Under Gemini Read Online Free PDF Page B

Her previous flatmate was now married and living in Northumberland, and there was nobody else Flora felt she could telephone out of the blue, to plead for temporary accommodation.
    It was a vicious circle. She didn’t want to take a flat until she’d found a job, but it would be difficult to do the rounds of the agents without some sort of a base in which to park her belongings.
    In the end she hit upon the idea of the Shelbourne, the small, old-fashioned hotel where her father used to take her en route to one of their rare holidays abroad (perhaps to ski in Austria, or spend a couple of weeks with one of Ronald Waring’s esoteric friends, who owned a ramshackle mill in Provence). The Shelbourne was not smart and, if her father had stayed there, would certainly not be expensive. She would check in there for the night, and tomorrow start jobhunting.
    It wasn’t a great solution, but rather a compromise. And life, as Marcia was wont to say, tearing the brim from one hat and stitching it to the crown of another, was made up of compromises.
    The Shelbourne was a relic like an old barge beached in a backwater while the river of progress flowed by. Situated at the back of Knightsbridge in a narrow street which had once been elegant, it was slowly being dwarfed by plush new hotels, offices, and blocks of flats. Yet it clung grimly on, like an aging actress who refuses to retire.
    Outside was present-day London: traffic jams, car horns, the roar of planes flying overhead, the vendor selling newspapers on the corner, the young girls with their black-rimmed eyes and their tottering clogs.
    But entering through the slowly revolving doors of the Shelbourne was like stepping into yesterday. Nothing had changed—not the potted palms; not the face of the hall porter; not even the smell, a mixture of disinfectant and floor polish and hothouse flowers, rather like that of a hospital.
    Behind the reception desk sat the same sad woman in her drooping black dress. Could it be the same dress? She looked up at Flora.
    â€œGood evening, madam.”
    â€œWould it be possible to have a single room, just for tonight?”
    â€œI’ll just look…”
    A clock ticked. Flora waited, her spirits sinking by the moment; she half-hoped that the answer would be no.
    â€œâ€¦ Yes, I can let you have a room, but it’s at the back of the hotel, and I’m afraid…”
    â€œAll right, I’ll take it.”
    â€œIf you could sign the register, and I’ll ask a porter to take you up.”
    But the thought of long, stuffy hallways and a gloomy single bedroom at the end of it was too much for Flora.
    â€œNot just now. I have to go out. Out to dinner,” she improvised wildly. “I’ll be back about half past nine. It doesn’t matter about my luggage. Just leave it here in the hall till I get back. I’ll take it up then.”
    â€œJust as you wish, madam. But don’t you want to see your room?”
    â€œNo. It doesn’t matter. I’m sure it’s very nice.…” She felt as if she were suffocating. Everything looked so dreadfully old. She picked up her bag and backed away, still mumbling excuses. She nearly knocked over a potted palm, rescued it in the nick of time, and finally fled out into the fresh air.
    After two or three reviving gulps, she felt better. It was a lovely evening, chilly but clear, with a pellucid blue sky arched over the rooftops and one or two pink-tinged clouds aimlessly blowing along like balloons. Flora dug her hands into her pockets and began to walk.
    An hour later, she found herself deep into Chelsea, heading south towards the King’s Road. The little street lined with charming houses interspersed with small shops was familiar. Unfamiliar, however, was the small Italian restaurant which now stood where before Flora remembered a cobbler’s with dusty windows filled with dog leads and luggage straps and unlikely plastic