few items for the next day: a change of
underwear, another tee, a toothbrush. The rest of what she
needed was already in her large handbag with the expensive can
of macadamia nuts that she was bringing James as a gift. She got
to the tube station before the rain began in earnest, hoping
that the worst of it would be finished by the time she emerged.
It was. She found James' building with surprisingly little
trouble, and pressed the button next to his name.
"That you?" he
said. "Come on up. It's the top floor, on the left as you get
off the elevator." And he buzzed her in. When she arrived, he
was standing at the door smiling, in belted jeans, a
short-sleeved cotton shirt in a green plaid, and bare feet. They
exchanged a small kiss of greeting and he ushered her inside. By
the door there was a rubber tray containing a couple of pairs of
shoes, so she slipped hers off, mindful of the rain and dirt
clinging to them, as James took her jacket and the can of nuts
she rather hesitantly handed over.
"I love these,"
he said, immediately peeling off the plastic cover and popping
the lid of the can. "But first things first. What can I get you
to drink? A cocktail? Or some prosecco? I was just about to open
a bottle."
"A glass of
prosecco would be perfect," she said, feeling a definite need
for a drink. He looked so different out of his usual suit and
tie. In a good way, but this was his territory. She felt almost
like an intruder.
"Have a look
around while I get the drinks. Not a great deal to see, I'm
afraid."
His flat was a
loft with honey-colored wood floors. One large, high ceilinged
room contained the kitchen, a dining table with six chairs (now
laid with places for two), and a living area that consisted of
some sofas and chairs defined by a huge Persian rug, a fireplace
and a large screen television. Overhead was a mezzanine,
accessible by stairs, that extended out about a third of the way
across the loft; she assumed this was the sleeping area. Set
into the ceiling was a row of skylights, now dim and gray with
the rain, and across the exterior wall, level with the
mezzanine, were three large windows. Below the windows was a
large expanse of wall covered with framed paintings and
photographs. The space under the mezzanine was lined with
bookshelves and a stereo system. It was a perfect bachelor's
flat.
"Where do you go
to smoke a cigar?" she asked. She couldn't smell a hint of smoke
in the flat.
"The roof.
Technically it belongs to the bloke who owns the penthouse, but
he's a mate of mine. There's quite a nice garden up there. It's
a shame about the rain."
She made a
beeline for the bookshelves. "Do you mind if I look at your
books? I study private libraries, and I always say you can tell
a lot from seeing a person's books. In fact, it's such an
intimate thing that sometimes when people come over, I pull
certain books off the shelves." Glancing at the spines, she saw
Darwin's Voyage of the
Beagle and a set of Patrick O'Brian's naval adventures of
the Napoleonic era. O'Brian was Jane Austen for men, and his
stories had Austen's wit and gentle satire of human foibles.
There was a small collection of poetry: Shakespeare (a Riverside
edition of the complete works, plus separate versions of Antony and Cleopatra , Macbeth , and Richard III ), Yeats
(both poetry and drama), and Seamus Heaney. Impressed, she saw
that he owned several works by James Joyce. And what appeared to
be every book written by the iconoclastic, caustic and hilarious
Christopher Hitchens.
James walked over
carrying two flutes of prosecco and handed one to her. They
touched their glasses together and drank. She suddenly realized
that she felt much more comfortable now that they each had a
glass of wine in hand. "Why are you afraid to let people see
your books?" he said. And then
underwear, another tee, a toothbrush. The rest of what she
needed was already in her large handbag with the expensive can
of macadamia nuts that she was bringing James as a gift. She got
to the tube station before the rain began in earnest, hoping
that the worst of it would be finished by the time she emerged.
It was. She found James' building with surprisingly little
trouble, and pressed the button next to his name.
"That you?" he
said. "Come on up. It's the top floor, on the left as you get
off the elevator." And he buzzed her in. When she arrived, he
was standing at the door smiling, in belted jeans, a
short-sleeved cotton shirt in a green plaid, and bare feet. They
exchanged a small kiss of greeting and he ushered her inside. By
the door there was a rubber tray containing a couple of pairs of
shoes, so she slipped hers off, mindful of the rain and dirt
clinging to them, as James took her jacket and the can of nuts
she rather hesitantly handed over.
"I love these,"
he said, immediately peeling off the plastic cover and popping
the lid of the can. "But first things first. What can I get you
to drink? A cocktail? Or some prosecco? I was just about to open
a bottle."
"A glass of
prosecco would be perfect," she said, feeling a definite need
for a drink. He looked so different out of his usual suit and
tie. In a good way, but this was his territory. She felt almost
like an intruder.
"Have a look
around while I get the drinks. Not a great deal to see, I'm
afraid."
His flat was a
loft with honey-colored wood floors. One large, high ceilinged
room contained the kitchen, a dining table with six chairs (now
laid with places for two), and a living area that consisted of
some sofas and chairs defined by a huge Persian rug, a fireplace
and a large screen television. Overhead was a mezzanine,
accessible by stairs, that extended out about a third of the way
across the loft; she assumed this was the sleeping area. Set
into the ceiling was a row of skylights, now dim and gray with
the rain, and across the exterior wall, level with the
mezzanine, were three large windows. Below the windows was a
large expanse of wall covered with framed paintings and
photographs. The space under the mezzanine was lined with
bookshelves and a stereo system. It was a perfect bachelor's
flat.
"Where do you go
to smoke a cigar?" she asked. She couldn't smell a hint of smoke
in the flat.
"The roof.
Technically it belongs to the bloke who owns the penthouse, but
he's a mate of mine. There's quite a nice garden up there. It's
a shame about the rain."
She made a
beeline for the bookshelves. "Do you mind if I look at your
books? I study private libraries, and I always say you can tell
a lot from seeing a person's books. In fact, it's such an
intimate thing that sometimes when people come over, I pull
certain books off the shelves." Glancing at the spines, she saw
Darwin's Voyage of the
Beagle and a set of Patrick O'Brian's naval adventures of
the Napoleonic era. O'Brian was Jane Austen for men, and his
stories had Austen's wit and gentle satire of human foibles.
There was a small collection of poetry: Shakespeare (a Riverside
edition of the complete works, plus separate versions of Antony and Cleopatra , Macbeth , and Richard III ), Yeats
(both poetry and drama), and Seamus Heaney. Impressed, she saw
that he owned several works by James Joyce. And what appeared to
be every book written by the iconoclastic, caustic and hilarious
Christopher Hitchens.
James walked over
carrying two flutes of prosecco and handed one to her. They
touched their glasses together and drank. She suddenly realized
that she felt much more comfortable now that they each had a
glass of wine in hand. "Why are you afraid to let people see
your books?" he said. And then
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