Loris stops in front of the lone door on the first landing, but Charles shifts to the side and twists his neck to look at the next flight of steps, climbing into darkness.
‘Spooky. What’s up there?’
Loris leaves the key in his lock and leans on the bannister next to him, observing the staircase like it’s a part of his daily setting that he doesn’t notice anymore. ‘Patty’s junk, I guess.’
‘Your boss lives there?’
‘That’d fit your witch stories, but no. She owns both flats, though. She keeps the top one empty for some reason, and she only charges me half rent because of everything I do for the pub. That she owns too. So forget about child cannibalism. Your legend should be about the secret shady business she must be running to keep so many nonprofitable properties.’
‘You never looked into it?’
‘I don’t question privileges. I couldn’t afford to live here without the discount.’
‘Don’t you work two jobs?’
Loris edges back towards his front door. ‘Yeah, but it’s Hampstead.’
‘True.’
Charles is absolutely clueless, and Loris’ little laugh indicates how evident that is.
After the austere oldness of the stairwell, Charles is pleasantly surprised by the modernity of the studio. Creamy white walls, grey vinyl flooring and a ceiling strewed with LED lights.
It’s also surprising that this one bright room that Loris couldn’t afford to rent is smaller than the Ledwells’ library. Charles truly has no clue.
Loris frees him from the plastic bag, sets down two beers on his desk and walks to the kitchenette. ‘Pardon the mess.’
Considering all his belongings must fit in a handful of furniture items, the place is shipshape, apart from dirty dishes on the worktop and a few worn clothes lying around. It’s the perfect amount of messy for Charles, whose bedroom goes from being insipidly pristine to a complete disaster zone, no stage in between.
It’s been a while since he discovered someone’s home. Last time was George’s new place, which was exactly what he expected George’s new place to be. Charles loves uncovering or creating stories around unusual knick-knacks and choices. Why did Loris break up two sets of pillowcases instead of matching those on the bed and those on the sofa? How many family secrets would Charles read in the antique leather notebook that takes centre stage on the shelf above the desk? What’s the memory behind the washed-out concert ticket stuck on the fridge with a magnet?
Charles has many ideas, in case he doesn’t find the nerve to ask, but he forgets them all when he notices a photomontage, hung on the left side of the front door.
It shows a young woman, dancing on a wooden suspension bridge that stretches from the second floor of the Eiffel Tower.
‘This is good.’
He moves closer and understands it’s not made of photos. It’s a colour-pencil drawing.
‘Correction, this is fantastic!’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘Who’s the artist?’ Charles squints at the illegible scribble at the bottom, then starts and turns around. ‘You did this?!’
Loris’ smile increases the intensity of the LED lights. ‘Yeah.’
‘No. You didn’t.’
‘It’s a bit smug to display my own work, but my mum had it framed last time she visited.’
Loris places a finger underneath Charles’ chin to lift his jaw closed. Charles doesn’t flinch, trying to find in his eyes a hint that he’s messing with him. But there’s no mischief in Loris’ eyes. Just a touch of gloating, because he fried Charles’ brain again.
‘You draw? And you draw like this?’
‘On paper, yeah. I call it hyperrealism with a surreal twist. My digital pieces are more cartoonish.’
‘You’re the surreal twist.’
