But if Marsha and Carolyn and Toby and the others thought I had a good-looking, attentive, trendily attired companion in tow, then why should I need to set them straight? At least it stopped me feeling like a gooseberry.
Of course, I had also to face the possibility that if there was an unseen presence hovering over me in public, it might also mean he was hovering there in private as well, the only difference being there was no third party to tell me about it. If I didn't know when he was there, then neither did I know when he wasn't.
So it was better safe than sorry. Whatever this presence was, I didn't want it thinking I was a slob. I started to take more trouble over my appearance. I endeavoured to hold my face in an alert, lively expression at times. I stopped recycling smelly T-shirts from the laundry bag. Even on the days when I didn't go out — and they were getting more frequent now that summer was over — I made sure my hair was gleaming, mouth carefully lipsticked, clothes fresh and neatly pressed. I began to feel almost as well-groomed as Sophie.
It wasn't hard to work out what was going on. Robert Jamieson had taken a fancy to me. Sophie and the others had wilted beneath the scorching heat of his passion, but I hadn't even flinched — actually I hadn't even noticed him, though he wasn't to know that — and now he was regarding me as an intellectual equal rather than as a mere plaything. First-class fuck-up indeed. The Walters of this world just didn't get it. People like Robert were artists and prophets, men ahead of their time. History was peppered with them; in their lives, they were rejected, neglected, ridiculed. Even after death, their heads were heaped with scorn. Only another outsider could understand.
Only I could appreciate what he'd been going through.
Graham and Robert had nothing in common, neither physically nor mentally. Robert had been tall, I imagined, whereas Graham was a runt. Robert would have been saturnine, whereas Graham was washed-out and sandy. Robert had usually worn black, whereas Graham wore hand-knitted tank-tops. Robert in his lifetime had been masterful and charismatic, whereas Graham was, let's face it, a bit of a saddie.
So I couldn't understand how I'd thought I'd seen Robert Jamieson when it had been Graham all along. Afterwards, he told me I'd spent so long in the bathroom that he'd started to worry. When I'd finally emerged, he said, I'd taken only a couple of steps into the room and passed out. He'd put me to bed before crashing out himself on the living-room cushions. That was his story, and he was sticking to it.
What I remembered was having sex. Wild drunken sex, with lots of squelching noises.
Graham denied it, of course. I knew he didn't want me thinking he'd abused my semi-comatose body; he was keen to repair the damage done to his New Man reputation by the incident with Sophie. All right, so he'd removed my clothes, he admitted when pushed, but he hadn't taken advantage of me at all. If anything, he said, it had been I who had taken advantage of him.
But we must have really gone at it, because in the morning I woke to find myself cocooned in soggy bedclothes. Graham had already departed, but had left a mug of tea by my pillow. I'd reached out for it thirstily, but it had turned out to be stone cold, with a skin on top.
For those precious few seconds, Graham Gilmore had shimmered with borrowed allure, and afterwards, I found myself not averse to spending more time with him, though obviously there was no question of our being seen together in public, and I knew there'd be one hell of a scene if Sophie ever spotted him on the premises. Fortunately, he didn't seem to mind being smuggled in and out, and he told me he had no desire to see Sophie again — he thought she was excessively bourgeois, and that even though she was pretty, it was a conventional, uninteresting sort of prettiness. Needless to say, I wasn't about to discourage such opinions.
And so we kept each other company, and we had sex, though it usually took three or four drinks before I began to find Graham remotely attractive. I had yet to sleep with him while sober; I wasn't sure I was capable of going that far.
Even when I was inebriated, the earth didn't always move, but on less than satisfactory occasions I would close my eyes and think about Miles. Sometimes I would think about Robert too, although for obvious reasons that required a little more effort.
Chapter 2
I sorted through the heap of mail on the mat. There were a couple of letters for Sophie, several airmail envelopes and a bill for Marsha, an oddly shaped package for Walter Cheeseman, a small brown envelope addressed to Robert Jamieson, and nothing for me, not even a bill.
I stared at the small brown envelope for a very long time. If I'd had a letter of my own to open, things might have turned out very differently. Had Marsha emerged from her flat at that point, I would have been happy for her to have scooped up Robert's envelope along with her own mail and whisked it away to that mysterious forwarding-office where it would never trouble me again.
But the silence from Marsha's flat was deafening. So I carried on looking at the envelope, turning it this way and that, studying the handwriting (small, neat, round) and holding it up to the light, trying to catch an outline of whatever was inside.
What had started off as harmless fun was now turning into an addiction. With each new envelope, I vowed to hit it on the head and never again open anything that didn't have my name on the front. But curiosity always got the upper hand.
And I had to admit I'd become addicted to the idea of Robert, as well. I caught myself feeling outrage on his behalf as lesser mortals rejected his offerings. What had he been like? What about his hopes and fears? I'd formed my own theories, of course, but there were gaping holes. Perhaps this latest letter would fill them in.
I took a quick look around, though by now my ears had become attuned to the early morning sounds of the house, and it was obvious no one was coming. I picked up the envelope and slid it down, as far as it would go, into the pocket of my dressing-gown.
As I was going back upstairs, Sophie's door opened.
'Any post?' she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.
I felt like a sales assistant who'd been caught with her fingers in the till. 'Couple of things for you, I think.'
Sophie peered at me sleepily, but there were faint creases of amusement around her eyes, as though she knew exactly what I'd been up to, and wanted me to know she knew.
'Any letters for Robert?' she murmured and slipped past me, carrying on down the stairs without waiting for a reply. I fled up to the sanctuary of my flat. Did she know? How could she know? Still trembling, I made myself a cup of Earl Grey and sat down by the window, putting my feet up on the table.
I slit the envelope open.
Dear Robert,
Much as I'd like never to hear from you again, I feel I must remind you I still have several of your notebooks, the third draft of your unpublished novel, your fancy French edition of Edgar Allan Poe, and that wretched sheep skull you picked up on Dartmoor.
I realize these things probably have some sort of warped sentimental value for you, and so conscience prevents me from consigning them to the dustbin where they belong, though serve you right if I did, because you've never shown any such consideration to me or the things I value. Anyway, you know perfectly well what my feelings are, so perhaps you could arrange for someone to collect them. I would rather you didn't come in person, as I really have no desire to see you again.