TAYE let herself back into the apartment and wandered into
the sitting room. Looking around at the smart furniture
and fittings, she recalled the poky bed-sit she had lived
in for most of the three years previously, and knew that
she just could not bear to go back to that way of living.
Not only could she not, but, with the rent of this
apartment being very much more than she could afford on
her own now that Paula had left, Taye determined that she
would not give up the apartment unless she absolutely had
to.
To that end, and after a very great deal of thought, she
had just taken the first steps in getting someone to pay
half of the rent. She did so hope that someone would see
the advert and apply soon.
Unfortunately, because Paula, while giving her the name
and address of the letting agent, had taken the lease with
her, Taye felt on very rocky ground with regard to her own
tenancy agreement. The fact was, although Taye had looked
high and low for the lease, she had been unable to find
it, and so was unsure of her actual tenancy position.
The lease was in Paula's name and while Paula had said
that provided the rent was paid on time — quarterly in
advance — she was sure the agents would not care who was
living there or who paid the rent, Taye was not so certain.
She would have liked a sight of the lease before Paula had
left, if only to have some idea if there was any
restriction on sub-letting. Because it seemed to Taye to
be fairly obvious that a lease would not be worth as much
as the paper it was written on if the tenant went ahead
their own merry way.
But she had a feeling that any approach to the agent to
check might see Wally, Warner and Quayle saying that there
was a 'no flat-share sub-let' clause — and that caused
Taye to hesitate to approach them. Yes, she knew that she
should approach them. That she ought to go and see them
and explain that Paula Neale had left the area. Fear that
they might say that she would have to leave too, caused
Taye to hold back. Should they be even likely to enquire
into her suitability to be a tenant — her financial
suitability that was — they would know straight away that
by no chance could she pay the high rent required on her
own.
Burying her head in the sand it might be but, bearing in
mind that she had been Paula's sub-tenant, Taye preferred
to look on it from Paula's viewpoint: that as long as the
rent was paid they would not care who lived there provided
they were respectable and paid the rent when due.
All the same, when considering her options — pay up or
leave — Taye knew she did not want to leave and go back to
the way she had up until three months ago been living.
Which left the only answer — she must get someone else to
pay half the rent the way she had paid half the rent to
Paula. And how to go about that? Advertise.
The only problem with that was that Taye felt she could
hardly advertise in the paper. Without question she
suspected that any agent worthy of the name would keep
their eyes on the 'To Let' column of the local paper.
Which meant — Her thoughts were interrupted when someone
rapped smartly on the wood panelling of the door.
Anticipating it would be one of her neighbouring apartment
dwellers, Taye went to answer it.
But, although she thought she had met all of the other
tenants in the building in the time she had been there,
she would swear she had never caught so much as a glimpse
of the tall dark-haired man who stood there before her.
"How did you get in?" she questioned abruptly when for
what seemed like ageless seconds the man just stared
arrogantly back at her.
She thought she was going to have to whistle for an
answer. Then Rex Bagnall, who had a flat on the next
floor, rushed by. "Forget my head..." he said in passing,
making it obvious he had just gone out but had dashed back
for something he had forgotten — and that answered her
question. The man who had knocked at her door had slipped
in as Rex had gone out.
Then suddenly it clicked. "You've come about the flat?"
she exclaimed.
For long silent minutes the stern-faced man studied her,
and she began to think she was going to have to run for
any answer to her questions. But then finally, his tones
clipped, "I have," he replied.
Oh, grief! She had been thinking in terms of a female to
flat-share with! She could not say either that she was
very taken with this grim-expressioned mid-thirties-
looking man, but she supposed even if she had no intention
of renting half the flat to him that there were certain
courtesies to be observed.
"That was quick," she remarked pleasantly. "I've only just
returned from putting the ad in the newsagent's window."
She might have gone on to say that she had been looking
for someone of the female gender but Rex Bagnall was back
again, dashing along the communal hallway. Not wanting him
to hear any of her business, 'Come in," she invited the
unsuccessful candidate.
He followed her into her hall, but so seemed to dominate
it that she quickly led the way to the sitting room. She
turned, the light was better there, and she observed he
was broad-shouldered and casually, if expensively,
dressed. He could see her better too, his glance flicking
momentarily to her white-blonde hair.
"I — er..." she began, faltered and, began again. "I know
I didn't say so, but I was rather anticipating a female."
"A female?" he enquired loftily — causing her to wish she
knew more about the Sex Discrimination Act and if it came
into force in a situation like this.
"Have you shared a flat with a female before?" she asked,
feeling a trifle hot under the collar. "I mean, I don't
mean to be personal or anything but..." She hesitated,
hoping he would help her out, but clearly he was not going
to and she found she was saying, "Perhaps it won't be
suitable for you."
He looked back at her, unspeaking for a second or two.
Then deigned to reply, "Perhaps I'd better take a look
around."
And such was his air of confidence that, albeit
reluctantly, Taye, with the exception of her own bedroom,
found she was showing him around the apartment. "This,
obviously, is the sitting room," she began, and went on to
show him the dining room, followed by the bathroom and
kitchen and utility room. "That's my bedroom," she said,
indicating her bedroom door in passing. "And this is the
other bedroom."
"The one for your — tenant?"
"That's right," she replied, glad, when he had silently
and without comment inspected everywhere else, to hear him
say something at last.
He went into what had been Paula's bedroom and glanced
around. Taye left him to it. She returned to the sitting
room and was preparing to tell him that she would let him
know — it seemed more polite than to straight away tell
him, No chance. He was some minutes before he joined her
in the sitting room — obviously he had been looking his
fill and weighing everything up.
"I see you have a garden," he remarked, going over to the
sitting room window and looking out.
"It's shared by all of us," she replied. "The agents send
someone to tidy up now and again but it doesn't require
too much maintenance. Now, about —"
"Your name?" he cut in. "I can't go around calling you Mrs
de Winter the whole time."
Her lips twitched. Somehow, when she wasn't sure she even
liked the man, his dry comment caught at her sense of
humour. He all too plainly was referring to the Mrs de
Winter in Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca. The Mrs de Winter
who all through the book had never been given a first name.
"Taye," she replied, in the face of his unsmiling look
controlling her urge to smile. "Tayce, actually, but I'm
called Taye." She felt a bit foolish all at once, it
suddenly seeming stupid to go on to tell him that her
younger brother had not been able to manage Tayce when he
had been small, and how Taye had just kind of stuck. "Taye
Trafford," she completed briefly. Only then did it dawn on
her that she should have asked his name the minute he had
stepped over the threshold. "And you are?"
"Magnus — Ashthorpe," he supplied. 'Well, Mr Ashthorpe —"
"I'll take it," he butted in decisively.
That took her aback somewhat. "Oh, I don't think..."
"Naturally there are matters to discuss." He took over the
interview, if interview it be.
Well, it wouldn't hurt to discuss it a little, she
supposed. At least she could be civilised. "Would you like
coffee?" she offered.
"Black, no sugar," he accepted, and she was glad to escape
to the kitchen.
No way did she want him for a fellow tenant! No way! Yet,
as she busied herself with coffee, cups and saucers, she
began to realise that she must not be too hasty here. What
if no one else applied? The rent was quite steep after
all. Yes, but she might well have a whole horde of people
interested in a flat-share. Look how quickly he had seen
her ad. That card could not have been in the local
newsagent's window above ten minutes, she was sure.
"Coffee!" she announced brightly, taking the tray into the
sitting room, setting in down and inviting him to take a
seat. She placed a cup and saucer down on the low table
near him, and, taking the seat opposite, thought it about
time to let him know who was doing the interviewing
here. "The flat — the flat-share — it's for yourself?" she
enquired. He stared into her wide blue eyes as though
thinking it an odd question. "I mean — you're not married
or anything?" she ploughed on. And when he looked
unsmiling back, as if to ask what the devil that had to do
with her, "I only advertised for one person. I wouldn't
consider a married couple," she stated bluntly. She was
beginning to regret giving him coffee. She would not mind
at all if he left now.
"I'm not married," he enlightened her. She looked at him.
He was quite good-looking, she observed. No doubt he was
more interested in playing the field than in making any
long-term commitment. 'This is a fairly quiet building,"
she felt she ought to warn him. "We — um — don't go in for
riotous parties." He took that on board without comment,
and she began to wonder why she had bothered mentioning
it, because she was growing more and more certain that
there was no way she was going to have him as a fellow
flat-share. He had not touched his coffee — she could
hardly stand up and tell him she would let him know. "The —
er — rent would not be a problem?" she enquired. "It's
paid quarterly — thirteen weeks — and in advance." From
his clothes she would have thought he was used to paying
for the best, but she had to talk about something. "I —
er — the landlord prefers the rent to be paid on the old
quarter days to fall in line with his quarter-day ground
rent payments. He owns the building but not the land on
which it's built,' she added, but, conscious that she was
talking just for the sake of it, she skidded to an abrupt
stop.
Magnus Ashthorpe surveyed her coolly before stating, 'I
think I'll be able to scrape my share together." Which,
despite his good clothes, gave her the impression that he
was in pretty much the same financial state that she was.
Her clothes, limited though they were, were of good
quality too.
"Er — what sort of work do you do?" she asked, but as he
reached for his coffee she noticed a smear of paint on his
index finger: the sort of smudgy mark one got when
touching paintwork to see if it was dry.
She saw his eyes follow hers, saw him examine the paint
smudge himself. "I'm an artist," he revealed, looking
across at her.
"Magnus Ashthorpe," she murmured half to herself. She had
never heard of him, but it might embarrass him were she to
say so, and she had no wish to hurt his feelings. "You're —
um — quite successful?" she asked instead.
"I get by," he replied modestly. 'You wouldn't be able to
paint here," she said swiftly, latching on to a tailor-
made excuse to turn him down. 'The landlord wouldn't care
to —"
"I'm allowed the attic where I'm now living. That serves
well as a studio," Magnus Ashthorpe interrupted her.
"Ah," she murmured. And, feeling desperate to take charge
again, "Where are you living at present?" she asked.
"With a friend," he answered promptly. 'You're — um..."
Heavens, this interviewing business was all
uphill. "You're — er — in a — relationship that — er..."
She couldn't finish. By the sound of it he was in a
relationship that was falling apart. But she just could
not ask about it.