Read Online The Restoration of Otto Laird by Nigel Packer - Free Book Online

she was still intent on the conversation), and spun it between the fingers of her right hand. Three times in one direction, then three times in the other. Quickly, dextrously – no one else at the table even noticed – and then slipped it back onto her wrist.
    Otto sat back in his chair.
    I thought I’d never see that again.
    *   *   *
    The first time he had done so – the first time they had spoken – was in a student café in Bloomsbury in the mid-1950s. But they had already spotted each other some weeks before, at the Architectural Association on Bedford Square, a prestigious college with a reputation for cutting-edge design where the two of them were working towards their professional qualifications. Otto had already been studying there several years. She was newly arrived from the United States. Strange, now, to think that he had ever lived in this city without her.
    Cynthia was impressed at first sight by the rake-thin young man with the luminous skin and soulful eyes, whose presentation on Le Corbusier confirmed for her the reputation she had already heard about from others. She and her friends would track around the library the progression of this enigmatic figure, who apparently preferred to live among the poorer communities of Lambeth, rather than take his rightful place among the fashionable young bohemians of Bloomsbury. Otto’s evasiveness, together with his obvious intelligence, only added to his allure, and within a few weeks of Cynthia’s arrival at the college, he was already firmly established on her radar. For the time being, however, she kept her distance, knowing she was not short of allure herself.
    It was common knowledge that Cynthia had taken her first degree at New York’s Columbia University. It was also known that she had lived for a while in fashionable Greenwich Village. Rumour had it that she once drank coffee just two tables away from James Dean. The first thing that drew Otto’s attention, however, was her headwear. Most days she wore a stylish black beret, tilted down slightly to the left, which she could use very effectively to either shelter from view, or offer up for contemplation, the blue eyes beneath the auburn wave. With the smoke from a cigarette curling constantly around her face, she had all the credentials of an authentic beatnik. Not only was she the kind of person who could appreciate Abstract Expressionism, she looked like someone who might understand the complexities of modern jazz.
    Walking alone into the café that particular day, Otto spotted her at a table by the window. She was reading a dog-eared copy of Orlando, pausing now and then to stir her coffee with a silver spoon. Settling down at an adjacent table, and calculating the best strategy for interrupting her reading, he was spared further anguish by her glance, smile of recognition and offer of a place at her table. He was impressed at once by her confidence and maturity, if a little taken aback by her cut-glass English accent.
    â€˜You’re not from New York, then?’
    â€˜No, I’m Home Counties born and bred. My spell at Columbia was the first time I’d ever been to the States. My father has business contacts in America, you see, which is how I came to study there.’
    â€˜New York must have been exciting.’
    â€˜Yes, I enjoyed it, greatly. But I decided to come back home to complete my studies. And you’re Austrian, I hear?’
    â€˜Technically, yes, although I haven’t actually lived there since I was young. German remains my first language, however, and the accent I have kept, or so I am told. Are you living near to the college?’
    â€˜Not too far away. I have a place on Marchmont Street – just up the road from here.’
    â€˜And you are renting there?’
    She looked a little awkward.
    â€˜No, it’s a family heirloom. My parents have owned it for years. It’s convenient for my studies and