The Engagement Read Free Page B

him. “You won’t want to cook. And this newness,” I said the word in parody of fogeyism, “which you find off-putting, is really part of the convenience.” Touching his arm, pointing out the Miele appliances: “No one’s come in and broken everything.”
    “You don’t think the ceilings seem very low?”
    “It’s just that you’re so tall.”
    Alexander walked around the rooms again. It was as cramped as he said, and I couldn’t not notice the build of him through his clothes. He didn’t move the way I thought a farmer ought. He was lean and muscular but had a high level of physical unease. Something about his body—I presumed his gangliness—embarrassed him, and he opened doors for me bowing slightly, in a style suggesting both deference and satire. The more he disguised his nature, the more aware of it I was. He even smelled slightly different. Was it the scent of the farm? All his politesse drew attention to what was raw.
    As the afternoon wore on, he seemed to imply that we were looking for a place to suit us both, that I’d passed a test and turned from his bête noire into a coconspirator. Did I enjoy this assumed intimacy? Yes. I was trying to sell him a property and, I guess, in a new city where I knew next to no one, even these appointments counted as company.
    “Now, this would be nice,” I said, peering into a bathroom.
    It had a freestanding, double-ended bath, a wall-mounted basin, limestone tiles.
    “You’re sure you like it?” he whispered although we were alone.
    “Very much.”
    “And the color?”
    “It’s subtle, restful.”
    Alexander was beginning not to want to disappoint me. “Well”—he shrugged, looking sheepish—“I wouldn’t have thought of buying something like this, but perhaps it isn’t a bad idea.”
    “Shall we move on?” It was best to stay upbeat.
    “Where are you taking me now?”
    “I think this last place will really appeal to you.” I smiled optimistically. “I can see you in it.”
    “You can see me in it.” He met my gaze. “And what am I doing?”
    “You are living your lifestyle dream, as the brochure promises.”
    Alexander laughed without making a sound, and followed me back down in the tight elevator to the close little car.
    When we arrived at this last apartment of his tour, my hand fumbled in the envelope, trying to divine the right key. He glanced at me expectantly. If I picked the key without checking the tag and it opened this door, we would cross the threshold straight into our new life.
    The key did not fit.
    I looked now at the labeled tags and pulled out the correct one. I turned it in the lock, and I stood in the doorway, feeling a shiver of déjà vu. I could predict the apartment’s exact layout: it was just like those I’d been drafting before I was retrenched. An almost identical plan had been on my computer on the last day of work, when the boss brought in a cake—as though this were merely a birthday—and I ate a slice, then loaded a box with my belongings before I and three others were shown to the door. It was the global financial crisis; everyone was losing their job. My colleagues had all handled their cake nervously. These days ­English firms were contracting designers in Vietnam or India, and I’d breezily told my boss I’d long been planning to work in Australia anyway. “You see, I have an uncle in property . . .”
    Now I didn’t touch Alexander’s arm, I didn’t dare as I led him through the living-dining area to the master bedroom, with its bed crowned by a little pink-velvet, heart-shaped cushion (some developer’s idea of a personal detail), to the dressing room, a narrow mirrored area in which I could hear his breathing change. He paused to take in the bathroom with its shower big enough for two, and broad marble countertops. Everything was too suggestive—the right size or shape for other things.
    Quickly I steered us back to the kitchen.
    “The oven’s a good make,” Alexander admitted.