What kind of things do you write? If you’re a writer.
She turned around, bemused. If I am? she said. I don’t suppose you think I’ve been lying. I would have come up with something better if I had been. I’m a novelist. I write books.
And you make money doing that, do you?
As if sensing a new significance in this question, she glanced at him once more and then went back to pouring the water. Yes I do, she said. He continued to watch her and then sat down at the table. The seats were padded with cushions in crinkled russet cloth.
Everything looked very clean. He rubbed the smooth tabletop with the tip of his index finger. She put a glass of water down in front of him and sat on one of the chairs.
Have you been here before? she said. You knew the house.
No, I only know it from growing up in town. I never knew who lived here.
I hardly know them myself. An older couple. The woman is an artist, I think.
He nodded and said nothing.
I’ll give you a tour if you like, she added.
He still said nothing and this time didn’t even nod. She didn’t look perturbed by this; it seemed to confirm some suspicion she had been nursing, and when she continued to speak it was in the same dry, almost sardonic tone.
You must think I’m mad living here on my own, she said.
For free? he answered. Fuck off, you’d be mad not to. He yawned unselfconsciously and looked out the window, or rather at the window, since it was dark out now and the glass only reflected the interior of the room. How many bedrooms are there, out of curiosity? he asked.
Four.
Where’s yours?
In response to this abrupt question she did not move her eyes at first, but kept staring intently at her glass for a few seconds before looking directly up at him. Upstairs, she said. They’re all upstairs. Would you like me to show you?
Why not, he said.
They rose from the table. On the upstairs landing was a Turkish rug with grey tassels.
Alice pushed open the door to her room and switched on a little floor lamp. To the left was a large double bed. The floorboards were bare and along one wall a fireplace was laid out in jade-coloured tiles. On the right, a large sash window looked out over the sea, into the darkness. Felix wandered over to the window and leaned close to the glass, so his own shadow darkened the glare of the reflected light.
Must be a nice view here in the daytime, said Felix.
Alice was still standing by the door. Yes, it’s beautiful, she said. Even better in the evening, actually.
He turned away from the window, casting his appraising glance around the room’s other features, while Alice watched.
Very nice, he concluded. Very nice room. Are you going to write a book while you’re here?
I suppose I’ll try.
And what are your books about?
Oh, I don’t know, she said. People.
That’s a bit vague. What kind of people do you write about, people like you?
She looked at him calmly, as if to tell him something: that she understood his game, perhaps, and that she would even let him win it, as long as he played nicely.
What kind of person do you think I am? she said.
Something in the calm coolness of her look seemed to unsettle him, and he gave a quick, yelping laugh. Well, well, he said. I only met you a few hours ago, I haven’t made up my mind on you yet.
You’ll let me know when you do, I hope.
I might.
For a few seconds she stood there in the room, very still, while he wandered around a little and pretended to look at things. They knew then, both of them, what was about to happen, though neither could have said exactly how they knew. She waited impartially while he continued glancing around, until finally, perhaps with no more energy to delay the inevitable, he thanked her and left. She walked him down the stairs – part of the way down. She was standing on the steps when he went out the door. It was one of those things. Both of them afterwards felt bad, neither of them certain really why the evening had been such a failure in the end. Pausing there on the stairs, alone, she looked back up at the landing. Follow her eyes now and notice the bedroom door left open, a slice of white wall visible through the banister posts.
2
Dear Eileen. I’ve waited so long for you to reply to my last email that I am actually –
imagine! – writing you a new one before receiving your reply. In my defence I’ve gathered up too much material now, and if I wait for you I’ll start forgetting things. You should know that our correspondence is my way of holding on to life, taking notes on it, and thereby preserving something of my – otherwise almost worthless, or even entirely worthless – existence on this rapidly degenerating planet . . . I include this paragraph chiefly to make you feel guilty about not replying to me before now, and therefore secure myself a swifter response this time. What are you doing, anyway, if not emailing me? Don’t say working.