The Resident Read online

  So, to make up for his absence tomorrow, she had accepted Max’s invitation to cook her dinner. Socialising with him would wait and needed to anyway, until a respectable period of grief for his grandfather had been observed. It was too soon after the funeral for him to be thinking about her in the context of a relationship, however tentative those thoughts.

  Sixteen

  HER PREPARATIONS FOR the arrival of her first ever guests went almost without a hitch. The only slightly irritating thing was that she did not get to wear what she wanted to. Juliet was not neurotic about fashion – a dress was a dress – but the clingy black number she particularly wanted to wear seemed to have disappeared. She spent half an hour looking for it without success before giving up and finding something else.

  They arrived soon after, Syd wearing an elegant Empire maternity dress, and Mike for once looked really quite smart in a freshly pressed suit and crisp shirt and tie. He carried a house-warming present of a bread-making machine between his arms. It was an expensive affair of chrome and white ceramic and most homes would have struggled to accommodate its almost industrial dimensions. But hers did not. It fitted unobtrusively into the relative vastness of her kitchen as if it had always been there. It looked like it belonged.

  ‘Bread,’ Mike observed, ‘the stuff of life.’

  ‘Booze is the stuff of life, if your domestic habits are any indication,’ Sydney said. She looked about her. ‘Jesus, hon, this place is gorgeous.’

  Mike too was looking around, flexing his arms, stiff from bearing the weight of their gift. ‘When the baby is born, maybe we could come and stay here with you,’ he said. ‘We could use the extra space and you owe us a favour. Not that I want you to feel compromised into agreeing out of any sense of obligation.’

  Juliet kissed them both and took their coats. She realised that she was very out of practice at this sort of thing and was suddenly relieved that she hadn’t invited Max to make the four. With these two she didn’t have to try, or make small talk, but with Max there, it would have been much more difficult.

  ‘On the subject of the stuff of life,’ Mike said. ‘We did bring a couple of bottles with us.’

  Juliet, holding their coats, looked at them both, a bit bemused. Mike had carried in the bread machine. Sydney, in her condition, was justifiably carrying nothing at all.

  ‘Howard Hughes offered to bring it up,’ Mike said.

  Sydney giggled. ‘Mike,’ she said.

  ‘Your shy millionaire,’ Mike said. ‘We met him in the vestibule. I was struggling to carry everything and he offered. Sydney told me who he was in the elevator.’ He glanced back towards the door. ‘He said he’d bring it up in a second. Hope he hasn’t stolen it. You can never tell with these reclusive types.’

  Sydney punched him on the arm.

  To Juliet, Mike said, ‘Even now, he could be squatting in the basement, guzzling wine straight from the neck of the bottle, singing to himself. Bob Dylan, I would imagine. Actually, more likely Leonard Cohen, going on the look of the guy. I’m assuming the building has a basement?’

  But Juliet did not get the chance to reply. There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Hallelujah,’ Sydney said.

  ‘I’m thinking more “Suzanne”,’ Mike said.

  Syd turned to him and said, ‘You are beyond hope.’

  Juliet hung up her guests’ coats on the way to get the door. Max was outside when she opened it. He was wearing jeans and a chambray shirt. Not quite his paint-spattered persona but nearer that than the gallery look or the way he had been turned out for his grandfather’s funeral. He was carrying a box containing several bottles. Mike had been typically over-generous. He smiled and looked down at what he carried and said, ‘House-warming party?’

  ‘Not quite,’ she said. ‘Friends over for dinner. Sydney and her husband Mike. You remember Syd from the gallery opening?’

  ‘I recognised her straight away when I saw her in the vestibule just now,’ he said. ‘I was down there replacing a light bulb. She introduced her husband. You have nice friends.’ He held out the box he carried for her to take from him.

  Juliet said, ‘Won’t you come in and have a quick drink?’

  Max smiled and shook his head. ‘I’m not dressed for the occasion,’ which was true. ‘I’ll leave you to relax and enjoy yourselves in your new home with your old friends. But I’m holding you to our dinner date, Juliet. You haven’t forgotten?’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ she smiled. ‘You’re cooking. I’m looking forward to it.’ She took the box from him and he turned and walked away.

  Juliet showed Mike and Syd around the apartment as they sipped their pre-dinner drinks. They were impressed by the décor and dimensions of the rooms, complimentary about what she had done with the place and incredulous about the rent she was paying for it. Mike tapped walls. Sydney raised her eyebrows. ‘Some guys buying cars are tyre kickers. Some guys tap the walls when they’re shown around a building. I’m lucky enough that Mike does both.’

  ‘There’s a lot of dead space here,’ Mike pointed out. ‘This place is pretty enormous. But it has the potential to be even bigger. Substantially larger, in fact.’

  ‘I’ve heard that expression before,’ Juliet said, ‘about dead space.’

  ‘There’s a disparity between the interior shell and exterior wall,’ Mike said. ‘I suppose when the place was constructed, space wasn’t at the premium it is now.’

  ‘Larger rooms are fashionable now because heating is more efficient,’ Sydney said. ‘Back in the old days big rooms meant chilly New York winters.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Mike said. ‘But it wouldn’t be built like this today, that’s for sure. A discrepancy like that – the blueprints would certainly be interesting to look at.’

  ‘Right now I’m interested in looking at a plate,’ Sydney said. ‘Lying laden on a table. From the perspective of a chair.’ She winked at Juliet. Her hands were in the small of her back, pressing there. ‘If we’re done with the tour?’

  The food she fed Mike and Sydney was pre-ordered from a restaurant and reheated in her stove. Juliet possessed a number of substantial attributes, but being a great cook was not one of them.

  Dinner was fun, but inevitably the talk turned to Jack. ‘You really need to embark on something new,’ Sydney said, gently. She reached across the table and took Juliet’s hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Have an affair, Jules. Keep it light and fun and reckless. See how you feel about Jack when you come out the other side. You need a different perspective on this from the one that you have. Jack is not the only guy in the world. He is not the only eligible guy. He hurt you pretty badly.’

  ‘He devastated you,’ Mike said, quietly.

  Juliet looked sharply at him. Mike was not given to seriousness and was usually diplomatic. These two, though, had borne the brunt of it; they had taken care of her. ‘Yes,’ she confirmed. She remembered the prismatic shimmer of colour through the spray of their lawn sprinkler on that bright day of discovery. She remembered the sick feeling of dismay overwhelming her. ‘He did devastate me.’

  Mike was blushing. ‘Sorry, hon,’ he said. ‘Tactless. Blame the alcohol.’

  ‘You haven’t had that much to drink,’ Sydney said, ‘yet. And all three of us know what you just said is true.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ Mike said. ‘I need to use the bathroom.’

  He seemed pale and preoccupied when he came back. Juliet put it down to embarrassment about his comment on what Jack had done to her. Mike was kind and essentially decent. But men like Mike generally spoke in a clubhouse code that did not allow for mention of subjects such as heartbreak and deceit.

  Fifteen minutes later, when Mike was still pale and uneasy, Juliet began to wonder whether she might not have inadvertently poisoned him. The restaurant from which she had ordered the food was one their friend Corey had recommended. Corey spoke highly of the cuisine and the food Juliet had chosen from their menu did indeed taste delicious. But Mike l
ooked distinctly queasy.

  Suddenly, he put down his fork he had been eating with, and cleared his throat. He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin and then dabbed at his moist forehead and said, ‘Sydney mentioned something to me, Juliet. When you were still searching for an apartment, you had a psychic experience?’

  Sydney glanced at her. Juliet shrugged. She was not in the least offended. Syd told Mike everything. She enjoyed teasing him in public and making him the butt of her jokes, but she shared everything with him. Juliet supposed it was one of the reasons why their marriage had endured so happily.

  ‘I thought I did, Mike,’ she said. ‘It was weird. I mean, you know what I’m like, pragmatic and scientific, but I sensed something really dismal in some rooms I saw. It compelled me to leave.’

  ‘A presence?’

  ‘More of a legacy, I think. It turned out a Mafia killer committed suicide there back in the bootlegging mob-era. I don’t think I sensed him, but I was somehow aware of his accomplishments, the fear and grief he’d been responsible for. There was a residue, almost an infection. Like it was contagious and still virulent. It was very unpleasant.’

  ‘But no ghost?’

  ‘No ghost as such, no. Why do you bring it up?’

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘Balls,’ Sydney said. ‘Tell her why you bring it up. Tell her why you bring it up now. I’m extremely curious myself.’

  ‘It’s silly.’

  ‘Tell us,’ Sydney said again.

  Mike smiled. The smile was nervous and unsure, the expression on his face one Juliet had never seen him use before, completely uncharacteristic of his open, cheerful nature. He said, ‘When I was in the bathroom just now, I felt as if I was not alone. It felt like someone was behind me, watching me. I have never felt so sure and strong an instinct in my life. I was absolutely certain of it. When I turned around, nobody was there.’

  ‘So you were wrong,’ Sydney said. ‘Who would wish to watch you take a pee? You think people should pay? Like with a spectator sport?’

  ‘No, Syd, I was right. I couldn’t see anybody there. But someone was observing me. I know they were. I trust my instinct. I’ve made a pretty good living out of trusting it. I know what I know. I was not alone when I went to pee just now.’

  The three people around the dinner table were silent for a long moment. Then Sydney pushed back her chair with her heels, levered herself to her feet with effort and stared at her husband.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘What? What do you think? You think we’re going to link hands and hold a séance? We’re all going to the bathroom, Mike. The three of us are going to take a look.’

  They trooped to the bathroom. Juliet switched on the overhead light. In their reflection, in the floor-length mirror, Sydney’s bump looked enormous.

  Their reflections were fractured in the mirror in the cabinet over the sink and the hand mirror on the bathroom shelf. They looked around, at the immaculately tiled walls and the high smooth plaster of the pale ceiling and the gleaming chrome of the faucets and the shower head. It was totally silent in the bathroom. Nothing gurgled or splashed or dripped. They looked and listened but there was nothing to see or hear.

  ‘There’s no one here. Except us,’ Sydney said.

  ‘No,’ Mike said, ‘there isn’t.’

  Not now, Juliet thought. That was how Mike wanted to end his sentence. He was too tactful to say the words and he probably did not want to risk a further brow-beating from his indignant wife. But he was sane and sober and he was certain something had been there. Someone.

  August, she thought to herself. The ghost of August with his unsettling eyes and spittle-flecked beard had stood watching Mike, staring at him so intently that Mike had become aware of the scrutiny he had been subjected to from beyond the grave.

  Juliet shivered. It was ridiculous. She would dismiss the idea. She had not personally sensed the old man’s whisky-soaked presence. She had not seen his spectre. She had seen him buried under six feet of ground in a casket from which David Blaine could not have escaped. There had been a ceremony, a solemn religious service. They had observed the custom of throwing dirt down onto the box. He was dead. He was gone for ever. But you’ve felt it too, a quiet voice whispered in her mind. Before August died.

  The rest of the evening passed remarkably light-heartedly after that one peculiar episode. It was easy to forget the incident as they ate and laughed and drank too much, at least Mike and Juliet drank too much.

  Her guests left after a tearful embrace at her apartment door at around one in the morning. Juliet saw that Mike had managed to get food on both his shirt-front and his necktie. It didn’t matter. He could afford the laundry bills.

  Syd took a last appraising look around and said, ‘You’ve done very well for yourself, hon. This is exactly the start you need. Make the most of it. There’s a lot that’s right in your life and with your assets, a hell of a lot more that could be with just a little bit of effort. The world doesn’t owe you anything. But you owe it to yourself to live a little more.’

  After their departure, Juliet washed up and tidied the place, put the cutlery and dishes away before making herself a cup of lemon tea and pondering briefly on the evening before going to bed.

  She did not feel spooked. She did not feel watched. She was sure she would have sensed any scrutiny, ghostly or otherwise. Poor August, she reflected, how could she think like that about an old and harmless man whose instincts had been gruffly kind and who his grandson insisted would have become her friend if he’d lived long enough?

  Sydney had given her sensible advice. The Jack question would look different once she had enjoyed an affair, however brief or casual, with another man. It would seem neither so urgent nor as all-encompassing as it did. A carefree sexual fling would give her a fresh perspective. And she would enjoy it. There would certainly be no guilt involved. She was still legally married, but she was free to do as she pleased.

  Seventeen

  MAX BROUGHT NOT only the food for their dinner, but the wine, readily decanted into a lead crystal vessel with the precisely elaborate facets of something crafted at least a century ago.

  ‘You like old things,’ she said, as he poured from the decanter into her glass. He didn’t reply, just smiled slightly and got on with preparing the food.

  ‘Wow, it looks like you know what you’re doing.’ Juliet was impressed with this new side of Max. ‘You really are an excellent cook. I’m totally incompetent in the kitchen. Which is why I cheated and ordered in when Syd and Mike came round.’

  ‘It’s just practice. I had to learn to cook for August’s sake. He needed good food when he was ill.’

  ‘Lucky for him it wasn’t me who was left to look after him. He’d have had cold beans straight from the can.’

  Max laughed. ‘He wouldn’t have let you get away with that. He could be quite forceful when he wanted to be. But you should make more effort with your food. I mean, you are a doctor. I should add a clause to your contract banning canned food from this apartment. I just can’t encourage that sort of behaviour,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t live with myself if I did.’

  Juliet looked at him. His face was animated and relaxed, and she was struck again by how good-looking he was. She felt a little flutter of excitement, as Sydney’s advice rang in her ears. Maybe a fling with Max was exactly what she needed. If only he didn’t live in the same block as her.

  ‘Now pay attention. I feel it’s my duty to teach you how to cook.’ He took her through the preparation of the meal step by step. Instructed her on how vital it was to pre-heat the oven and regularly baste the meat. He showed her how to mix a salad dressing he had concocted himself.

  ‘Pine nuts are the secret of a good salad,’ he said.

  ‘Sounds like something squirrels eat.’

  ‘You heat them very gently over a flame in an iron pan. They cook in their own oils.’

  She sipped the wine and its complexity on her tongue told her it was a
prized vintage. Most men would have flourished the dusty bottle, made a show of uncorking it after making sure she saw the label. Max was not most men. That much was for sure.

  ‘You like old things,’ she said again.

  He paused before replying. ‘I’m not really one of the text-message-Twitter crowd. I’m not tempted to set up a Facebook page. I can see the usefulness of the Internet but am immune to whatever charms it’s supposed to possess. Cyberspace is an ugly word, isn’t it? Technology seems to be about telling everybody about your deep, dark secrets. And I believe secrets should be secrets.’

  Juliet smiled playfully, her elbows on the table between them, her chin resting on the knuckles of her linked fingers. ‘So, what’s your secret?’ she asked.

  Max did not reply. He just looked at her.

  ‘Why aren’t you married?’

  ‘I never found anybody who …’ he paused.

  ‘Who what?’

  ‘Got me, I guess. Understood me, or that I got. I just never found anybody right, I suppose. Compatibility can be a magical thing when you find it. It can seem a very elusive quality when you can’t.’

  Their gaze was shared, open. Juliet did not say anything. She thought that silence, at that moment, was the key to coaxing more out of this enigmatic man.

  It worked. Max continued. ‘And … I’m not very sociable. I guess because of the way I grew up, my whole life has been taking care of my family’s building. I’ve already told you that I’ve never had a job. It’s also true to say that I’ve never had a relationship that mattered.’

  He expelled a sigh. Juliet sensed that what he had just said was a significant admission to himself, as well as for her.

  ‘Going to that art opening the other night was a really big deal for me.’

  Thinking of the failed kiss, colouring slightly, Juliet said, ‘I’m sorry about that night.’