door dragged on the thick carpet as Tom opened it to reveal a hallway papered deep yellow, patterned with gold trefoils, and a red carpet running right up the stairs.
‘Tom, what’s going on?’
Tom put a finger to his lips and beckoned me upwards. On the landing of the second floor, he paused and fumbled with the keys. We were facing a white door, to the side of which was a small gold-framed name plate:
P. F. Hazlewood
. Your door. We were outside your door, and Tom had the keys.
By now my mouth was dry and my heart was kicking in my chest. ‘Tom,’ I began again, but he’d already opened the door and we were inside your flat.
He let the door close without putting on the light, and there was a moment when I believed you were in there after all, that Tom would yell out, ‘Surprise!’ and you’d come blinking into the hallway. You’d be shocked, of course, but you’d recover quickly and you’d soon be your usual gracious self, offering drinks, bidding us welcome, talking into the small hours of the morning whilst we sat in separate chairs and listened appreciatively. But the only sound was Tom’s breathing. I stood in the darkness, my skin prickling as I felt Tom move closer to me.
‘He’s not here, is he?’ I whispered.
‘No,’ said Tom. ‘It’s just us.’
The first time Tom had kissed me, he’d pressed his mouth so hard upon mine that I’d felt his teeth; this time, his lips were softer. I was just reaching out to put my arms around his neck when he pulled away and switched on the light.
His eyes were very blue and serious. He looked at me for the longest time, there in your hallway, and I basked in the intensity of that gaze. I wanted to lie down and sleep in it, Patrick.
Then he grinned. ‘You have to take a look at this place,’ he said. ‘Come on. I’ll show you round.’
I followed him in a kind of daze. My whole body still felt doped from that look, those kisses. I remember, though, that it was very warm in your flat. You had central heating, even then, and I had to take off my coat and my angora cardigan. The radiators hummed and ticked, hot enough to burn.
First stop was the enormous living room, of course. That room was bigger than my classroom, with windows stretching from floor to ceiling. Tom scampered about, flicking on huge table lamps, and it all came into soft focus: the piano in the corner; the chesterfield, crammed with cushions; the cream walls covered in pictures, some of them with their own spotlight; the grey marble fireplace; the chandelier, which had glass flower petals rather than crystal drops and was all colours. And (Tom introduced this with a flourish) the television set.
‘Tom,’ I said, trying to make my voice stern. ‘You’re going to have to explain this to me.’
‘Isn’t it incredible?’ He peeled off his sports jacket and threw it on an armchair. ‘He’s got everything.’
He was childlike in his wonder and excitement. ‘Everything!’ he repeated, gesturing again towards the television set.
‘I’m surprised he has that,’ I said. ‘I’d have thought he’d be against that sort of thing.’
‘He thinks it’s important to keep up with new things.’
‘I bet he doesn’t watch ITV.’
It was a nice set: walnut veneer, carved into scrolls at the top and bottom of the screen.
‘How come you’ve got his keys?’ I asked.
‘Shall we have a drink?’ And Tom clicked open your cocktail cabinet to display deep rows of glasses and bottles. ‘Gin?’ he offered. ‘Whisky? Brandy? Cognac?’
‘Tom, what are we doing here?’
‘Or how about a martini?’
I frowned.
‘Come on, Marion. Stop acting like a schoolteacher and at least have a brandy.’ He held out a glass to me. ‘It’s great here, isn’t it? You can’t tell me you don’t like it.’
He smiled so widely that I had to join him. We sat together on the sofa, laughing as we lost ourselves in your cushions. Once I’d struggled to the edge of my seat, I fixed Tom
‘Tom, what’s going on?’
Tom put a finger to his lips and beckoned me upwards. On the landing of the second floor, he paused and fumbled with the keys. We were facing a white door, to the side of which was a small gold-framed name plate:
P. F. Hazlewood
. Your door. We were outside your door, and Tom had the keys.
By now my mouth was dry and my heart was kicking in my chest. ‘Tom,’ I began again, but he’d already opened the door and we were inside your flat.
He let the door close without putting on the light, and there was a moment when I believed you were in there after all, that Tom would yell out, ‘Surprise!’ and you’d come blinking into the hallway. You’d be shocked, of course, but you’d recover quickly and you’d soon be your usual gracious self, offering drinks, bidding us welcome, talking into the small hours of the morning whilst we sat in separate chairs and listened appreciatively. But the only sound was Tom’s breathing. I stood in the darkness, my skin prickling as I felt Tom move closer to me.
‘He’s not here, is he?’ I whispered.
‘No,’ said Tom. ‘It’s just us.’
The first time Tom had kissed me, he’d pressed his mouth so hard upon mine that I’d felt his teeth; this time, his lips were softer. I was just reaching out to put my arms around his neck when he pulled away and switched on the light.
His eyes were very blue and serious. He looked at me for the longest time, there in your hallway, and I basked in the intensity of that gaze. I wanted to lie down and sleep in it, Patrick.
Then he grinned. ‘You have to take a look at this place,’ he said. ‘Come on. I’ll show you round.’
I followed him in a kind of daze. My whole body still felt doped from that look, those kisses. I remember, though, that it was very warm in your flat. You had central heating, even then, and I had to take off my coat and my angora cardigan. The radiators hummed and ticked, hot enough to burn.
First stop was the enormous living room, of course. That room was bigger than my classroom, with windows stretching from floor to ceiling. Tom scampered about, flicking on huge table lamps, and it all came into soft focus: the piano in the corner; the chesterfield, crammed with cushions; the cream walls covered in pictures, some of them with their own spotlight; the grey marble fireplace; the chandelier, which had glass flower petals rather than crystal drops and was all colours. And (Tom introduced this with a flourish) the television set.
‘Tom,’ I said, trying to make my voice stern. ‘You’re going to have to explain this to me.’
‘Isn’t it incredible?’ He peeled off his sports jacket and threw it on an armchair. ‘He’s got everything.’
He was childlike in his wonder and excitement. ‘Everything!’ he repeated, gesturing again towards the television set.
‘I’m surprised he has that,’ I said. ‘I’d have thought he’d be against that sort of thing.’
‘He thinks it’s important to keep up with new things.’
‘I bet he doesn’t watch ITV.’
It was a nice set: walnut veneer, carved into scrolls at the top and bottom of the screen.
‘How come you’ve got his keys?’ I asked.
‘Shall we have a drink?’ And Tom clicked open your cocktail cabinet to display deep rows of glasses and bottles. ‘Gin?’ he offered. ‘Whisky? Brandy? Cognac?’
‘Tom, what are we doing here?’
‘Or how about a martini?’
I frowned.
‘Come on, Marion. Stop acting like a schoolteacher and at least have a brandy.’ He held out a glass to me. ‘It’s great here, isn’t it? You can’t tell me you don’t like it.’
He smiled so widely that I had to join him. We sat together on the sofa, laughing as we lost ourselves in your cushions. Once I’d struggled to the edge of my seat, I fixed Tom
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