In the Falling Snow (9 page)

‘It’s upstairs. Let me go first.’

He begins to climb the stairs, conscious of the fact that she is behind him and watching his every movement. Just as he reaches the top landing the light snaps off and plunges them both into darkness. He fumbles for his keys.

‘A sixty-second delay’s not really very much, is it?’ The girl doesn’t answer, so he concentrates on unlocking the door and then he ushers her inside. He gestures in the direction of the sofa, then excuses himself and passes into the kitchen where he leans against the cooker and wipes his brow with a piece of kitchen towel which he then pushes into the tall swing bin. He shouts through.

‘Would you like some food? I’ve got crackers and cheese, or I can even make you some soup. It’s not much, but it’s all that I’ve got.’

He pours two glasses of Sauvignon Blanc and wonders if she minds the fact that it’s a screwtop bottle. Some people like to hear the cork pop, but her silence is making him uneasy so he has chosen the quickest option. When he walks back into the living room she is sitting forward on the edge of the sofa and apparently gawping at the blank television screen. However, he soon realises that in the absence of a mirror she is probably staring at her own reflection. She has removed the plastic clip, and spilled her blonde hair so that it now reaches down to her shoulders. However, he can see that the roots are dark brown. He hands her a glass of wine and then crosses to the CD player.

‘I said I could put together some food if you’re hungry.’

‘I am not hungry. But if you are hungry then you must eat.’

He puts on some Wynton Marsalis, the music being neither too abstract nor too difficult, and then he sits opposite her on a plain wooden chair. He thinks of Marsalis as the prime exponent of light jazz, for his graceful music is perfect for background atmosphere as it never seems to disrupt a private train of thought
or
hijack a conversation. The skies have opened, and rain is now lashing against the windows. Add a view of a Paris skyline, and the cliché would be complete. She sits back and raises her glass.

‘Cheers, Mr Keith.’

‘And cheers to you too. And to learning English in Acton.’

‘Now that is quite funny. Very good. Cheers to learning English in Acton.’

They listen in silence to the end of the track. Her black woollen winter tights represent the triumph of common sense over style, but he notices that her shoes are both scuffed and badly worn down at the heels. He looks up at her pale, slender face, and decides to ask the question before Marsalis has a chance to blow the long mournful notes of the next ballad.

‘Are you married?’

She laughs.

‘No, of course I am not married. Are you married?’

‘I used to be, but three years ago we decided to go our own way. It was reasonably amicable.’ He pauses. ‘Friendly.’

‘I understand “amicable”.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.’

‘And so you are a social worker who lives by himself and who likes to try to pick up girls in strange places.’

‘Have I picked you up?’

‘I am curious about you, Mr Keith. You like lonely pubs, and this is a lonely flat.’

He understands that being occasionally talked down to is the price an older man has to pay for the privilege of having a young girl flatter him with some attention. If he took anything from his disastrous relationship with Yvette, he took this much. He is learning to tolerate a disrespectful aggression that women of his own age would never resort to, but he suspects that this is because women of his own age no longer possess the gift of youth to
embolden
their behaviour. The confidence of most older women has usually been undermined by the harsh reality of accepting that their stepping into a room no longer results in heads being turned, but not this girl called Danuta who behaves as though she has never suffered a single moment of self-doubt. He imagines that her parents are most likely still alive, and he suspects that she has probably never endured the sudden, heart-wrenching loss of friends or loved ones. The girl in the black woollen tights remains untouched by life.

‘Do you have a job in Poland?’

‘I work with young children. Before they go to school.’

‘Kindergarten. That’s what they call it here. A kindergarten school.’

‘The word is similar in Polish. I am a teacher, but I want to open an international kindergarten, for foreign children too. Children of businessmen and diplomats.’

‘More money, right?’

‘Of course, more money. But first I must improve my English. It is good to have conversation.’

‘Is that why you agreed to have a drink with me? For my conversation?’

‘Perhaps this is the reason.’ She grins, and then she bursts out laughing as though unable to contain herself any longer. ‘You are a very stupid man.’

He smiles quickly, and then he stands and takes the empty glass from her proffered hand. In the kitchen he refills both glasses, and then replaces the nearly empty bottle in the fridge. He catches a glimpse of himself in the dark kitchen window. He should know better. Where is all of this leading to? A quick fumble on the sofa, and then into the bedroom, leaving the lights on in the living room, the music playing, and the wine glasses still full? Perhaps they will scatter a trail of clothes behind them,
or
will they both have the discipline to wait until they get into the bedroom before they start peeling off the layers? And then what about all that confusion with the lights in the bedroom? Will they go for dim lighting, which will mean a quick timeout and crossing to the bedside lamp; or no lighting at all, which is maybe too weird; or perhaps a compromise and leave the door ajar so that some light from the living room is able to leak in? And then immediately afterwards, the sudden panic about contraception and disease. And she is probably the type of girl who after sex likes to roll up on to her elbow for a cigarette and talk. And will she be staying the night, or will he want her to leave straight away so that he can read or watch television? And what will she expect? A relationship? A phone number? Dinner? Suddenly it all seems extremely complicated, and as he continues to stare at himself in the kitchen window he wonders if indecision really is a sign of ageing.

‘Would you like to stay?’

He hands her the refilled glass of wine.

‘What do you mean “stay”?’

‘I mean longer. We could order some food. Chinese. Indian. Whatever you like, they’ll deliver.’

‘I think I have to go now. But I like this music. It is very nice. May I know the name of the man who is playing?’

‘Wynton Marsalis.’

He crosses to the CDs that are neatly stacked in a revolving tower. Skimming down from the top he identifies, and then plucks out, seven CDs by Marsalis and shuffles them like a deck of cards. He squares their edges, and then hands them to the girl. He wants her to be fascinated by the music, to ask him more questions, to give him the opportunity to share his knowledge with her. The more he gazes at this Danuta’s mop of blonde hair, and her chewed nails and nicotine-stained fingers, the more he
wants
to know about her. She looks at the artwork on the covers and then, one at a time, she places them down on the coffee table before eventually reclaiming her glass of wine.

‘You say you do not have a wife, so who is this woman in the photograph?’

She points to a small headshot in a stainless steel frame that is tucked away on the windowsill behind the television. He is surprised that she has spotted it, but he is coming to terms with the fact that she seems far more interested in her surroundings than she is in him.

‘That’s Brenda. She’s my father’s wife.’

‘But she is not your mother.’

‘No, she’s not. To be more accurate I should say she used to be his wife.’

‘But you do not have a picture of your mother, and you do not have a picture of your father, but you have a picture of your father’s wife?’

He has noticed that she likes to phrase her questions as mildly accusatory statements of fact, but he is unsure if this reflects her combative character or if it is just evidence of her inexperience with the English language. He shrugs his shoulders.

‘If you do not wish to talk about these things then this is good with me.’

‘I’d rather talk about you.’

She laughs now and reaches both hands up to the top of her head, where she bundles her hair together and then holds it in place with one hand as she takes the plastic clip from her pocket. The girl then pulls her hair back and secures it so that her whole face seems brighter and more attractive. The young can do this. He has noticed it on the tube, in the street, in his office, young women who by undoing a button, or putting on some lip gloss, or hooking in a pair of earrings can suddenly, and dramatically,
transform
themselves as though they have plugged themselves in to an energy source. She walks to the window where she picks up the small framed photograph and looks closely at the image of Brenda, before replacing it and then peering down into the darkness. He notices the irritating flicker from the faulty streetlamp that is clearly visible through the window. Last month he urged Ruth to write to the appropriate department of the local authority and suggest that they immediately send somebody out to fix the problem. Apparently, either Ruth forgot to write, or the email landed on the screen of somebody who must have deemed his request low-priority. Danuta turns from the window and appraises the small flat as though considering whether or not she should buy the place. And then her eyes alight upon the present occupant.

‘You like women or you like men, or both?’

‘I have no interest in men.’ He pauses. ‘Well at least not in that way.’

‘Never?’

‘Never seen the point. I have enough trouble with women.’

He realises that she has teased out of him a little more than he intended to say. He will have to be careful for, until the night he told Annabelle about the encounter in the New Forest, he had no idea that the urge to confession played any part in his character. She leaves the window and sits back down.

‘I have to go.’

‘Are you sure? I’d like you to stay.’

‘I work, Mr Keith. I have to go to work or how else do I pay for my English lessons.’

Well, he thinks, you’ve just had a free conversation class. Perhaps you can skip work tonight and keep me company.

‘One for the road?’

He stands, picks up her glass, and gently touches her shoulder
as
he passes behind her. He tops her up and then quickly washes out the bottle and puts it by the sink with the empty Perrier and Gatorade bottles ready for recycling. The metal cap he pushes into the tall swing bin, and then he carefully carries her glass back into the living room. As he hands her the wine, he ignores the wooden chair and sits next to her on the sofa. They clink glasses, drink, and then he replaces his glass on the table and turns to face her. He reaches over and gently cups the right side of her face in his left palm and feels the softness of her skin.

‘You know, you’re quite beautiful.’

She looks at him, but says nothing. He stretches out his other hand so that her face now sits in the chalice that he has created. His eyes lock with hers, but he is conscious that he must not hold this pose for too long. He leans forward to kiss her, but at the last moment she twists her head offering him a cheek and withdrawing her face at the same time.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to do anything to cause offence.’

Suddenly, the confidence seems to have drained out of her and she stares at him, her eyes moist with what he imagines is disappointment.

‘At night I am a cleaner. I work in an office building so I must go and do my job.’ She puts down her glass of wine and stands. ‘I do not wish to be late.’

To be misunderstood, and thereafter disliked, is always hurtful. At work he is a boss, and his colleagues have not always appreciated his gestures of authority, no matter how sensitively he has tried to bestow them. Clive Wilson has occasionally reminded him that he is not paid to win popularity contests, and the discomfort of being misunderstood comes with the privilege of being a decision-maker, so he just has to ride it out. Sometimes he can repair the damage of a comment or gesture that is offered in
innocence
and received with indignation, but more often than not he has learned to say nothing further and trust that time will heal any temporary distress in the workplace. However, as far as women are concerned, he has little experience of how to navigate such awkwardness, and the unfortunate episodes with Lesley and Yvette speak eloquently to this fact. Really, he asks himself, why push it and cross a line with this young woman? He could have waited and seen how things developed and discovered how she wanted to play it, but instead he stupidly does something which makes him feel like he is taking charge and now she is rightly outraged. She moves quickly to pick up her rucksack, and he finds himself stricken with anxiety. Okay, he does want to kiss her, and yes he doesn’t want her to leave, but he also doesn’t want to have full-on sex with her, at least not yet. Jesus Christ, he’s already seen the mess that can get you into. Perhaps some kissing and fooling around, but her eyes indicate that she thinks he wants more than this, and maybe she is even a little saddened that their promising friendship should have been sabotaged by his pitiful impatience.

‘I am sorry, but I must leave.’

He stands and walks with her to the door.

‘Will you be getting a cab? There’s a minicab place on the corner, I can walk you there.’

‘No, it is not necessary.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’

She silently follows him back down the stairs and he scrambles around in his mind for something to say. He unlocks the front door and holds it wide open so she knows that she is free to go.

‘I don’t have a car. It’s just too much hassle in London.’

He wants to reassure her that he earns more than enough to have a car. That he is a respectable middle-class professional man,
not
some leering jerk who preys on women. He wants her to know that the attempted kiss wasn’t a clumsy gesture of foreplay, with the next stage already programmed in his seedy mind. He likes her, even though she is a little bit chippy. She is a single woman from another country, on her own, learning English. Of course, she has to be a little bit chippy to survive. He understands, he gets it, it’s fine.