produced the folded chip from his back pocket. ‘That’s their latest.’
Timothy tilted it to the light. ‘Grey?’
Leroy stalked over. ‘It’s slate blue; it’s called Distant Haze. If you put it up against real grey – against the pavement, even – you can see how blue it is.’
‘OK,’ said Timothy, as if humouring a child. ‘Listen, tell Shorelle I’ll call her later?’ He made that annoying finger-and-thumb-spread gesture that meant a phone.
‘So Tim, what would you do?’ Leroy was leaning on the hood, aware he was holding them up, trying to sound casual.
‘With this house?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Cream, probably,’ said Timothy.
‘Can’t go wrong,’ said Rod.
‘Classic.’
Leroy waved them off with a rictus smile. He shut his eyes, saw hot and red.
The Cost of Things
Cleopatra was exactly the same age as their relationship. They found this very funny and always told the story at dinner parties. Liz would mention the coincidence a little awkwardly, then Sophie, laughing as she scraped back her curls in her hands, would persuade her to spit out the details. Or sometimes it would be the other way round. They prided themselves on not being stuck in patterns. They each had things the other hadn’t – Liz’s triceps, say, and Sophie’s antique rings – but so what? Friends would probably have said that Sophie was the great romantic, who’d do anything for love, whereas Liz was the quiet dependable type, loyal to the end. But then, what did friends know – what could friends imagine of the life that went on in a house after the guests had gone home? Liz and Sophie knew that roles could be shed as easily as clothes; they were sure that none of their differences mattered.
They had met a few months before Cleopatra, but it was like a room before the light is switched on. After the party where they were introduced, Sophie decided Liz looked a bit like a younger Diane Keaton, and Liz knew Sophie reminded her of one of those French actresses but could never remember which. At first, their conversations were like anybody else’s.
Then, on one of her days off from the gardening centre, Liz had come round to Sophie’s place to help her put up some shelves in the spare bedroom. Sophie insisted she’d pay, of course she would, and Liz said she wouldn’t take a dollar, though they both knew she could do with the money. When the drill died down, they thought they heard something. Such a faint sound, Liz thought it was someone using a chain saw, several houses down, but then Sophie pointed out that it was a bit like a baby crying. Anyway, she held the second shelf against the wall for Liz to mark the holes. They were standing so close that Liz could see the different colours in each of Sophie’s rings, and Sophie could feel the heat coming off Liz’s bare shoulder. Then that sound came again, sharper.
They found the kitten under the porch, after they’d tried everywhere else. Its mother must have left it behind. Black and white, eyes still squeezed shut, it was half the size of Sophie’s cupped hand. Now, Liz would probably have made a quick call to the animal shelter and left it at that. She didn’t know then how quickly and completely Sophie could fall in love.
It knew it was on to a good thing, this kitten; it clung to Sophie’s fingers like a cactus. They said
it
for the first few days, not knowing much about feline anatomy. It was hard to give a kitten away, they found, once the vet told you she was a she, and especially once you knew her name. They hadn’t meant to name her, but it was a long hour and a half in the queue at the vet’s and it started out as a joke, what a little Cleopatra she was, said Liz, because the walnut-sized face in the corner of the shoe box was so imperious.
Sophie was clearly staggered by the bill of two hundred dollars for the various shots, but soon she was joking that it was less than she spent on shoes, most months. Liz was a little shocked to hear that,
Timothy tilted it to the light. ‘Grey?’
Leroy stalked over. ‘It’s slate blue; it’s called Distant Haze. If you put it up against real grey – against the pavement, even – you can see how blue it is.’
‘OK,’ said Timothy, as if humouring a child. ‘Listen, tell Shorelle I’ll call her later?’ He made that annoying finger-and-thumb-spread gesture that meant a phone.
‘So Tim, what would you do?’ Leroy was leaning on the hood, aware he was holding them up, trying to sound casual.
‘With this house?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Cream, probably,’ said Timothy.
‘Can’t go wrong,’ said Rod.
‘Classic.’
Leroy waved them off with a rictus smile. He shut his eyes, saw hot and red.
The Cost of Things
Cleopatra was exactly the same age as their relationship. They found this very funny and always told the story at dinner parties. Liz would mention the coincidence a little awkwardly, then Sophie, laughing as she scraped back her curls in her hands, would persuade her to spit out the details. Or sometimes it would be the other way round. They prided themselves on not being stuck in patterns. They each had things the other hadn’t – Liz’s triceps, say, and Sophie’s antique rings – but so what? Friends would probably have said that Sophie was the great romantic, who’d do anything for love, whereas Liz was the quiet dependable type, loyal to the end. But then, what did friends know – what could friends imagine of the life that went on in a house after the guests had gone home? Liz and Sophie knew that roles could be shed as easily as clothes; they were sure that none of their differences mattered.
They had met a few months before Cleopatra, but it was like a room before the light is switched on. After the party where they were introduced, Sophie decided Liz looked a bit like a younger Diane Keaton, and Liz knew Sophie reminded her of one of those French actresses but could never remember which. At first, their conversations were like anybody else’s.
Then, on one of her days off from the gardening centre, Liz had come round to Sophie’s place to help her put up some shelves in the spare bedroom. Sophie insisted she’d pay, of course she would, and Liz said she wouldn’t take a dollar, though they both knew she could do with the money. When the drill died down, they thought they heard something. Such a faint sound, Liz thought it was someone using a chain saw, several houses down, but then Sophie pointed out that it was a bit like a baby crying. Anyway, she held the second shelf against the wall for Liz to mark the holes. They were standing so close that Liz could see the different colours in each of Sophie’s rings, and Sophie could feel the heat coming off Liz’s bare shoulder. Then that sound came again, sharper.
They found the kitten under the porch, after they’d tried everywhere else. Its mother must have left it behind. Black and white, eyes still squeezed shut, it was half the size of Sophie’s cupped hand. Now, Liz would probably have made a quick call to the animal shelter and left it at that. She didn’t know then how quickly and completely Sophie could fall in love.
It knew it was on to a good thing, this kitten; it clung to Sophie’s fingers like a cactus. They said
it
for the first few days, not knowing much about feline anatomy. It was hard to give a kitten away, they found, once the vet told you she was a she, and especially once you knew her name. They hadn’t meant to name her, but it was a long hour and a half in the queue at the vet’s and it started out as a joke, what a little Cleopatra she was, said Liz, because the walnut-sized face in the corner of the shoe box was so imperious.
Sophie was clearly staggered by the bill of two hundred dollars for the various shots, but soon she was joking that it was less than she spent on shoes, most months. Liz was a little shocked to hear that,
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