September (1990) Read Online Free PDF Page A

always does that when he comes in. He seems to think that he's been for a long, long walk."
    "What's his name?"
    "Larry."
    The dog lapped noisily, filling the silence, because, for once in his life, Noel Keeling found himself at a loss for words. He had been caught on the hop. He was not certain what he had expected, but certainly not this - an instant impression of warm opulence, loaded with evidence of wealth and good taste. This was a grand London residence, but on a miniature scale. He saw the narrow hallway, the steep staircase, the polished bannister rail. Honey-coloured carpeting, thick to the wall; an antique console table upon which stood a pink - flowering azalea; an ornately framed oval mirror. As well, and this is what really threw him, the smell. Poignantly familiar. Wax polish, apples, a suggestion of fresh coffee. Pot-pourri, perhaps, and summery flowers.
    The smell of nostalgia, of youth. The smell of the homes that his mother had created for her children.
    Who was responsible for this assault of memory? And who was Alexa Aird? It was an occasion to fall back on small talk, but Noel couldn't think of a mortal thing to say. Perhaps that was best. He stood waiting for what was going to happen next, fully expecting to be led upstairs to some rented bedsitter or tiny attic apartment. But she laid the dog's lead on the table and said in hostessly fashion, "Do come in," and led him into the room that lay beyond the open door.
    The house was a twin of the Penningtons' but about a thousand times more impressive. Narrow and long, this room stretched from the front of the house to the back. The street end was the drawing-room-too grand to be called a sitting-room-and the other end was set up for dining. Here, French windows led out onto a wrought - iron balcony, bright with geraniums in terracotta pots.
    All was gold and pink. Curtains, padded thick as eiderdowns, hung in swags and folds. Sofas and chairs were loose-covered in the best sort of country chintz, and scattered haphazardly with needlepoint cushions. Recessed alcoves were filled with blue-and-white porcelain, and a bulging bombe bureau stood open, stacked with the letters and paperwork of an industrious owner.
    It was all very elegant and grown-up, and did not match up in the very least with this quite ordinary and not particularly attractive girl in her jeans and sweatshirt.
    Noel cleared his throat.
    "What a charming room."
    "Yes, it is pretty, isn't it? You must be exhausted." Now that she was safe, in her own territory, she did not seem so diffident. "Jet lag's a killer. When my father flies in from New York he comes by Concorde because he hates those night flights."
    "I'll be all right."
    "What would you like to drink?"
    "Have you any whisky?"
    "Of course. Grouse or Haig's?"
    He could scarcely believe his luck. "Grouse!"
    "Ice?"
    "If you have some."
    "I'll go down to the kitchen and get it. If you'd like to help yourself . . . there are glasses . . . everything's there. I won't be a moment. . . ."
    She left him. He heard her talking to the little dog, and then light footsteps as she ran down the stairs to the basement. Ail quiet. Presumably the dog had gone with her. A drink. He moved to the other end of the room, where stood an enviable sideboard, satisfactorily loaded with bottles and decanters.
    Here hung charming oil-paintings, still lifes and country scenes. His eyes, roaming, assessing, took in the silver pheasant in the centre of the oval table, the beautiful Georgian coasters. He went to the window and looked down into the garden-a small paved courtyard, with roses climbing the brick wall and a raised bed of wallflowers. There was a white wrought-iron table with four matching chairs, conjuring up visions of alfresco meals, summer supper parties, cool wine.
    A drink. On the sideboard were six heavy tumblers, neatly lined up. He reached for the bottle of Grouse, poured himself a slug, added soda, and then returned to the other room. Alone, and still