deirdre Madden
Ads: Link
drops of rain started to fall. ‘Why don’t you … come up for a moment if you wish.’
The hall contained nothing but a narrow flight of stairs. At the top he stepped into a living room, lit low. On a small table before the fire was a teapot, two mugs and a plate containing the ruins of a chocolate cake, its red box and yellow ribbon abandoned on the floor beside it. An overflowing ashtray completed the scene of casual domesticity, and now he understood that someone had been with her until moments earlier. When he rang the bell she thought that person had forgotten something and come back. Understandably, it must have been a shock to see William. ‘Please sit down,’ she said, pointing to a chair. He preferred the look of the sofa, so he settled there instead. She flung some pieces of turf on the fire, then went out and he heard the sound of a kettle being filled, the whoosh of a gas burner. There was a large orange cat sitting in front of the fire, that had woken up when they came into the room. It stared balefully into the flames that the fresh turf sent up. William called to it self-consciously, ‘Puss, puss, puss,’ and the cat turned to him with a look of stony contempt, blinked its eyes and looked away again.
‘Max suits himself.’ She was back in the room now. ‘He’s a bit aloof until you get to know him.’ She picked up a packet of cigarettes from the table and offered them to him. ‘I have my own, thanks.’ He took out his silver lighter too, but she had already picked up a lighter of her own, a cheap green plastic one, similar to the one which had failed her when they met. They made no reference to it, but for the first time since they came up to the flat, she gave a faint smile. ‘I’m delighted to have this,’ she said, picking up the book. ‘I went back the next day to the pub where I left it, but they didn’t know anything about it, so I thought it had gone the way of all good things. It’s not an easy book to get hold of.’
‘It looks interesting,’ he said.
She looked at him shrewdly, not believing him, wondering why he was trying to curry favour in this way.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is.’
He was genuinely interested in the book – a collection of essays on aesthetics, with a picture of a Chinese vase on the cover – but the strange circumstances by which he had come upon it gave it a particular significance. The blue spine was whitened with use, and while nothing in it was underlined, the corners of two pages had been folded down. He had carried it around with him in the days since he had noticed it in the pub, on the couch where she had been sitting. He had taken it out at home and at work in moments when he knew he would not be interrupted. It was like a thing from another world, and he had felt uneasy with the hold it had over him. He liked that it had been used, there was an intimacy about it. It had been like having one of her shoes, he thought, and looking at the scuffed toes, the worn heel; or a wispy scarf, similar to the one she had been wearing in the pub that night.
‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘it’s not my book. I had borrowed it from a friend. He’ll be glad to have it back. I told him I’d lost it, and he was very good about it’ He felt cheated now; felt foolish, thinking of the times he had spent turning the book over in his hands, slightly furtively. It had lost all its allure, now that he knew she didn’t own it.
Suddenly she looked up. ‘How did you know where to find me, anyway? How did you know I lived here?’
‘There’s a card,’ he said. ‘In the book, it’s … I suppose you were using it as a bookmark.’ She picked the volume up again and leafed through it, found no card. He opened his briefcase and pretended to look in it, took the card out and gave it to her. She studied it briefly: looked at the picture, turned it over and glanced at the written side, looked across the room at him. He had been trying to hold on to the card and
The hall contained nothing but a narrow flight of stairs. At the top he stepped into a living room, lit low. On a small table before the fire was a teapot, two mugs and a plate containing the ruins of a chocolate cake, its red box and yellow ribbon abandoned on the floor beside it. An overflowing ashtray completed the scene of casual domesticity, and now he understood that someone had been with her until moments earlier. When he rang the bell she thought that person had forgotten something and come back. Understandably, it must have been a shock to see William. ‘Please sit down,’ she said, pointing to a chair. He preferred the look of the sofa, so he settled there instead. She flung some pieces of turf on the fire, then went out and he heard the sound of a kettle being filled, the whoosh of a gas burner. There was a large orange cat sitting in front of the fire, that had woken up when they came into the room. It stared balefully into the flames that the fresh turf sent up. William called to it self-consciously, ‘Puss, puss, puss,’ and the cat turned to him with a look of stony contempt, blinked its eyes and looked away again.
‘Max suits himself.’ She was back in the room now. ‘He’s a bit aloof until you get to know him.’ She picked up a packet of cigarettes from the table and offered them to him. ‘I have my own, thanks.’ He took out his silver lighter too, but she had already picked up a lighter of her own, a cheap green plastic one, similar to the one which had failed her when they met. They made no reference to it, but for the first time since they came up to the flat, she gave a faint smile. ‘I’m delighted to have this,’ she said, picking up the book. ‘I went back the next day to the pub where I left it, but they didn’t know anything about it, so I thought it had gone the way of all good things. It’s not an easy book to get hold of.’
‘It looks interesting,’ he said.
She looked at him shrewdly, not believing him, wondering why he was trying to curry favour in this way.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is.’
He was genuinely interested in the book – a collection of essays on aesthetics, with a picture of a Chinese vase on the cover – but the strange circumstances by which he had come upon it gave it a particular significance. The blue spine was whitened with use, and while nothing in it was underlined, the corners of two pages had been folded down. He had carried it around with him in the days since he had noticed it in the pub, on the couch where she had been sitting. He had taken it out at home and at work in moments when he knew he would not be interrupted. It was like a thing from another world, and he had felt uneasy with the hold it had over him. He liked that it had been used, there was an intimacy about it. It had been like having one of her shoes, he thought, and looking at the scuffed toes, the worn heel; or a wispy scarf, similar to the one she had been wearing in the pub that night.
‘The thing is,’ she said, ‘it’s not my book. I had borrowed it from a friend. He’ll be glad to have it back. I told him I’d lost it, and he was very good about it’ He felt cheated now; felt foolish, thinking of the times he had spent turning the book over in his hands, slightly furtively. It had lost all its allure, now that he knew she didn’t own it.
Suddenly she looked up. ‘How did you know where to find me, anyway? How did you know I lived here?’
‘There’s a card,’ he said. ‘In the book, it’s … I suppose you were using it as a bookmark.’ She picked the volume up again and leafed through it, found no card. He opened his briefcase and pretended to look in it, took the card out and gave it to her. She studied it briefly: looked at the picture, turned it over and glanced at the written side, looked across the room at him. He had been trying to hold on to the card and
Similar Books
