She shakes her head, but manages to hold back her tears. She takes one last draw on her cigarette and then drops it to the ground and stubs it out with the toe of her scuffed shoe. There are a half-dozen other butts that litter the pathway and suggest just how long she has been waiting.
‘You’d better come in, don’t you think?’
He transfers the bag with the Barcelona shirt from one hand to the other, then he forages in his pocket for the keys to the front door and ushers her into the ground floor hallway and out of the cold.
He hands her the cup of coffee, which she cradles in two hands, and then he sits opposite her and puts his own cup down on to the glass-topped coffee table. He doesn’t want to force her to explain, but he would like to know what has happened. Maybe she has lost her cleaning job, or perhaps there is a family illness back in Poland, or maybe she has been mugged? Whatever it is, he understands that he will have to wait for her to initiate the conversation, but she still appears to be shaken. She blows gently on her coffee, and then she takes a tentative sip.
‘Would you like something to eat? I can make you some soup, or I can order food for delivery. Well, Chinese or Indian.’
She shakes her head.
‘Or I can leave you alone for a few minutes, maybe that would help?’
‘It is Rolf. I think that he is perhaps too attracted to me.’
He looks quizzically at her as she puts down her coffee and finally looks directly at him.
‘What I mean is that he likes me, that is all. He is not happy for me to be by myself. He has changed and it is not easy, but I am sorry to come to you with this problem.’
‘Has he hurt you in any way?’
She lowers her eyes and does not answer. Her clothes are rumpled, as though she has slept in them, and she starts now to bounce her knee nervously.
‘It is important that you tell me if he has hurt you.’
‘Why is it important? What are you going to do? Report him to the police? Is that what you plan to do?’
‘He isn’t allowed to hurt you, Danuta.’
‘He has not hurt me. I have hurt him.’
She looks up now and stops bouncing her knee. She swallows deeply, and for the first time she appears to be helpless.
‘Perhaps it is possible to stay here for a few days? I cannot go back to Rolf, but if it is not possible then I will understand. I know of a hostel for women. I stayed in this place when I first came to London.’ She quickly stands. ‘Perhaps it is better if I go there. I am sorry for bothering you with my problems.’
He too stands, but he is careful not to move towards her.
‘Look, if you are in danger then you have to go to the police.’ She stares at him but says nothing. ‘Well, are you in danger?’
‘Mr Keith, I think it is better if I go now to the hostel.’
‘Do you have money for the hostel?’
‘You are a lonely man, but kind.’ She looks tired, but she manages to smile as though she feels sorry for him. ‘I think you cannot help.’
‘Danuta, I’m not putting you out, but is staying here really going to solve anything?’
‘I understand, and I do not wish to stay here. You are right, this is my problem.’
‘How have you hurt him? You said you hurt Rolf.’
‘Please, Mr Keith. I have made a mistake coming here.’ She picks up her rucksack from the side of the sofa and then runs a hand back through her loose mop of hair. ‘It is better if I go now.’
‘But you look so tired. Are you working tonight?’
She shrugs her shoulders.
‘You don’t have to tell me anything if you don’t want to, but at least sit down for a moment. I’d prefer it if you didn’t leave like this.’
He listens as the water suddenly stops flowing. She has locked off the faucet in the shower and will now be stepping on to the bathmat and towelling herself dry. He was relieved when the exhausted girl asked him if she could maybe sleep for a couple of hours, and it was his suggestion that she take a shower first for this would give him time to dash into the bedroom and change the bed linen and generally straighten things out. He picked up a handful of old copies of Spin magazine from the floor, and pushed them into the drawer where he keeps his T-shirts. Then he drew the curtains closed and turned on the bedside lamp before tackling the issue of changing the bed clothes. He rushed the job, but he managed to square off the pillows, and tuck in the top sheet, before he bent down and collected up the dirty sheets and quickly pushed them into the wicker laundry basket. She knocks on the open door and then edges her way into the bedroom. Her blonde hair is still wet and lank, and although she wears the same jeans and sweatshirt she carries the rest of her clothes, including her underwear, in her hands. He flattens himself against the wall so she will be able to pass by, but having taken a few steps into the bedroom she is now rooted to the spot.
‘Come on in. I’ll get out of your way and let you get some sleep.’
He gestures towards the bed, and she inches past him as though determined that they should not make contact in this narrow space.
‘I’ll come and wake you at the end of the afternoon. I’m sorry for asking again, but are you going to work?’
She shakes her head. ‘This is not possible.’
He watches as she places her clothes on the floor beneath the window and then, still in her jeans and sweatshirt, she slides into his bed.
‘Sleep well. There’s a switch on the lamp so you can turn the light off whenever you’re ready.’
In the afternoon, he tries to do some work. He has been listening first to the Isley Brothers, and then to the O’Jays, for he has a notion that he can frame part of his book by looking at family history, particularly at singers who have children, or siblings, who are also singers. He decides now to turn his attention to Nat King Cole and Natalie Cole; Cissy Houston and Whitney Houston and, of course, Whitney’s aunt, Dionne Warwick. He takes out a sheet of paper and begins to make a flow chart that is soon full of dates and arrows. Three hours pass by pleasantly enough before he readily admits that his doodling is nothing more than a diversion. He confesses to himself that he needs to return to his more orthodox structure if he is ever going to make any progress with this book, and so he gathers up his pens and various bits of paper and packs them away neatly into the bottom drawer of his desk. He lowers his desk chair with a quick turn of the handle, and then promptly raises it again having decided that the higher he sits the more attentive he is to his work. It is getting dark now and he realises that he should wake up the girl. However, before he does so he will make her some soup as he imagines that she must be hungry. He puts on Miles Davis’s Sketches of Spain and turns up the volume so that it begins to fill the room. He then goes into the small kitchen and pops the plastic lid off a carton of vegetable soup and tips the contents into a deep blue bowl. He sets the microwave timer for three minutes, which guarantees that the soup will be extremely hot, and then he prepares a tray on to which he places a white paper napkin, a spoon, and a few plain crackers. By focusing hard on his book he has managed to avoid dealing with the awkwardness of Danuta’s presence in his flat, but as he listens to the mechanical hum of the microwave, which dominates the lilting strains of Sketches of Spain, it is clear to him that he now has no choice but to confront the situation and discover just what is going on with the girl.
He nudges open the door to the bedroom with his shoulder, and she slowly turns and opens her eyes.
‘Time to get up, I think.’
He sits on the edge of the bed and holds out the tray. At first she does not take it. She stares at him as though trying to remember who he is and why she is in this bed. Then she pulls herself upright and arranges a pillow behind her back.