The Diary Of Pamela D. Read Free

been humiliated
a couple of times when living on the streets simply by coming into
contact with people that had nice clothes and nice things. She felt
as though she didn’t belong, as though she had no right to be here,
to breathe the same air these people breathed.
    ‘To my flat, if you must know,’ Mrs. Dewhurst
said, feigning indignance. ‘Well, it’s not my flat, really (or apartment as you North
Americans call them). It’s just a rental, while I’m here.’ In a
conspiratorial sotto
voce , she added, ‘I’m here on
business.’
    ‘What . . . what sort of business?’ Pamela
ventured, just to make conversation, hoping she wasn’t being rude
by asking.
    Amanda Dewhurst flashed her
a broad smile. ‘Why, your sort of business, not to put too fine a point on
it. I came all the way here from Yorkshire just for the pleasure of
finding you , Miss
Pamela Dee.’
     
    Though the apartment was
small and conservative-looking, there was nevertheless a man at the
front entrance wearing a smart uniform who came and opened the door
for Mrs. Dewhurst. He was about to approach the passenger door but
Pamela, without thinking, had got out already, and now stood under
the awning feeling like a fool. The man didn’t blink an eye at
her faux pas ,
however, and merely got into the car after being handed the keys
and drove away.
    The look on Pamela’s face
prompted a smile from Mrs. Dewhurst as she made her way brusquely
towards the entrance. ‘He’s merely parking it, my dear, not stealing it. Come along,
come along.’
    Pamela followed, feeling
both a little breathless at the woman’s vigour, and as though she
were a little bit of flotsam or jetsam that had been caught in the
woman’s wake. The building was very plain and unadorned, but she
could tell by the smell alone that it was very expensive.
Everything had a patina of age, but of immaculate age, carefully preserved,
perfectly maintained, and there was something extra, something
indefinable, that spoke of an habitual control . No one would let this place go to rack
and ruin.
    She had rarely ridden on
lifts. Those few she was familiar with lurched and bounced
alarmingly. This one was smooth and unbelievably fast, shooting so
quickly up to the fifth floor that for a moment she felt an
alarming tingle in her vitals and the press of gravity. She almost
commented on this as they stepped off the lift but bit her tongue,
not wanting to appear foolish or ignorant. Mrs. Dewhurst was
watching her with a small smile that was disturbingly knowing,
however, that didn’t leave her face as she led Pamela to her flat.
Once inside Mrs. Dewhurst removed her coat, took Pamela’s as well,
and hung them in the closet. ‘Now, my dear, just have a seat in the
. . . oh, dear, I’ve forgotten what it’s called. Not the parlour . That was
Victorian. We call it the sitting
room -’
    ‘You mean, the living room?’ Pamela
ventured.
    ‘ That’s it. The living room. Just sit
yourself down, and I’ll bring you some refreshment. Would you like
a drink?’
    ‘Um . . . tea, if you’ve got it.’
    ‘Tea? Wouldn’t you prefer a glass of wine, or
sherry-?
    ‘ No ! I . . .’ Pamela instantly
regretting blurting out her protest before she could think. How
could she explain? For people like Mrs. Dewhurst, drinking was a
casual, social thing. For people like herself it was drunkenness,
escape, a way of life.
    ‘It’s all right if you’d
prefer tea or something else,’ Mrs. Dewhurst said with that same
small smile as she made her way to the small kitchen. ‘But tell
me,’ she said through the portal between the kitchen and sitting
room, ‘do you drink at all ?’
    Pamela reddened, looked down and shook her
head.
    Within a few minutes the woman brought a tray
of small triangular sandwiches, a pot of tea and a plate of
cookies. Her look became serious, however, when she saw Pamela’s
expression.
    ‘Help yourself, dear. Don’t mind me. I’ll
just help myself to one or two. You’re still a