the other night. Well, not about what I did, but about upsetting you, and . . . look, I’m sorry, and it’s all crazy, and I don’t honestly know what to do.”
And Jessica nodded, and continued to smile sympathetically, and then she said, “You’re going to think I’m absolutely awful, but I have a really dreadful memory for faces. Give me a second, and I know I’ll get it.”
And at that point, Richard knew that it was real, and a heavy dread settled in the pit of his stomach. Whatever madness was happening that day was really happening. It was no joke, no trick or prank. “It’s okay,” he said, dully. “Forget it.”
And he walked away, out the door and down the corridor. He was almost at the lift when she called his name.
“Richard!”
He turned. It had been a joke. Some kind of petty revenge. Something he could explain. “Richard . . . Maybury?” She seemed proud of herself for remembering that much.
“Mayhew,” said Richard, and he got into the elevator, and the doors sang a sad fluting downward trill as they closed behind him.
Richard walked back to his flat, upset and confused and angry. Sometimes he would wave at taxis, but never with any real hope that they would stop, and none of them did. His feet hurt, and his eyes stung, and he knew that soon enough he would wake up from today and a proper Monday, a sensible Monday, a decent, honest Monday would begin.
When he reached the apartment, he filled the bathtub with hot water, abandoned his clothes on the bed, and, naked, walked through the hall and climbed into the relaxing waters. He had almost dozed off when he heard a key turn, a door open and close, and a smooth male voice say, “Of course, you’re the first I’ve shown around today, but I’ve got a list of people as long as your arm who are interested.”
“It’s not as large as I imagined, from the details your office sent us,” said a woman.
“It’s compact, yes. But I like to think of that as a virtue.”
Richard had not bothered locking the bathroom door. He was, after all, the only person there.
A gruffer, rougher male voice said, “Thought you said it was an unfurnished apartment. Looks pretty damned furnished to me.”
“The previous tenant must have left some of his accoutrements behind. Funny. They never told me anything about that.”
Richard stood up in the bathtub. Then, because he was naked, and the people could walk in at any moment, he sat back down. Rather desperately, he looked around the bathroom for a towel. “Oh look, George,” said the woman in the hallway. “Someone’s left a towel on this chair.”
Richard inspected and rejected as poor towel substitutes a loofah, a half-empty bottle of shampoo, and a small yellow rubber duck. “What’s the bathroom like?” asked the woman. Richard grabbed a washcloth and draped it in front of his crotch. Then he stood up, with his back to the wall, and prepared to be mortified. The door was pushed open. Three people walked into the bathroom: a young man in a camel-hair coat, and a middle-aged couple. Richard wondered if they were as embarrassed as he was.
“It’s a bit small,” said the woman.
“Compact,” corrected the camel-hair coat, smoothly. “Easy to take care of.” The woman ran her finger along the side of the sink and wrinkled her nose. “I think we’ve seen it all,” said the middle-aged man. They walked out of the bathroom.
“It would be very convenient for everything,” said the woman. A conversation continued in lower tones. Richard climbed out of the bath and edged over to the door. He spotted the towel on the chair in the hall, and he leaned out and grabbed it. “We’ll take it,” said the woman.
“You will?” said the camel-hair coat.
“It’s just what we want,” she explained. “Or it will be, once we’ve made it homey. Could it be ready for Wednesday?”
“Of course. We’ll have all of this rubbish cleaned out of here tomorrow, no problem.”
Richard, cold
And Jessica nodded, and continued to smile sympathetically, and then she said, “You’re going to think I’m absolutely awful, but I have a really dreadful memory for faces. Give me a second, and I know I’ll get it.”
And at that point, Richard knew that it was real, and a heavy dread settled in the pit of his stomach. Whatever madness was happening that day was really happening. It was no joke, no trick or prank. “It’s okay,” he said, dully. “Forget it.”
And he walked away, out the door and down the corridor. He was almost at the lift when she called his name.
“Richard!”
He turned. It had been a joke. Some kind of petty revenge. Something he could explain. “Richard . . . Maybury?” She seemed proud of herself for remembering that much.
“Mayhew,” said Richard, and he got into the elevator, and the doors sang a sad fluting downward trill as they closed behind him.
Richard walked back to his flat, upset and confused and angry. Sometimes he would wave at taxis, but never with any real hope that they would stop, and none of them did. His feet hurt, and his eyes stung, and he knew that soon enough he would wake up from today and a proper Monday, a sensible Monday, a decent, honest Monday would begin.
When he reached the apartment, he filled the bathtub with hot water, abandoned his clothes on the bed, and, naked, walked through the hall and climbed into the relaxing waters. He had almost dozed off when he heard a key turn, a door open and close, and a smooth male voice say, “Of course, you’re the first I’ve shown around today, but I’ve got a list of people as long as your arm who are interested.”
“It’s not as large as I imagined, from the details your office sent us,” said a woman.
“It’s compact, yes. But I like to think of that as a virtue.”
Richard had not bothered locking the bathroom door. He was, after all, the only person there.
A gruffer, rougher male voice said, “Thought you said it was an unfurnished apartment. Looks pretty damned furnished to me.”
“The previous tenant must have left some of his accoutrements behind. Funny. They never told me anything about that.”
Richard stood up in the bathtub. Then, because he was naked, and the people could walk in at any moment, he sat back down. Rather desperately, he looked around the bathroom for a towel. “Oh look, George,” said the woman in the hallway. “Someone’s left a towel on this chair.”
Richard inspected and rejected as poor towel substitutes a loofah, a half-empty bottle of shampoo, and a small yellow rubber duck. “What’s the bathroom like?” asked the woman. Richard grabbed a washcloth and draped it in front of his crotch. Then he stood up, with his back to the wall, and prepared to be mortified. The door was pushed open. Three people walked into the bathroom: a young man in a camel-hair coat, and a middle-aged couple. Richard wondered if they were as embarrassed as he was.
“It’s a bit small,” said the woman.
“Compact,” corrected the camel-hair coat, smoothly. “Easy to take care of.” The woman ran her finger along the side of the sink and wrinkled her nose. “I think we’ve seen it all,” said the middle-aged man. They walked out of the bathroom.
“It would be very convenient for everything,” said the woman. A conversation continued in lower tones. Richard climbed out of the bath and edged over to the door. He spotted the towel on the chair in the hall, and he leaned out and grabbed it. “We’ll take it,” said the woman.
“You will?” said the camel-hair coat.
“It’s just what we want,” she explained. “Or it will be, once we’ve made it homey. Could it be ready for Wednesday?”
“Of course. We’ll have all of this rubbish cleaned out of here tomorrow, no problem.”
Richard, cold
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