“Ignatius Raynor. Apartment One. I shouldn’t be so rude, but really, if you think my apartment is old fashioned, you should see his.”
“Well, I don’t think your place is old fashioned. As you say, all these colors are the latest again. As for Apartment One, I’m actually on my way down there next.”
“If he opens the door to you.”
“What’s his story?”
“He must be about ninety nine by now, which is admirable, but he keeps to himself. The only time any of us hear from him is when he vetoes another thing the rest of us want.”
“Like what?”
“Better lighting in the halls, new carpet, an intercom at the front door – it’s downright dangerous leaving the place open to anyone. But you name it, he says ‘no.’”
“Why is that?”
“Oh, you don’t want to cross Professor No. He has a number of degrees, in law and engineering, so he says, and he can recite every city ordinance ever invented. Plenty of brains but no common sense. Nothing wrong with his mind, even if his hearing and eyesight aren’t the best. I shouldn’t be negative, but Professor No is as stubborn and mean as they come.”
“I wasn’t even sure anyone lived down there. The blinds are always drawn.”
“He lives down there alright. Gets his groceries delivered once a month. Goes to show you can live forever on a box of eggs and onions and oranges and flour and rice and a side of beef.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure I want to discuss another neighbor in so much detail, especially as he’s not here to defend himself, so I steer the conversation back to the building. “Well, I miss my old garden and am itching to trim back the vines and see what else is there. He’d actually get more winter sunlight. Surely he wouldn’t object.”
“You go right on ahead and suggest it, Lucy, and see what happens. I don’t bother with him anymore. Now, tell me about you. You seem familiar. If you don’t mind my asking, are you on your own? I haven’t noticed a Mr Beston, you see. You can tell me to mind my own business.”
“Oh. I am on my own now, yes.” Something makes me want to hold back the whole of my “story” as Mrs B calls it. Mrs B for Mrs Busybody, perhaps, though she seems kindly enough. Mrs B for Mrs Broadcast.
“Fresh start?” She fishes.
“Exactly,” I say, and beam back at her.
“Mmm.”
I smile into my silence and she sits and sips her coffee, foiled but still friendly.
“Well, these little cakes are delectable, Lucy. I can see you must be an excellent entertainer.”
“So glad you like them, Mrs B. I can tell we’ll get along fine. Are you happy with your lamps? I could make you a side lamp to match your decor.”
“Really?” She looks up at the amber light fitting hanging from the center of the ceiling. “A little orange side lamp?”
“I collect retro materials. I have a few that would match your wallpaper. I could show you some samples.”
“Well, that would be very kind.”
“Tomorrow? Or this afternoon?”
“I’m playing bridge this afternoon. But tomorrow – great. And if you have any questions about Brighton Court or the neighborhood, just ask. You’ve met Dr Dirk O’Connell, in the penthouse? A real doctor. Imagine.”
I nod and hope my cheeks don’t flush. Mrs B doesn’t need to know the depth of my interest in our esteemed neighbor.
If she notices, she doesn’t quiz me on it, mercifully. She just goes on to give me a rundown on the other residents – a teacher with a rich lawyer boyfriend, a nursing student, a songwriter who might or might not smoke pot or maybe it’s incense, and someone called Felicity she knows nothing about.
Good for Felicity, I think, as I take my leave. It’s lovely to have an ally, but I might watch what I say. I skip Davey’s door – he’s always out in the mornings, and besides, Mrs B told me he’s a chef. He’ll hardly need more food.
I rap on a few other doors, but nobody answers. It’s a working day. They’re probably out.
Two more flights down and I’m below the level of the road. I open the door to the garden and peer out, but the growth is so thick on this side it’s hard to see beyond it. Besides, I want to give my final mini cupcakes to Professor No.
