was suddenly filled with the wild desire to drop to her knees and beg him to make as much noise as was humanly possible. 'Well, good luck,' she said, starting to back away from the door. 'Goodbye.' This was beginning to sound like Brief Encounter. If only it was. An encounter with his briefs was just what she needed.
'Bye then,' said Tom, and closed his door.
Jane re-entered the flat. It was now frustratingly silent. Absolutely no reason to go upstairs again at all. She walked over to the window and, sighing, started to clear the table. She looked out. The sky was still light outside, the usual grey, featureless fading evening oddly characteristic of Clapham.
56
She gazed up beseechingly at the patchy ceiling, stained by generations of overflowing baths, broken-down shower units and rising damp. She willed Tom to break out into a foundation-shaking series of crashes, but there was silence. Except — Jane's ears pricked up — a slight, insistent tapping at the window behind her, which could have been a branch.
Only there were no branches near her window. Nothing grew in the scrubby, slimy apology for a back garden that Nick had neglected for as long as he had lived here. A rapist, then. A Jehovah's Witness? Jane whipped round, and drew her breath in sharply, her hand shooting automatically to her throat. Something huge, dark and misshapen was visible at the window, tapping gently against the pane.
She approached cautiously. The object seemed to be hanging from some sort of string. As Jane got closer, she realised it was a trainer. Poking out from inside it was a white slip of paper. Jane scrabbled frantically to open the peeling, scabby, moss-streaked window frame. She grabbed the piece of paper with a shaking hand and smoothed it out on the half-dismantled table, upon which one of the candles still flickered.
'Apologies for noise,' a decisive hand had written in blue-black ink. 'Can I take you out to dinner to say sorry?'
Jane's stomach plunged through the floor. Her knees shook. Should she ignore Tom out of loyalty to Nick? But Nick had let her down with his wretched caravanners' fondue. And what was the point of going out for dinner, piped up a Sensible Voice in her head, when there was a dinner all ready down here? She knew from experience that the putanesca sauce would respond well to treatment; if she added a little more tomato puree, only an
57
interesting hint of smokiness would suggest how near it had come to disaster. The pasta was, well, just pasta. And there had never been anything wrong with the tomato ciabatta, the rocket salad and the Pouilly-Something.
Jane rushed upstairs before she could change her mind, knocked on the door and issued the invitation. 'It'll be ready in half an hour,' she said.
'Half an hour, then,' drawled Tom. 'Want me to bring anything?'
'Just yourself,' grinned Jane, instantly feeling mortified for sounding so cheesy. She was filled with a sudden terror that once he was across the threshold she'd be overcome with a form of socially maladroit Tourette's syndrome, telling him to 'sit ye down' and 'take a pew'.
Back in the flat, Jane threw herself against the door in an ecstasy of knotted-stomach guilt. Honestly, said the Sensible Voice. Anyone would think that you'd swung naked from the chandeliers, licked cream off his entire body and committed triple-chocolate adultery, the way you're reacting. You've only invited him to dinner. Jane pulled herself together. Half an hour, she thought, panicking. Five minutes for the food and twenty-five to make herself look more stunning than a 2,000 volt charge.
Twenty minutes later, Jane was standing despairing in the bedroom, having tried on and abandoned every outfit she possessed. He might think it odd she had changed, anyway, she thought, prising herself back into her jeans and white linen shirt. Ten minutes. She brushed her hair furiously, cleaned her teeth manically, re-applied her worn-off lipstick and gave herself another coat of
'Bye then,' said Tom, and closed his door.
Jane re-entered the flat. It was now frustratingly silent. Absolutely no reason to go upstairs again at all. She walked over to the window and, sighing, started to clear the table. She looked out. The sky was still light outside, the usual grey, featureless fading evening oddly characteristic of Clapham.
56
She gazed up beseechingly at the patchy ceiling, stained by generations of overflowing baths, broken-down shower units and rising damp. She willed Tom to break out into a foundation-shaking series of crashes, but there was silence. Except — Jane's ears pricked up — a slight, insistent tapping at the window behind her, which could have been a branch.
Only there were no branches near her window. Nothing grew in the scrubby, slimy apology for a back garden that Nick had neglected for as long as he had lived here. A rapist, then. A Jehovah's Witness? Jane whipped round, and drew her breath in sharply, her hand shooting automatically to her throat. Something huge, dark and misshapen was visible at the window, tapping gently against the pane.
She approached cautiously. The object seemed to be hanging from some sort of string. As Jane got closer, she realised it was a trainer. Poking out from inside it was a white slip of paper. Jane scrabbled frantically to open the peeling, scabby, moss-streaked window frame. She grabbed the piece of paper with a shaking hand and smoothed it out on the half-dismantled table, upon which one of the candles still flickered.
'Apologies for noise,' a decisive hand had written in blue-black ink. 'Can I take you out to dinner to say sorry?'
Jane's stomach plunged through the floor. Her knees shook. Should she ignore Tom out of loyalty to Nick? But Nick had let her down with his wretched caravanners' fondue. And what was the point of going out for dinner, piped up a Sensible Voice in her head, when there was a dinner all ready down here? She knew from experience that the putanesca sauce would respond well to treatment; if she added a little more tomato puree, only an
57
interesting hint of smokiness would suggest how near it had come to disaster. The pasta was, well, just pasta. And there had never been anything wrong with the tomato ciabatta, the rocket salad and the Pouilly-Something.
Jane rushed upstairs before she could change her mind, knocked on the door and issued the invitation. 'It'll be ready in half an hour,' she said.
'Half an hour, then,' drawled Tom. 'Want me to bring anything?'
'Just yourself,' grinned Jane, instantly feeling mortified for sounding so cheesy. She was filled with a sudden terror that once he was across the threshold she'd be overcome with a form of socially maladroit Tourette's syndrome, telling him to 'sit ye down' and 'take a pew'.
Back in the flat, Jane threw herself against the door in an ecstasy of knotted-stomach guilt. Honestly, said the Sensible Voice. Anyone would think that you'd swung naked from the chandeliers, licked cream off his entire body and committed triple-chocolate adultery, the way you're reacting. You've only invited him to dinner. Jane pulled herself together. Half an hour, she thought, panicking. Five minutes for the food and twenty-five to make herself look more stunning than a 2,000 volt charge.
Twenty minutes later, Jane was standing despairing in the bedroom, having tried on and abandoned every outfit she possessed. He might think it odd she had changed, anyway, she thought, prising herself back into her jeans and white linen shirt. Ten minutes. She brushed her hair furiously, cleaned her teeth manically, re-applied her worn-off lipstick and gave herself another coat of
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