especially in the afternoons.’
‘Thanks,’ said Sarah. She was too surprised to add anything else.
‘You’re welcome,’ said Veronica. As she vanished into the darkness between two stacks of books, Sarah was left with an impression of her long, supple back.
∗
The bath-water was getting cold as Robert completed the task of shaving. As usual, he had left his least favourite part – the throat, and in particular the Adam’s apple – until last. The water, cloudy with soap and the grime from his body, was now also prickled with little black hairs. He rinsed his razor under the tap, attempting to dislodge the final recalcitrant shavings. “Wind howled around the walls of Ashdown as he sank further into the cooling water: at least it protected him from the fiercer chill of the bathroom, which was, absurdly, by far the largest and loftiest room on this floor of the house. He ran the razor over his cheeks again, dreamily: then he lifted a leg out of the water and examined its thin, pipe-cleaner whiteness with distaste. The hairs lay lank and flat against his shin and thigh. After a thoughtful moment he placed the blade of the razor just above the knee, and began to scrape. Soon he had cleared a little bare patch, about two inches square.
He found shaving his legs absorbing at first, then merely mechanical. He stopped concentrating on the soft abrasive motion of the razor, and let his mind begin to wander in random patterns. First of all he thought about Muriel. Robert’s family had kept three cats during his lifetime, but she had been his favourite: the sweetest-natured, and the most affectionate. Even so, he was shocked – and somewhat ashamed of himself – to think how visibly affected he had been by the news of her death yesterday. He was sure that Sarah had noticed him crying when he talked to her in the kitchen. She probably despised him already. That was always what his father used to tell him, whenever he cried: ‘If a woman ever sees you like that, she’ll despise you. No woman likes a man to be weak. You want respect. Nobody respects a cry-baby.’ He could hear these words now, spoken in the only tone he could remember his father ever using towards him: scornful, unforgiving.
Sarah had not seemed to despise him, though. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed, after all: she might have been too wrapped upin her own problems. That had been a peculiar story, about the man insulting her in the street. He hoped she wasn’t still worrying about it. She had nice eyes: metallic, pale blue, bordering on grey. Ambiguous eyes, warmly inviting and coolly intelligent at the same time.
He was not using a safety razor, and now a sudden shaft of pain from somewhere in the region of his calf made him flinch. He had nicked himself quite badly: a trickle of blood flowed into the bath-water. Shaving his legs wasn’t the relaxing, pleasantly mindless business he had assumed it would be, then: a modicum of concentration was required. Even so, there was something deeply satisfying about it, some fundamental quality of Tightness. He had never seen the point of hairy legs. He had always asked his previous girlfriends for their opinions on this subject, and had been astonished to find that they considered them attractive. Just as well, really: but he couldn’t help regarding it as an inexplicable lapse of taste.
He had nearly finished, now: just the ankles to do, and they would be a stretch. He would give himself a little rest first. He lay back in the grey water, now thick with dark hair, and stared for a while unfocusingly at the cracked and begrimed wall tiles. They reminded him of the showers at school, and that was another nasty memory: communal showers, all that teasing, and furtive comparison…
Robert had been in the bath for more than an hour: enough time for Sarah to have left the library, caught a bus from campus and arrived back at Ashdown, anxious to wash her hair. There was no lock on the bathroom door. The trick was
‘Thanks,’ said Sarah. She was too surprised to add anything else.
‘You’re welcome,’ said Veronica. As she vanished into the darkness between two stacks of books, Sarah was left with an impression of her long, supple back.
∗
The bath-water was getting cold as Robert completed the task of shaving. As usual, he had left his least favourite part – the throat, and in particular the Adam’s apple – until last. The water, cloudy with soap and the grime from his body, was now also prickled with little black hairs. He rinsed his razor under the tap, attempting to dislodge the final recalcitrant shavings. “Wind howled around the walls of Ashdown as he sank further into the cooling water: at least it protected him from the fiercer chill of the bathroom, which was, absurdly, by far the largest and loftiest room on this floor of the house. He ran the razor over his cheeks again, dreamily: then he lifted a leg out of the water and examined its thin, pipe-cleaner whiteness with distaste. The hairs lay lank and flat against his shin and thigh. After a thoughtful moment he placed the blade of the razor just above the knee, and began to scrape. Soon he had cleared a little bare patch, about two inches square.
He found shaving his legs absorbing at first, then merely mechanical. He stopped concentrating on the soft abrasive motion of the razor, and let his mind begin to wander in random patterns. First of all he thought about Muriel. Robert’s family had kept three cats during his lifetime, but she had been his favourite: the sweetest-natured, and the most affectionate. Even so, he was shocked – and somewhat ashamed of himself – to think how visibly affected he had been by the news of her death yesterday. He was sure that Sarah had noticed him crying when he talked to her in the kitchen. She probably despised him already. That was always what his father used to tell him, whenever he cried: ‘If a woman ever sees you like that, she’ll despise you. No woman likes a man to be weak. You want respect. Nobody respects a cry-baby.’ He could hear these words now, spoken in the only tone he could remember his father ever using towards him: scornful, unforgiving.
Sarah had not seemed to despise him, though. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed, after all: she might have been too wrapped upin her own problems. That had been a peculiar story, about the man insulting her in the street. He hoped she wasn’t still worrying about it. She had nice eyes: metallic, pale blue, bordering on grey. Ambiguous eyes, warmly inviting and coolly intelligent at the same time.
He was not using a safety razor, and now a sudden shaft of pain from somewhere in the region of his calf made him flinch. He had nicked himself quite badly: a trickle of blood flowed into the bath-water. Shaving his legs wasn’t the relaxing, pleasantly mindless business he had assumed it would be, then: a modicum of concentration was required. Even so, there was something deeply satisfying about it, some fundamental quality of Tightness. He had never seen the point of hairy legs. He had always asked his previous girlfriends for their opinions on this subject, and had been astonished to find that they considered them attractive. Just as well, really: but he couldn’t help regarding it as an inexplicable lapse of taste.
He had nearly finished, now: just the ankles to do, and they would be a stretch. He would give himself a little rest first. He lay back in the grey water, now thick with dark hair, and stared for a while unfocusingly at the cracked and begrimed wall tiles. They reminded him of the showers at school, and that was another nasty memory: communal showers, all that teasing, and furtive comparison…
Robert had been in the bath for more than an hour: enough time for Sarah to have left the library, caught a bus from campus and arrived back at Ashdown, anxious to wash her hair. There was no lock on the bathroom door. The trick was
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