Free A Good Year for the Roses (1988) by Mark Timlin Page B

closely at my reflection and the goatish gleam in my eyes, and wasn't so sure.
    I opened the drawer in front of me. The inside was packed with make-up. Boxes, tubes, bottles, all colours, all makes, glitter, matte, you name it, it was there.
    I lethargically pushed a few items about. I opened a giant box of face powder, and found just face powder. I pushed the drawer shut again. There were four drawers remaining. Two on my left and two on my right.
    The top drawer on the right held a hair dryer and a bag of thick plastic rollers. The drawer beneath contained a selection of gloves and belts, a woolly hat and some socks.
    In the top drawer on the left were Patsy's night clothes, neatly folded pyjamas and nightdresses. Nothing special, just what any average, middle class, affluent eighteen year old would wear as far as I knew.
    When I opened the last drawer, I found what average eighteen year olds don't normally use.
    The interior was packed tight with underwear. Not schoolgirl's knickers, but sexy, provocative gear.’ I pulled out G-strings made out of slippery silk, suspender belts that were no more than froths of lace. Bras with straps no thicker than string and at least a dozen pairs of stockings, all in different colours. Some still in their cellophane wrappings.
    And it was all quality stuff. I could tell from the labels attached to the flimsy garments. It was more Bond Street than East Street. I sat there with a hand full of silk and lace and could feel myself almost drooling. Quickly I dropped the underthings back into the drawer and slammed it shut.
    And George had told me that Patsy wasn't interested in boys.
    I sat for a while longer in that strange room, full of shadows that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun coming through the window. A room that belonged to someone who was half child and half sophisticated woman.
    The strangest and somehow worst thing was that there were no photographs, no letters, no diaries, no address book. It could have been an hotel room where the occupant had just taken a stroll down to fetch a newspaper.
    Had Patsy got rid of every scrap of paper that bore any importance to her life, or had George, or had none ever existed?
    I thought of Judith's room, which was crammed with notes to herself and exercise books full of childish scrawl and all the birthday cards she'd ever had pinned to the walls.
    I thought of my own room when I'd been eighteen where you couldn't move for the garbage strewn about.
    Patsy's room was like a morgue. Finally I couldn't stand it anymore and left.
    There was another door directly to my right. I guessed it was Patsy's bathroom. I entered. It was well appointed if rather small for the house. Just about the size of my whole flat. The room was decorated in pale blue with a navy bathroom suite. All very tasteful and colour co-ordinated.
    Dark blue towels hung across a rail. I felt them. They were bone dry, as was the interior of the bath and the sink. I found some blonde hairs stuck to the side of the bath. I held them between my fingers as if somehow I could capture the essence of the girl from the few strands. I touched them with my tongue, but could taste nothing except ancient shampoo.
    I opened the bathroom cabinet. It contained a fresh bar of soap, aspirin, Tampax, a dry tooth brush in a glass and a tube of toothpaste. I even opened the cistern and found nothing but dusty water.
    I turned off the light and left.
    Reluctantly, I walked back down the flight of stairs to the ground floor. I found George sitting in his library like a priest in a strange house waiting for a death to occur.
    I felt that he didn't belong in that huge mansion any more, maybe since Patsy had left, he didn't want to belong. In his hand he held a full glass of brandy.
    As I walked into the room, he poured me a drink unasked. I took it. I felt as though I deserved it.
    ‘George,’ I said, ‘didn't Patsy have an address book?’
    ‘Yes, of course,’ he replied.
    ‘Where is