harbored the hope that one day she’d find one who was clever with his hands. In a practical way. But she was always the one who had to change washers on leaky taps, hang curtains and fix doorknobs. Yet the men were better than the women she’d shared flats with in her younger days, who spent forever putting on makeup and no time at all doing housework. She’d begun to relax and let the steaming bathwater do its soothing work when she noticed her towel missing. How many times had she warned her flatmate not to use her towel? But he had. Again. And once again he’d left her towel in his bedroom. She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists. Perhaps the bastard was working in partnership with the voyeur next door, because she’d have to run the gauntlet once more. Had she left the light on? Of course she had. She hated her flatmate. He had to go. Enough was enough. She lay back in the bath and tried to relax. Perhaps the bloke next door had finally gone blind through self-abuse. That was a thought that comforted her and brought a glimmer of a smile, but only briefly. There was no escaping the reality. She was thirty-four years old, trapped in a grubby bathroom in a grubby flat by a grubby little man next door. What, she wondered, was she doing with her life? The sound of a key turning in the lock on the front door dragged her away from her reveries. Her flatmate had come home.
“Hi!”
She heard him call out and drop his valise. She’d grown tired of telling him to put the bloody thing away, so now it lived just inside the front door. She heard a clump, a step, another clump. He was taking off his shoes. He’d be halfway across the kelims, probably dumping his shoes on her indigo blue Kazak, which he thought didn’t show the dirt.
“Where are you?”
“In the bath, you bastard, waiting for you to come home and replace the towel you nicked this morning.”
“Sorry. Just get out of these things.” She heard his belt buckle scrape on the polished floor. Trousers down. His bedroom-door handle rattled. Coat hung. “Shit!” Slipped taking off socks. It was all so familiar and predictable they might as well have been married instead of just flatmates. Rosie never slept with flatmates, because that created too many complications; she preferred to think of them as no more than rent-sharers. She heard him open her bedroom door, open a cupboard and close it.
“Here he comes,” she said softly, slipping as deeply into the bath as she could, wishing she’d been more liberal with water and soap. But it was the old story. Too little, too late, too bad.
“Here’s your towel. Got a dry one.”
“How very clever of you.” He hadn’t knocked. He hadn’t discreetly opened the door a whisker and thrown the towel through the gap. No, he’d just marched straight in and stood ogling her.
“Anything else?”
“John, I am a woman. You are a man. I am naked and you are staring.”
“Sorry.” He made no move to go.
“John, leave me the towel. Put it on the rail. And then please go next door and punch Merv the Perv’s lights out. And when you’ve done that, ask him to do the same to you for the same reason.”
“Jesus, Rosie. Here’s your bloody towel. Don’t bother to say thanks.” He left and closed the door behind him. Rosie didn’t move. She knew better. The door pushed open again. “Want a cup of tea?” John looked vaguely disappointed.
“Yes, please. Now do be a good boy and piss off.”
“Did you get any milk?”
“Why would I get milk? There was plenty when I left this morning.”
“I used it on my cornflakes.”
“John, when you’re drinking your black tea, get the paper and look through the flats-to-let section.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. Piss off. Out of my bathroom. Out of my flat. Out of my life. Take as long as you like, but if you’re not gone in one hour you’ll find all your stuff out on the street.”
“You can’t do that. It’s raining. Where will I go?”
“John, you’re still staring. Don’t stare at me. One, I can throw you and all the rubbish you flatteringly call your things out onto the street. You know I can. We know each other well, and you know I’ve done that before. Two, I don’t care if it’s raining. Three, I don’t care a damn where you go. Just go.” Fixing him with the look he’d come to fear, she sat up. He saw her breasts clearly, which is what he’d wanted to see all along, but more than that he saw she meant business. He went.
Rosie sat at the kitchen table with her head in her hands. John had gone by taxi, but not without argument, not without some of her things as yet undiscovered, and not without asking if he could borrow her car. She was alone again, and wondering if she should cry. The flat was cold and damp and there was no milk. Tomorrow she’d have to begin writing up the report based on the findings of the group discussions she’d conducted. What, she wondered, was the benchmark for removing skid marks, and did anyone really care? There was nothing to eat except limp vegetables, a can of baked beans that John had left behind because he’d put it in the wrong cupboard and a butterscotch-flavored Gregg’s instant pudding, which needed milk. Crying seemed the preferred option when she heard knuckles do a drumroll on her door.
“Come in, Norma, it’s not locked.”
“Hi,” said Norma brightly. “Guess what? You and me are going out to dinner. Loverboy’s had to fly down to Wellington on business. I stopped off at the Bistro and reserved a table.”
“Don’t tell me,” said Rosie. “John rang you to see if he could sleep the night at your place.”
“How’d you know?” Norma seemed genuinely puzzled.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s good to see you, I need a friend and I’d love to go out to dinner with you because there’s nothing to eat here.”
Norma hung her raincoat on the back of the door and flopped down on a chair opposite Rosie. “What happened?”
“Nothing, everything, the usual, what the hell does it matter? In a funny way I’ll miss him. Sometimes I think I’m the most useless creature on earth, then I come home and John’s here and suddenly I feel reassured.”
“Negative thoughts,” said Norma.
“I’ve earned them,” said Rosie.
“There’s never any excuse for negative thoughts. You’re brainy, your whole illustrious family is brainy, and they’re all wonderfully successful.”
“Except me.”
“Except you. You don’t even try.” Norma stuck a Du Maurier in her mouth and lit it. She had the knack of talking while her cigarette sat glued to her bottom lip.
“What do you mean?” Rosie wasn’t protesting but complaining. She was due a good moan, and moans were only good if there was someone to hear them. “I tried. I still try. Trouble is all I ever wanted to be was a beatnik, make pottery and love everybody and throw pink rose petals in the air. Instead I became a doctor and went off to save the world. They sent me to India, which was full of sick people, but didn’t give me any medicines to save them. Instead of curing them, I joined them and had to be evacuated home. It’s all been downhill since then.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I’ve got a bottle of wine in the car. We could drink it now and get another to drink over dinner. What’s this?” She spotted the sodden pile of letters and idly peeled them apart. Bills, more bills and a large envelope with Green Lane Hospital printed across the bottom. Norma raised her eyes questioningly. When she shook the envelope something slid around inside it.
“Probably notification from the VD clinic. That would just about be my luck.”
“Better open it and see,” said Norma.
“You get the wine, I’ll open the envelope. Probably need a drink by the time you get back.”