breakfast?' said Guy, still in her cabaret outfit.
'Have you only just got in?' asked Mike, raising himself on one arm to get at his tea.
'Yes, I do two spots, one at eleven, and the other about two in the morning. Unfortunately the club doesn't close until the last drunk has crawled out,' she said with a smile.
'Well, if you're going to cook Pete his usual hearty breakfast, I'll have the same.'
'Pete doesn't eat too much now, it's his heart.'
'His what?' Mike said, not believing what he'd heard.
'His heart, it gives him trouble from time to time, so he has to watch his weight,' she said, almost in a whisper.
'Oh, well, anything will do then,' said Mike, very disturbed about Pete.
'Eggs, bacon and coffee, O.K.?' said Guy, moving towards the kitchen.
'Sounds like a feast. I'll have a few tomatoes if you've got them.' Mike grinned to cover his worries about Pete. He waited until she'd gone, then he extricated his naked body from the pile of blankets, and went into the bathroom. God, he thought, as he found Pete's shaving equipment; the old cut throat looked really lethal. He studied his chin, there was no getting away from it, he'd have to shave. After finishing his death defying act, he washed his face. Drying it, he looked in the mirror. There were no contact lenses in his eyes.
Yet he could see. Mike shivered violently, and searched his eyes with the tip of his finger. The lack of his contact lenses brought back the whole insecurity of the previous day. What had happened in the last ten years? Did he, Mike Jerome really exist, or was he dead? He pinched himself and the flesh seemed real enough. Slowly he finished dressing and returned to the living-room, where his breakfast sat steaming on the table.
'What's the matter?' asked Guy, sitting down. 'Nothing really. I'm just a little upset about Pete's health,' Mike lied.
'You mustn't worry, the modern drugs are simply wonderful, and if the worst came to the worst, he could always have a transplant,' said Guy, very calmly.
Mike looked up from an egg as Pete appeared in a gloriously multicoloured dressing-gown. Mike blinked at this apparition. He obviously mustn't keep Pete up late in future. It was frightening. Pete really looked his age. Mike realized suddenly Pete must be ten years older than he was.
'What do you plan to do this morning?' he said, lowering himself into an easy chair.
'Well, I suppose I ought to go to the bank, and see how much money I have. Then look for somewhere to live,' Mike said thoughtfully.
'Don't rush into finding somewhere to live. That reminds me, when you vanished I took most of your unpublished material to an agent, fellow named Gilbert. We should go to see him before we go to the bank. You might have earned yourself a lot of dough.'
'What would this fellow Gilbert do with any money my work makes?'
'I told him to pay it into your bank in Piccadilly. I couldn't think of anything else to do, and I knew that all your royalties were paid in there.'
'You might be right. What shall we do if I've made a bomb?' said Mike.
'Buy a place in the country, away from the mess in this city. You can go on writing while I do some composing,' said Pete, with a glint in his eye.
'Good idea.' It seemed strange to Mike that Pete had just let any money accruing from his work go into the bank. It sounded as though Pete always thought he would come back. He was roused from his reverie.
'Ready when you are,' said Pete, finishing his coffee. Mike rose with alacrity and put his jacket on. He knew from experience that once Pete was ready, so were you. They went down to the rear entrance of the house, where Pete kept a murderous looking motor bike. Mike immediately thought of the terminal ward in the hospital. The bike roared into life, Pete banged out the clutch, and Mike quickly grabbed the waist in front of him, otherwise he'd have been sitting on the floor. They sped down the street, again blocked by traffic. Pete stopped at the junction of Bayswater
'Have you only just got in?' asked Mike, raising himself on one arm to get at his tea.
'Yes, I do two spots, one at eleven, and the other about two in the morning. Unfortunately the club doesn't close until the last drunk has crawled out,' she said with a smile.
'Well, if you're going to cook Pete his usual hearty breakfast, I'll have the same.'
'Pete doesn't eat too much now, it's his heart.'
'His what?' Mike said, not believing what he'd heard.
'His heart, it gives him trouble from time to time, so he has to watch his weight,' she said, almost in a whisper.
'Oh, well, anything will do then,' said Mike, very disturbed about Pete.
'Eggs, bacon and coffee, O.K.?' said Guy, moving towards the kitchen.
'Sounds like a feast. I'll have a few tomatoes if you've got them.' Mike grinned to cover his worries about Pete. He waited until she'd gone, then he extricated his naked body from the pile of blankets, and went into the bathroom. God, he thought, as he found Pete's shaving equipment; the old cut throat looked really lethal. He studied his chin, there was no getting away from it, he'd have to shave. After finishing his death defying act, he washed his face. Drying it, he looked in the mirror. There were no contact lenses in his eyes.
Yet he could see. Mike shivered violently, and searched his eyes with the tip of his finger. The lack of his contact lenses brought back the whole insecurity of the previous day. What had happened in the last ten years? Did he, Mike Jerome really exist, or was he dead? He pinched himself and the flesh seemed real enough. Slowly he finished dressing and returned to the living-room, where his breakfast sat steaming on the table.
'What's the matter?' asked Guy, sitting down. 'Nothing really. I'm just a little upset about Pete's health,' Mike lied.
'You mustn't worry, the modern drugs are simply wonderful, and if the worst came to the worst, he could always have a transplant,' said Guy, very calmly.
Mike looked up from an egg as Pete appeared in a gloriously multicoloured dressing-gown. Mike blinked at this apparition. He obviously mustn't keep Pete up late in future. It was frightening. Pete really looked his age. Mike realized suddenly Pete must be ten years older than he was.
'What do you plan to do this morning?' he said, lowering himself into an easy chair.
'Well, I suppose I ought to go to the bank, and see how much money I have. Then look for somewhere to live,' Mike said thoughtfully.
'Don't rush into finding somewhere to live. That reminds me, when you vanished I took most of your unpublished material to an agent, fellow named Gilbert. We should go to see him before we go to the bank. You might have earned yourself a lot of dough.'
'What would this fellow Gilbert do with any money my work makes?'
'I told him to pay it into your bank in Piccadilly. I couldn't think of anything else to do, and I knew that all your royalties were paid in there.'
'You might be right. What shall we do if I've made a bomb?' said Mike.
'Buy a place in the country, away from the mess in this city. You can go on writing while I do some composing,' said Pete, with a glint in his eye.
'Good idea.' It seemed strange to Mike that Pete had just let any money accruing from his work go into the bank. It sounded as though Pete always thought he would come back. He was roused from his reverie.
'Ready when you are,' said Pete, finishing his coffee. Mike rose with alacrity and put his jacket on. He knew from experience that once Pete was ready, so were you. They went down to the rear entrance of the house, where Pete kept a murderous looking motor bike. Mike immediately thought of the terminal ward in the hospital. The bike roared into life, Pete banged out the clutch, and Mike quickly grabbed the waist in front of him, otherwise he'd have been sitting on the floor. They sped down the street, again blocked by traffic. Pete stopped at the junction of Bayswater
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