Henry simply nodded and didn’t bother to ask why.
She beckoned Henry to follow her past Billy’s living room where the familiar sounds of jazz could be heard.
‘My landlord,’ she whispered, and Henry wondered if Rita was allowed visitors.
He followed her up a flight of stairs and then they were standing outside a glossy white painted door. Henry noticed the landing smelt of bluebells, just like Rita’s perfume.
‘This is my bedsit,’ said Rita shyly, crouching to retrieve the key from under the mat.
‘I’m always losing my key,’ she explained.
‘It smells nice,’ said Henry.
She’d never imagined Henry coming here. She wondered what Henry’s house was like. She’d pictured it as large and foreboding and the interior would be immaculate. Everything would have its place and there would be many bookshelves for she imagined Henry was a great reader. Most likely too, there were interesting paintings on the walls. Rita liked art but didn’t really understand it not like Henry probably did. As she turned the key in the lock she saw her hands were shaking. It was cold inside and Rita turned apologetically to Henry.
‘I’ll switch on the electric heater. It won’t take long to warm up.’
‘Don’t you have central heating?’ he asked, remembering the faulty radiator in his own house.
‘No, just an electric heater,’ Rita apologised.
‘I’ll keep my coat on for a bit,’ said Henry, stumbling on the dark landing.
‘Oh, sorry,’ said Rita, flustering about and clicking switches on the wall.
The room was immaculate. The single bed in the far corner was neatly made. A small two-seater sofa with an assortment of colourful cushions was the only seating and Henry wondered if he should sit on the floor rather than sit next to Rita.
‘I have a little table,’ said Rita hurrying to it.
The table seemed far too small for the two of them to sit at but then Rita nimbly lifted a flap each side and the table suddenly grew in size.
‘Handy,’ said Henry.
‘Oh yes,’ agreed Rita.
They stood in silence for a moment; Henry wondering when Rita would turn on the electric heater and Rita wondering if she should put the kettle on or suggest they open a bottle of wine.
‘It’s a bit chilly,’ said Henry, finally.
‘Oh yes,’ remembered Rita. ‘The heater; let me put it on.’
‘Not very economical,’ said Henry.
Rita bustled about in a corner of the room that Henry realised served as her kitchen. How awful, he thought, to live in such a confined space. Where did she keep everything? He couldn’t see much cupboard space. He supposed giving out samples in a supermarket didn’t pay very much.
‘Here’s the menu,’ said Rita, breathing heavily from her exertions. ‘They deliver.’
Henry studied the menu and said.
‘I think this is too spicy for my stomach. It’ll give me terrible trouble later.’
‘Oh,’ said Rita, trying to remember what she had in the kitchen cupboard.
‘I have some baked beans and bread in my cupboard.’
‘Excellent,’ said Henry, growing hot. ‘I’ll just take my coat off.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Rita. ‘I’ll hang it on the hook.’
