it.
Kenneth decides he will play her some opera on his return.
He checks his watch again.
Maggie is burning dinner. After she’d written up the song notes,
she’d laid her head on the desk and closed her eyes: only the
stained-glass woman in the window to watch over her, the light
in the room gradually softening to caramel brown. She felt
unable to move; couldn’t even reach up for the latch when the
cool draught of river air rose up and scattered the pages. When
she roused herself, it was to a dusk-filled room, the beam of a
car playing over the walls as it swung up the drive. Maggie
thought it would have to be William. Remembering Kenneth’s
bathroom, she bolted up the stairs and checked herself in the
mirror. Her face bore a long pink crease where she’d been lying
on her sleeve, an imprint of mottled dots on her cheek. She
filled the washbasin, smelling again Kenneth’s shaving soap, and
splashed her face with water. As she was making her way back
down, the doorbell rang twice, two short peremptory bursts,
followed by an expectant silence. She wiped her hands along
her dress, breathed in and out slowly, pulled the heavy door
open. It was not William. Standing before her was a woman in
a pale-blue trouser suit, her hair carefully coiffed, a diaphanous
scarf around her neck. Maggie felt faint with relief. The woman
barely glanced at her before pushing her way inside.
Can you tell Mr Earl that Mrs Taylor is here, she said, making
a statement of the question, Where is he? In his den , I suppose.
She set off so fast along the hallway, Maggie had to half-trot
to keep up. She was oddly satisfied to see that the woman had
a chalky white teardrop of bird excrement on the back of her
jacket.
He’s not here, said Maggie, catching her up at the kitchen
door.
The woman turned.
What do you mean, he’s not here? Of course he’s here, she
said, peering into the kitchen, He’s always here.
He’s gone to London – on business, said Maggie. Even she
thought it sounded like a lie. The woman looked at her directly
for the first time.
I do apologize, you must think me very rude. I’m Alison
Taylor, she said, holding out her hand, A friend of Kenneth’s.
And you are?
Maggie, she said, shaking the offered hand. She felt the cold
lump of a diamond on the other woman’s finger, the bones
beneath the gliss of hand cream.
And are you a guest, Maggie? she asked, and not waiting for
a response, added, It seems rude to leave a guest all alone, don’t
you think?
Maggie didn’t reply immediately. She was thinking that this
was the woman who had styled the atrium, and probably all
the other rooms too; could see right through the woman’s eyes
and into her skull: friend of Kenneth or not, she wanted this
house and her place in it.
I work for him, Maggie said, at last, And he’ll be back later
this evening. Would you like to leave a message?
Alison Taylor turned her wrist over, sliding a gold bracelet
around to reveal a small watch-face, which she studied, tapped
with her fingernail, and jangled away again up her sleeve.
I don’t think so, she said, through a bleached smile, He’s
clearly forgotten.
Maggie followed her out into the hall.
Was he supposed to meet you? she asked, unable to help
herself, Only, he didn’t mention it.
Ah, and why would he? Are you his secretary?
Even though the smile was still in place, the woman’s tone was
hostile.
I’m . . . we’re compiling an archive.
An archive. How fascinating. And what kind of archive are
we compiling?
Maggie opened the door.
I think maybe Kenneth will want to tell you that, she said,
marvelling at how smooth she sounded.
The older woman narrowed her eyes into two crystallized
beads.
He might, she said, But he’s very forgetful. He might not
even remember why you’re here. Come suppertime, he might
not even know who you are !
Maggie leaned against the heavy wood, listened to the thunk
of the car door,
Kenneth decides he will play her some opera on his return.
He checks his watch again.
Maggie is burning dinner. After she’d written up the song notes,
she’d laid her head on the desk and closed her eyes: only the
stained-glass woman in the window to watch over her, the light
in the room gradually softening to caramel brown. She felt
unable to move; couldn’t even reach up for the latch when the
cool draught of river air rose up and scattered the pages. When
she roused herself, it was to a dusk-filled room, the beam of a
car playing over the walls as it swung up the drive. Maggie
thought it would have to be William. Remembering Kenneth’s
bathroom, she bolted up the stairs and checked herself in the
mirror. Her face bore a long pink crease where she’d been lying
on her sleeve, an imprint of mottled dots on her cheek. She
filled the washbasin, smelling again Kenneth’s shaving soap, and
splashed her face with water. As she was making her way back
down, the doorbell rang twice, two short peremptory bursts,
followed by an expectant silence. She wiped her hands along
her dress, breathed in and out slowly, pulled the heavy door
open. It was not William. Standing before her was a woman in
a pale-blue trouser suit, her hair carefully coiffed, a diaphanous
scarf around her neck. Maggie felt faint with relief. The woman
barely glanced at her before pushing her way inside.
Can you tell Mr Earl that Mrs Taylor is here, she said, making
a statement of the question, Where is he? In his den , I suppose.
She set off so fast along the hallway, Maggie had to half-trot
to keep up. She was oddly satisfied to see that the woman had
a chalky white teardrop of bird excrement on the back of her
jacket.
He’s not here, said Maggie, catching her up at the kitchen
door.
The woman turned.
What do you mean, he’s not here? Of course he’s here, she
said, peering into the kitchen, He’s always here.
He’s gone to London – on business, said Maggie. Even she
thought it sounded like a lie. The woman looked at her directly
for the first time.
I do apologize, you must think me very rude. I’m Alison
Taylor, she said, holding out her hand, A friend of Kenneth’s.
And you are?
Maggie, she said, shaking the offered hand. She felt the cold
lump of a diamond on the other woman’s finger, the bones
beneath the gliss of hand cream.
And are you a guest, Maggie? she asked, and not waiting for
a response, added, It seems rude to leave a guest all alone, don’t
you think?
Maggie didn’t reply immediately. She was thinking that this
was the woman who had styled the atrium, and probably all
the other rooms too; could see right through the woman’s eyes
and into her skull: friend of Kenneth or not, she wanted this
house and her place in it.
I work for him, Maggie said, at last, And he’ll be back later
this evening. Would you like to leave a message?
Alison Taylor turned her wrist over, sliding a gold bracelet
around to reveal a small watch-face, which she studied, tapped
with her fingernail, and jangled away again up her sleeve.
I don’t think so, she said, through a bleached smile, He’s
clearly forgotten.
Maggie followed her out into the hall.
Was he supposed to meet you? she asked, unable to help
herself, Only, he didn’t mention it.
Ah, and why would he? Are you his secretary?
Even though the smile was still in place, the woman’s tone was
hostile.
I’m . . . we’re compiling an archive.
An archive. How fascinating. And what kind of archive are
we compiling?
Maggie opened the door.
I think maybe Kenneth will want to tell you that, she said,
marvelling at how smooth she sounded.
The older woman narrowed her eyes into two crystallized
beads.
He might, she said, But he’s very forgetful. He might not
even remember why you’re here. Come suppertime, he might
not even know who you are !
Maggie leaned against the heavy wood, listened to the thunk
of the car door,
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