Looking Down Read Free Page A

went inside. The quarrels might have been the result of living in a dark basement so near the rubbish room, from which Fritz, the porter, emerged sleek and helpful each morning in a clean pressed uniform. He had a vested interest in remaining deaf.
    Without a hint, Steven left the room, out of respect for Sarah’s modesty and out of respect for her house, and shed his bodysuit and belt inside the bathroom before she noticed how filthy he was, as if she hadn’t noticed already. Black Lycra, like cyclists wore. Pliable, slipper-like shoes, a size too small, for grip. He removed the tape and washed the chalk from his hands, created a tidy, movable pile of his belongings. Day was night and night was day: there was a uniform for each. Back in her living room, swathed in towels, he sat down in an armchair and stroked the arm, disliking the embossed texture and wishing his domestic habits were better. It was irksome to find himself stroking things and noticing the quality of the fabric. People did not like it.
    Sarah was in the silk dressing gown he had bought her last birthday, a scarlet clash with her auburn hair if it had not been interlined with soft black on the inverted collar; quite a find, that. She carried a tarnished silver tray with two glasses and a bottle of red wine, settled herself into the sofa opposite, waited for him topour, curling her feet beneath her, spectacles still on nose. The dressing gown was more claret than sheer red. He decided she was right, and that wearing black and white really did suit her best, provided it was enlivened with a dash of the right kind of red.
    Day was night and night was day.
    ‘So,’ she said, peering at him over the half glasses held on the silver chain, giving her the look of a judge, ‘you came in by the alternative route to give yourself practice and got into the wrong flat. Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me I’m dreaming.’
    He poured the wine, handed hers over, took his own and put it back, willing his hand not to shake, because it did, slightly. He always felt slightly nauseous after a climb.
    ‘You didn’t answer the door so I went round the back. Need practice, as I said, but got so enthused I was up a floor further before I knew. These drainpipes are a cinch. Any old drunk could do it, what with all the other stuff and the windowsills. And then, led by an open window, I was in a room, full of painting clutter, wondered where I was, knew I was in the wrong place, so I thought I’d have a quick look round before I left. Until I looked in this room next door and saw this woman asleep, well, I only saw the back of her head, really, so I thought I’d better go out the way I came in. Same drainpipe. It’s good of you to sleep at the back with the window open. I didn’t wake her, promise.’
    ‘You absolute sod,’ she said, in a voice of icy calm which went with her luminous eyes, lamplights from the depths of her chair. ‘You complete bastard.’
    He hung his head, and looked at his feet. He had long, prehensile toes, which he wriggled, restoring circulation to his cramped feet.
    ‘Explain to me,’ she said, ‘why you abuse the woman who knows you best? Why you torment me, envy me, disturb me, ruin my sleep and make my life unbearable? What have I ever done toyou to deserve this? For the first time in my life I’m feeling safe, and then you come along and wreck it. You come and go as you want, whenever you’re sick of your own miserable places, though you won’t make the effort to find anything better. All talk, you. You litter the place with your stuff and let me wash it. I don’t mind that. But this is my
home.
I live
here
and what do you do? You crawl up the sodding drainpipe and burgle my sodding neighbours’ flat, and then mine. Are we expecting the police to share this wine? Did anyone see? I wouldn’t mind so much if there was any
need.’
    ‘I said, I needed the practice.’
    ‘You were late and drunk. You still are. You could have