Chapter 40
EDINBURGH
Moira looked at herself in the compact mirror as she took the lift up to the top floor of the apartment complex. Since when were flats in Edinburgh called apartments? Since the prices went way up, she thought.
She studied her face; a little bit of powder, a bit of lippie, a pluck of the eyebrows (and that had hurt like a bastard), and a few squirts of the perfume, just to give a hint of what might come later.
She looked at her watch; a few minutes until seven o’clock.
She liked Peter, and although he was a bit older, he seemed wise, funny and intelligent, on the exact opposite end of the scale from her husband, who couldn’t crack an egg, never mind a joke.
She had stopped at an off-licence to buy a bottle of wine. White to go with the pasta. Nothing too expensive, nothing too cheap. Just the right one to wash the food down with.
The lift came to a halt, telling her she was indeed at the correct floor, so she snapped the compact closed, fired it into her bag where the paperback lay, and she ran her tongue over her teeth once more, just to be sure, but the view in the compact had told her she had nothing to worry about.
No stray bits of food and no errant lipstick.
She stepped out and saw number twelve. She walked up and knocked on the door.
She knew he was inside because he’d just buzzed her in, but now she thought he might be finishing off building the indestructible headboard, the one where she couldn’t break it with the handcuffs, no matter how hard she tried.
She laughed to herself; like he would be able to persuade her to do that.
She looked at her watch. Where the hell was he? Had he nipped to the lav on the way from the living room to the front door or something?
Then the sound of the door being unlocked and the door opened, and Peter was standing smiling at her.
‘Sorry! I was about to come to the door when I heard the sauce bubbling away, then I checked the pasta and thought it wasn’t cooking fast enough. Come in, come in.’
He stepped aside to let her in, and she could smell some sort of body spray. It wasn’t repugnant, but she would have chastised Roger for putting it on. She thought she had smelled better air freshener.
He was wearing his red glasses again.
The hallway was light and small, veering to the left where the rooms were painted in a cream colour, the walls matching the carpet. Something similar to what Roger would say: do the curtains match the carpet? Dirty bastard. She didn’t get that vibe from Peter, but the night was young.
She heard the door closing behind her and turned to hand over the wine.
‘What’s this?’ he asked, his face lighting up.
‘I like a little wine to go with dinner sometimes,’ she said.
‘Well, thank you so much. Please, go through to the living room.’ He indicated with a hand where the room was, but she could see a couch and went through the door.
A TV was on but muted. In front of the window was a little table with two bistro chairs.
‘Make yourself comfortable. The pasta should be ready.’
He scuttled away after putting the wine on the table. Moira noticed there were two glasses already there and she wondered if he had something chilling in the fridge, or whether he was just being fancy and was going to pour tap water.
‘Here we are,’ he said, coming through with two plates of spaghetti Bolognese and putting them down on the table.
He sat down opposite her. ‘May I pour?’ he said, smiling.
‘Of course. This is a great view,’ she said.
‘Where does your brother live?’ he asked casually.
‘In the new apartments along at Newhaven.’
‘Very nice. They have a better view than I do.’
‘Different, Peter, different. This is beautiful. I can imagine what it’s like at night, with the floating restaurant along the road lit up.’ She turned to face him. ‘I love being down here.’
‘Where did you live with your husband?’
‘Drylaw. Nice little house. I loved living there, but my heart was always in Leith, so I moved into a flat on Leith Walk.’
‘Do you think you’ll move back here permanently?’
‘No doubt. My family’s here, and some of my old friends. I would love to move back here.’ She tasted the pasta dish, and it was terrific. ‘This is so good. What’s your secret?’
‘A good chef never reveals his secret ingredient.’ He smiled at her. If he told her what his secret ingredient was, she might run out of the flat screaming.
Then Moira’s phone rang. She took it out of her pocket and looked at the screen.
‘Oh, Jesus. It’s him. My soon-to-be ex. I’m sorry, I have to take this.
I’m going to tell him to stop calling me or the lawyer will ream him a new arsehole.
’ She pushed the chair back and looked at him. ‘Can I use your bedroom?’
‘Of course. The first door on your right.’
She left the living room and found the bedroom. The room was painted the same colour. It must be a bachelor thing, she thought. There was no sign of a woman’s touch. No photos, no flowers, no nothing.
She shook her head and answered the phone. ‘What?’
‘I had a call with my lawyer today. He said your lawyer hasn’t been in contact about dealing with the finer details.’
‘So?’
‘So, hurry up, for fuck’s sake.’
‘You know what, you brought this all on yourself.’
There was silence at the other end. ‘Well, we need to talk, to sort out things. Like selling the house and stuff.’
‘I can’t come over right now. I’m having dinner.’
‘I don’t want to put this off,’ Roger said, a note of resignation in his voice.
‘Too bad. I’ll call you tomorrow then we can discuss when we’ll meet.’
He hung up on her.
‘Wanker,’ she said in a low voice, putting her phone away before walking back through to the living room. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘I have to go and meet Roger so we can discuss our impending divorce.’ She sat back down at the table. ‘But not tonight.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Do what you have to do.’ He smiled and they ate, chit-chatting with small talk.
The Reader was planning ahead, making split-second decisions.
‘How about a little tour of the place where I work part-time?’ he said. ‘Somewhere that no member of the public ever gets to see?’
‘Oh, I love the sound of that.’
The Reader smiled. ‘Good.’