5

Toby pushed open the door to Gus’s bedroom. He’d been into Gus’s bedroom on only two previous occasions – once to check that he was alive when he hadn’t appeared for breakfast one morning (he’d tripped over his shoes and twisted his ankle) and another time to check that he was alive when he hadn’t appeared for dinner one night (he’d accidentally taken a sleeping pill instead of a headache pill and had been asleep in his overcoat and shoes since teatime).

The room was papered with a terrible striped flock in burgundy and cream, and hung with ugly oil paintings lit by brass light fittings. The curtains were slightly flouncy in blue floral chintz and the carpet was a flattened rose-coloured shag pile. A brass chandelier hung from the central ceiling rose. Only one bulb still worked. The double bed sagged in the middle like a hammock and was dressed in burgundy sheets and a thick layer of woolly blankets. The room smelled, not as you might expect, of oldness, or of loneliness, but of malted milk and elderly cat.

The malted milk could be explained by the fact that Gus ate a whole packet of the biscuits every day. The elderly cat couldn’t really be explained at all.

Toby walked towards Gus’s desk. It was positioned in the window and looked out over the back garden and the asphalt roof of the bathroom below. Gus had a proper old-fashioned typewriter. Toby couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a typewriter. He also had piles of books and paperwork and a collection of old tin snuff boxes in a glass box. There was a manuscript on the desk. It was obviously very old and was covered in faded pencil marks and ink amendments. Gus’s clothes hung in a burr-veneered 1920s wardrobe from heavy wire hangers which jangled together like wind chimes when Toby tugged at a pair of trousers.

And there, at the bottom of the wardrobe, lay a red plastic tray filled with cat litter. A solitary cat poo poked out of the grey nuggets – it was fresh. On the other side of the wardrobe was a green saucer filled with brown pellets, a small bowl full of water and a huge bag of Science Diet.

‘What you doing?’

Toby jumped and clutched his heart.

‘Shit.’

It was Ruby. She was eating a banana.

‘Sorry. I thought you’d heard me come in.’

‘Look at this,’ he said, pointing inside the cupboard.

She peered in over his shoulder. ‘What!’ she grimaced.

‘I know. And it’s fresh. Did you know he had a cat?’

She shrugged. ‘News to me. Where is it?’

They both glanced around the room in unison. Ruby finished her banana and dropped the skin nonchalantly into Gus’s wastepaper bin. Toby noted the action and filed it away as yet another reason why he should stop being in love with her. He now had about thirty to forty reasons why he should stop being in love with Ruby Lewis.

She’d slept with more than fifty men.

And at least one woman.

She left her toenail clippings on the bathroom floor.

She called her female friends ‘honey’ and ‘sweets’.

She always slammed the front door when she got in at night, even though Toby had asked her not to, politely, about a hundred and fifty times.

She swore too much.

She smoked too much.

She never gave anyone their telephone messages.

She rarely paid her rent.

She was the centre of her own universe.

She believed in God (when it suited her).

She left used cotton buds and cotton-wool balls covered in old make-up on the shelf in the bathroom.

She called him ‘Tobes’.

She flirted with everyone, all the time.

She had a yellow stain on one of her front teeth.

She read magazines with exclamation marks in the titles and insisted on regaling him with titbits of gossip about so-called celebrities he’d never heard of.

She did only one wash a month and would then drape and festoon every radiator in the house with the entire contents of her wardrobe, leaving Toby in the position of having to stare at her (surprisingly unpretty) knickers while he ate his dinner.

She thought classical music was boring.

She thought literary classics were boring.

She thought Radio Four was boring.

She thought staying in was boring.

And she thought, more pertinently, that Toby was boring.

She told him all the time, ‘God, Tobes, you’re sooo boring,’ whenever he tried to broach a subject that was in any way serious or important or even slightly domestic in nature.

She laughed at his clothes and his hair and cupped his bottom, occasionally, through his jeans to tease him about his lack of padding in the buttock department.

She was awful, really, in so many ways. An awful girl. But, God, so beautiful and, God, so amazingly talented.

‘Under the bed?’ she suggested.

‘What?’ Toby snapped out of his reverie.

‘Maybe that’s where his cat lives.’

‘Oh. Right. Yes.’

She fell suddenly to her hands and knees, and adopted a position that put Toby in mind of one he’d seen on the Internet last night. He glanced at her denim-clad behind as it swung from side to side like a searchlight.

‘Oh, my God. I don’t believe it.’

‘What?’

‘Hello,’ she whispered to something under the bed. ‘Don’t be shy. It’s OK.’

Toby stopped staring at her bottom and joined her on his hands and knees.

‘Look,’ she pointed into the corner. ‘Over there.’

Toby blinked and a pair of eyes blinked back at him. ‘Oh, my God.’

They managed to coax the little creature out by shaking its food bowl and making lots of silly noises.

‘That’s the smallest cat I’ve ever seen in my life,’ said Ruby, watching it crunch delicately on nuggets of Science Diet.

It looked like a slightly insane illustration of a cat. It had a gigantic head and a tiny body and stringy black fur. It looked like it might be even older than Gus. Toby’s natural instinct was to pet the poor animal in some way, but there was something about the dandruffy look of its coat and the way its bones stuck out of its flesh that put him off.

‘I can’t believe he kept a cat in here all these years,’ said Ruby. ‘Why did he keep it secret?’

‘Lord knows,’ said Toby. ‘Maybe the old landlord didn’t allow animals in the house. Maybe he thought I’d make him get rid of it.’

‘Tragic, isn’t it? Like a little runt or something.’

‘Terrible-looking creature.’ Toby tutted and shook his head.

‘Oh, but quite cute in a funny sort of way, don’t you think?’

‘Not really.’ Toby stood up and stretched his legs. ‘What the hell are we going to do with it?’

‘I don’t want it,’ said Ruby, recoiling slightly.

‘Neither do I.’

‘We’ll have to get rid of it.’

‘What – kill it?’

‘No!’ Ruby looked at him aghast. ‘Give it to a home. Or something.’

‘Oh, God,’ Toby sighed as yet another job added itself to the list of Things He Had To Do Because Gus Had Died. He’d already spent an hour on the phone this morning trying to track down Gus’s great-niece, who’d moved, it seemed, about ten times since Gus had last spoken to her. He’d then somehow found himself offering to host a ‘small drinks party’ after Gus’s funeral the following week which would be hideous, absolutely hideous. Next, he had to find a new tenant for Gus’s room, which would probably necessitate a full redecoration as he doubted that anyone under the age of sixty would have the slightest interest in the 1970s boarding-house look Gus had created in here. And now he had to do something about this odd little cat that Gus had been hiding in his room for possibly fifteen years.

Ruby got to her feet and sauntered towards a chest of drawers. ‘I wonder what sort of stuff he’s got,’ she said, idly pulling open a drawer.

‘Ruby!’ Toby chastised. ‘You can’t go through his stuff.’

‘Why not? He’s dead. Oh, my God. Jesus – look at these!’ She spun round, clutching a piece of bright orange paisley cotton.

‘What is that?’ said Toby.

‘Gus’s pants!’ she beamed. ‘I mean, where do you even buy things like this?’ She held them up to the light and examined them.

Toby glanced around the room again. His heart lurched. ‘I can’t believe he’s dead.’

‘Me neither.’ Ruby put the pants back and closed the drawer …

‘Ninety-seven years,’ sighed Toby. ‘He’s taken ninety-seven years of life to the grave with him. All those experiences, all those emotions. People he loved, places he’s seen – gone.’ He clicked his fingers and let his head drop into his chest. ‘I wish I’d talked to him more. Wish I’d let him pass on his stories to me. I could have kept them for him. You know.’

‘Oh, stop being so maudlin.’ Ruby poked him in the thigh with the toe of her shoe. ‘He was a miserable old bastard. He didn’t want to share his stories with anyone. I used to try talking to him all the time. Got nothing. I tell you what you need,’ she stretched and yawned. ‘A stiff drink.’

‘But it’s not even five o’clock.’

‘Yes. But by the time I’ve made the drinks and brought them back it will be. And besides, it’s dark out. It’s as good as night-time. Rum and Coke? Gin and tonic? Something stronger? I’ve got a bottle of schnapps?’

Toby stared up at Ruby, his face pulling itself automatically into an expression of disapproval. But he let it go. He couldn’t be bothered playing the fusty old stick, not today. ‘A glass of red wine would be lovely,’ he said, letting a small smile soften his face.

‘Good boy.’ She beamed at him.

She left the room then and Toby watched her go. Ruby Lewis. The love of his life.

The little cat scurried back under the bed at the sound of a slamming door downstairs and Toby got to his feet. He went to the window and stared out across the rooftops. The snow on the ground had melted, but it still clung to the roofs and treetops like sheets of royal icing. It would be gone by tomorrow morning, though, disappeared down drainholes and gullies, taking the memories of a snowy January day with it. London snow was like life: here today, gone tomorrow. What was the point of it all?

Ruby returned, clutching a bottle of Cava and two long-stemmed glasses.

‘I found this in the fridge,’ she said. ‘I think it’s Melinda’s.’

‘Oh, my God, she’ll go mental.’

‘Yes,’ Ruby winked. ‘I know. But it just seemed fitting.’ She popped the cork and poured them a glass each. ‘To Gus,’ she said, holding her glass aloft. ‘A funny old bastard, but he always left the seat down and he never left a skid mark.’

‘To Gus,’ said Toby. ‘And to the future. May it be as bright as Gus’s underpants.’