Learning to Dance Read Online Free PDF Page A

was, in fact, just plain see-through.
    The heavy oak door groaned a protest and gave way to the key, and she dropped like a stone behind the counter, eyes so wide they hurt, breath held in suffocatingly over-full lungs.
    A draught blew across the floor and skittered behind the counter. A voice muttered resentfully, ‘Good God, all this talk of bloody economy and they’ve got every light in the place switched on!’ Already Judith could smell whisky, and her heart sank further still. But at least it sounded as if the owner of the voice had a right to be here, whoever he was. She breathed shallow quick breaths while he struggled to close and lock the door. Then she heard him start towardsthe lift, his tread uneven, grunting, but unmistakeably leaving.
    She made up her mind quickly and stood up.
    ‘Excuse me. Can you tell me whether there is a master key to the rooms?’
    The man – a very dishevelled looking man – yelped and almost fell backwards. He grabbed the far edge of the counter and stared in disbelief.
    She took another breath and went on, ‘I’ve locked myself out, you see. Went to the bathroom and the door closed behind me.’ He went on staring. ‘I really am a guest here. I’ve come to see the Hausmann retrospective.’
    He peered over the counter and she held her arms in front of her nightie.
    He said, ‘I can see you are sleeping here … or should be. You’re not Lorna Doone or similar … they often pop into my head. But you can’t be real. You’re like a forties pin-up. I’ve never painted you.’ He gestured a gigantic dismissal. ‘No … you’re not real.’
    He turned to go, and she whipped round the counter and held on to him physically.
    ‘Listen. Are you Robert Hausmann? All right, don’t talk. I am Judith Freeman and I am real, and I need to get back into my room and make some coffee and get over this. Do you understand?’
    He said, ‘Bowl. Shelf under counter. Get.’
    She released him and shot back, saw the bowl immediately and grabbed it. He took it from her, turned his back and was gushingly sick. There was a pile of clean tea towels next to where the bowl had been. She snatched two of them and exchanged them for the bowl.
    He gasped, ‘Cloakroom. Be back. Shortly.’
    She watched him weave towards a door next to the sitting room. She was still holding the bowl. She put it back on the shelf with great care, then covered it with another of the tea towels.
    He emerged. Stood still and looked at her with the same disbelief, then gestured with his arm.
    ‘Sit down.’
    He swivelled on his left foot and went through into the sitting room. She heard the click of an electric fire. She frowned and nibbled her thumb. There seemed no alternatives, and any kind of heating was attractive. She tried to gather her nightie into thicker folds around her body, and went across to the sitting room.
    He was standing with his back to the fire; it was a big one with imitation flames, but he was still blocking any heat that might be coming from it. At least he didn’t smell. As she stood holding the back of a small sofa she saw that he too was frowning.
    He said, ‘My God, you’re still here. And I’m fairly sober now. You must be real. Why are you dressed like that?’
    She began her explanation over again and he held up one hand. ‘I remember all that. What I mean is – the day of the gauzy nightie has gone. It’s pyjamas now. And you need them for other reasons besides fashion. This place is always cold. Even in a heatwave. You look like one of Andy Warhol’s paintings.’
    He moved suddenly and the heat from the fire leapt across to her. She closed her eyes blissfully and did not bother to reply to him; he was by no means sober.
    The next thing she knew she was being wrapped up. She opened her eyes. He had whipped off one of the throws from an armchair and was, apparently, mummifying her. Shefreed her arms and took over. It was wonderful. He led her to the front of the sofa and lowered her