It was not at all difficult to discover the name of Sam Irwin’s agent. Patrick simply went round to the stage door of the Fantasy Theatre and asked, after driving straight to London from Stratford-upon-Avon. By this time the cast were beginning to come in for the evening performance. The stage door-keeper telephoned somebody, and a man appeared whom Patrick recognised as the actor playing Malcolm. He supplied the answer straight away, said he was grieved about Sam, and announced that he meant to go to the funeral.
Patrick was glad to find some evidence that Sam had been regarded, if not with affection, at least with esteem, by his colleagues. It was too late to call on the agent now; that must wait. The evening lay blankly ahead, and he thought of Liz. He got into the car and drove to Bolton Gardens, where she lived.
Liz took some time to answer the bell, and he had almost given her up when at last he heard her disembodied voice over the entry-phone as he stood on the step outside the old house in which she had a flat. She sounded surprised when she heard who it was below, but bade him enter, and the door unlocked to admit him.
Her flat was on the third floor. It had only two rooms, apart from the bathroom and kitchen, but they were large. Patrick had not been there for some time; there was a comfortable feeling of familiarity, however, as he walked through the door which Liz had left slightly ajar and into the hall, where a vase of daffodils stood on a small table under an old, gilt-framed mirror. Liz appeared at once, wearing a towelling robe.
‘I was having a bath when you rang,’ she said.
Patrick kissed her. He always did when they met, but chastely. Now he suddenly kissed her a second time, and with more fervour.
She looked surprised, but pleased.
‘You look very seductive,’ he said.
‘Do I?’ She laughed, blushed slightly, and added, ‘Good.’
It was Patrick’s turn to look surprised.
‘Are you expecting anyone?’ he asked suspiciously.
I should say yes, thought Liz, but she answered truthfully.
‘No. I’ve got a manuscript to read. I was going to spend the evening with it.’ Liz was a publisher’s editor.
‘Come out to dinner instead,’ said Patrick, and rather spoiled it by adding, ‘to make up for the other evening.’
‘All right. Since you press me, I will,’ she agreed.
‘Oh, Liz, I didn’t mean it like that,’ said Patrick, aware suddenly of how graceless he sounded. ‘What a boor I am.’
It was unlike him to castigate himself.
‘Give yourself a drink while I get dressed,’ she said, suppressing an impulse to reassure him. ‘You know where everything is.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Patrick, putting a hand on her arm as she turned away. Her hair was damp round her small, pointed face, and her eyes were large and dark. There were shadows under them. She looked up at him, and there was an instant when either of them might have drawn back with a laugh or a light remark, but neither did. Patrick kissed her again, and less chastely this time.
After some moments they did move apart and gazed at one another in wonder. Then the habit of years reasserted itself; they both laughed, Patrick released her and the incident was over. Liz disappeared into her room, and Patrick went into her sitting-room considerably shaken.
Watch it, he told himself. Liz’ll throw you out if you get those sort of ideas about her; you’re a brother figure to her, no more. You can’t treat Liz like some other girl; she’s vulnerable, and you’ve known her too long. Besides, you don’t want any complications.
When she came back, wearing a long blue skirt and a striped shirt, looking somewhat Edwardian, she behaved as if nothing had happened, sitting in the one armchair and not beside him on the sofa. She seemed composed. While dressing, she had wondered, in some agitation, what mood to adopt, and had decided to play for safety.
The foolish pair sipped their drinks in detached amity.
‘Have you any more news about Sam?’ Liz asked.