44

Con tucked the poem into the inside pocket of his jacket and was about to leave the house when he heard loud footsteps coming down the stairs. He went to investigate and saw Ruby, in a dressing gown, pinioned against a wall by an overweight man in a suit. Her dressing gown had come apart and her right breast was exposed. The other breast was covered by the man’s hand. The man was kissing her throat and Ruby was staring at the ceiling.

This was the man that had woken him up last night at three-thirty, slamming doors and singing. This was the man who’d fucked Ruby loudly and mulishly until 4.30 a.m. This was the man, if Ruby’s cries of unbridled passion were accurate, called Tim.

Tim pulled away from Ruby and turned to look down at Con. He had one of those faces, fleshy, smug, spoiled. His hair was very thick and his suit was very expensive. He was about thirty-five and he was wearing a wedding ring.

‘Morning,’ he said.

‘Morning,’ said Con.

Ruby pulled her dressing gown together and avoided Con’s gaze.

‘This is Tim,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ said Con, ‘I know.’

‘Tim – this is my housemate, Con.’

‘Con?’ Tim boomed. ‘What sort of con exactly? A con artist? Or an ex-con?’

Con tried to smile, but failed. He left them there, on the stairs, Ruby in her old make-up, her fat banker in a wedding ring, and headed towards Hanover Square, to Daisy.