Free Blame It on the Bossa Nova by James Brodie Page A

Nigel, back from Hong Kong for some reason. Either him or one of his family, or someone like me whom he’d given the key. What a bore. Tonight of all nights. I was even less inclined than usual to be sociable. I rang the bell to give fair warning, I didn’t want to catch some guy jerking himself off over the kitchen sink. But no one answered. I rang again then let myself in. I was gripped by a moment’s fear as I imagined someone standing behind the door about to jump out on me. Then I saw Pascale. She was sitting in the only really comfortable chair in the flat - a capacious, floral-print covered armchair. She was wearing a dress that looked like it could be high fashion, if I only knew what that was. It showed up her figure well. She looked classy, as if she might be going out for a smart informal evening. I noticed her coat, slung over the back of a chair in the corner.
    “Good evening Alex, so this is where you live.”
    “How did you get in?”
    “Toby gave me the key a month ago. This is the first time I’ve had to use it.”
    I stood there for a second really pissed off by her arrogance. So, she was a good looker, but she didn’t like me and she thought I didn’t like her. So who was she to walk into my flat as if she owned it? She caught my mood.
    “Have I put you out?” she asked, but not in a troubled, soul-searching kind of way.
    “Not really, I always prepare an extra portion for dinner in case someone unexpected drops in. It’s an old Polish custom.”
    “Oh don’t worry, I’m not hungry.”
    “Good.” We looked at each other for a while then we both did the time-honoured looking out of the window into the middle distance bit.
    “That’s Battersea Park,” I said. “... Why did you come here then?”
    “There was a man getting on my nerves.”
    “Toby?”
    “Whfffuff,” she made a Gallic gesture of ridicule. “... No, another man. He kept bothering me, coming round my flat.”
    “Wouldn’t leave you alone you mean?”
    “That’s it.”
    “You poor bitch.”
    “You don’t like me do you Alex?”
    “Ah... Like? ... No, I don’t like you. But I don’t think I dislike you. It’s more a vague feeling of antipathy. To me you’re antipatica, as they say in Italy.”
    “Yes. Antipathique, as we say in France... That’s a shame. Still, nevertheless, if you don’t mind I would like to use the flat tonight.”
    I shrugged my shoulders in resignation.
    “This guy, he gets violent does he? Loses control?”
    “It must be nice to live in a dream world Alex.... No, he doesn’t get violent. But he’s giving me a hard time just at the present, so if you don’t mind...” She lit up a cigarette and proffered me a packet of ten Olivier.
    “Want one.” I took one and sat down facing her.
    “Cheers..... I’ve had a hard time today myself.”
    True to character she had no interest in the events of my day and so we sat there in silence. “.... Yes, really hard.” I continued, supplying for my imagination the required interrogative response. “....There’s a flu epidemic in Balham. Did you know that?..... It’s pretty tough down there.... They’re dropping like flies.... Open graves on Tooting Bec Common, shovelling them in with bulldozers.... The area’s cordoned off by the military... They’re shooting anyone who tries to break out... They’re going to let the plague burn itself out, then go in and raze everything to the ground - Start again.... People can be replaced, that’s what they were saying.... I think they’re being too harsh.... You’d think they’d let the kids out....” Clouds of cigarette smoke rose slowly to the ceiling. We watched them in silence.
    “Tell me about your day Alex..” she said.
    “Let’s watch television,” I said and turned on the snowstorm. A guy called Barry Bucknell was busy turning a well proportioned unspoiled end of terrace Victorian family house in Ealing into two flats. He was explaining how to conceal the panelling on the pine