The Good Mayor Read Free Page B

was a black kitten curling itself round the bins at the bottom of the stair that led to the Stopaks’ little flat. Agathe stopped to pick the cat up and pet it. “Black cats are lucky,” she told it, “but I’ve got all the luck I need in this little box so you’ll just have to stay here for tonight.” And she put the cat back on the pavement and began to climb the stairs.

    Her bag was becoming heavy and the string handles were cutting into her fingers but she hardly noticed. The little red box made everything seem light.

    Agathe bumped the door of the flat shut with her bottom and emptied her groceries on the kitchen table. She took a sharp knife and cut the bread, spread the cheese and ham neatly on a plate, arranged everything just as it should be with the beer bottles wrapped in a wet cloth on the window ledge.

    She was satisfied. “Nothing to burn, nothing to dry out. Ready to eat.” But she decided to leave the wine for Stopak to open. That could be his job—a man’s job. Then she took the little box, locked herself in the bathroom and turned on the taps.

    Steam rose and filled the room as she undressed. Agathe unbuttoned her dress. In the mirror above the sink, another Agathe did the same. The Agathe in the bathroom, our Agathe, looked at her appraisingly. The Agathe on the other side of the glass looked back and smiled. Both Agathes let their yellow dresses fall from their shoulders and whisper to the floor. Our Agathe picked up her dress and hung it from a hook on the back of the door. She would need it later. The Agathe in the mirror probably did the same but it was impossible to be sure, since she had drawn a modest curtain of steam across her window. On this side, in the Dot where trafficdrives on the right and where Agathe’s beauty spot was just a little above her left lip, this Agathe took off her underwear and rolled it into a ball. She would not be needing that.

    Naked and plump and luminously beautiful, she undid the package from Braun’s. The sensible thick undershirt, the make-weight gift from the old lady in the shop. That was a kind thing. Agathe smiled and put it aside on top of the green wooden bathroom stool. And then there was a layer of pink tissue paper. A scattering of lavender flowers fell to the floor as she opened it and Agathe giggled and stooped to pick them up again, pinching them from the tiles between finger and thumb. She did not notice how the movement stirred her own scent through the steamy room. Tibo would have noticed.

    In a moment or two, Agathe had retrieved her new lingerie. She held it up to the ground-glass window and admired it, admired its opalescent transparency, its softness, its barely-thereness. She leaned over the steaming bath and hung it from the string where she usually hung her stockings to dry overnight. Pinned there she could admire it while she lay in the bath.

    Agathe carefully gathered all the tissue paper from the package and folded it into a neat book. “I’ll save that for Christmas,” she said. At the bottom of the Braun’s box there was still a purple layer of lavender blossom. It smelt wonderful—clean and bright and sharp and summery. With her nose in the box Agathe breathed it in deeply, held the smell of it in her lungs, savoured it. Then she emptied the box into the bath and stirred the blossoms round.

    She put the little red box on the floor, well away from damaging steam or water splashes—it was a keepsake to treasure—and stepped into the bath.

    She was a goddess. Titian could not have done her justice. She was Diana bathing in a forest pool out of sight of mortal eyes. The water rushed back in ripples, eager to touch her. It lapped the rim of the bath as she moved, sinking down deeper, sighing with relaxed enjoyment. Agathe piled her hair up to keep it out of the water and dark tendrils coiled on her neck in the rising steam. Shelooked up at her extravagant new underwear and smiled. She imagined Stopak’s reaction, what