LITMIR.BIZ

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disgusting. Being white, every speck of dust shows. As I rubbed away at them with the Astonish, I heard Theo’s door open. He was on his mobile phone.

      ‘Are you up for it?’ I heard him say as he came downstairs. ‘Right then. I’ll be there in fifteen. Don’t start without me!’ he added with a laugh. ‘Oh, hello Rose,’ he said pleasantly as he put his phone in his pocket. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while.’ His eyes suddenly narrowed. ‘What the heck are you doing?’ What the heck was I doing?

      ‘What the heck does it look like?’

      ‘Er, cleaning the banister spindles.’

      ‘Correct.’

      ‘Oh,’ he said. He looked dumbfounded for some reason. ‘I’m just on my way out. Well, er, have a nice evening,’ he added uncertainly. ‘See you.’

      ‘See you,’ I replied. As he left, carefully locking the front door behind him, I wondered about that remark. ‘Are you up for it?’ Hmm…that could only mean one thing. He’d obviously got someone. Well, that’s fine, I said to myself broad-mindedly – as long as he conducts his romantic affairs elsewhere. There’ll be no hanky-panky under my roof I decided firmly as I went into the kitchen and found a pack of instant soup. ‘Country-Style Leek and Asparagus’ said the box. Disgusting but it would have to do. I loathe cooking – I’ve never learned – and I don’t bother with food that much anyway so I simply buy things that are quick. Pot Noodles for instance – yes, I know, I know – bought pies, that kind of thing.

      ‘This is Radio Four!’ yelled Rudy as I emptied the greenish powder into a saucepan. ‘Scilly Light Automatic. Five or six. Rising. Occasionally good.’ Oh no. I’ve been leaving Radio Four on for him during the day and he’s started regurgitating selected bits. ‘Viking North Utsire. Steady. German Bight. Showers. Decreasing. Good.’ However, unlike the radio, I can’t turn Rudy off. ‘And welcome to Gardener’s Question Time!’ he announced warmly.

      ‘You start singing the theme tune from The Archers and you’re in big trouble,’ I said as I opened the fridge in search of some grapes to keep him quiet. Normally there’s not much in it. A heel of cheese maybe, two or three bottles of wine, half a loaf and Rudy’s fruit. But today the fridge overflowed. In the chiller were tiny vine-ripened plum tomatoes, three fat courgettes, and a glossy aubergine; on the shelf above a roll of French butter and a wedge of unctuous Brie. There were two free-range skinless chicken breasts, a tray of tiger prawns, and some slices of rosy pink ham. Theo was clearly a bon vivant.

      As I stirred my monosodium glutamate, I wondered who he was meeting – ‘Are you up for it?’ – and what she was like. Or maybe…yes. Maybe she wasn’t a she, maybe she was a he. Theo had told me he wouldn’t be having women over – ‘that won’t be a problem’ he’d said: and he’d laughed, and grimaced slightly, as though the suggestion was not only ludicrous, but somehow slightly distasteful. Maybe he was gay. Now I wondered why this hadn’t occurred to me before. After all, there was plenty of evidence that he might be. For example, he’d been living with this ‘friend’ of his, Mark, before, and then there’d been that gauche comment of his about my hair. He was obviously totally inept with women – he clearly hadn’t a clue. And he was quite well dressed and toned-looking, plus he had suspiciously refined tastes in fresh produce. I mean, I really don’t think a straight man – especially a Yorkshireman – would be seen dead buying miniature vine-ripened plum tomatoes, or, for that matter, free-range skinless chicken breasts. Yes, he probably was gay. What a waste, I thought idly. Oh well…

      As the soup began to simmer I suddenly realised that I’d found out next to nothing about Theo. So far we’d avoided contact – treading warily around each other like animals forced to share the same cage.

      Now I thought about Ed again – but then he’s always on my mind – with a dreadful, knotting sensation inside. Then I suddenly remembered: the shoebox…Oh God. It was still under Theo’s bed. Heart pounding, I rushed upstairs, pushed on his door, and got down on my hands and knees. There it still was, undisturbed. Phew. The chances of Theo finding it were slim but I wasn’t taking the risk. So I fished it out, but as I straightened up I turned round and suddenly stopped. For, positioned by the window, on a shiny tripod, was an old brass telescope. Hmm. So that, presumably, is what had been in the mysterious-looking black case. I listened at the door for a moment to make sure he hadn’t come back; then I went up to it, removed the lens cap and peered through the end. Although the thing was clearly antique the magnification was very strong. To my surprise I found myself looking right into the backs of the houses opposite. There was a woman lying on her bed: her legs were bare and I could even make out the pink nail polish on her toes. I swung the telescope to the left and saw a small boy watching TV. In the next house along I could see a human form moving behind frosted bathroom glass. So that’s why Theo said he liked the room’s aspect so much – he was a peeping Tom! His ad had said he’d wanted ‘privacy’ – other people’s privacy it appeared!

      I just knew that there was something odd about that boy and I was absolutely right! That’s why he spent so much time in his room and why I heard him pacing the floor late at night. Snooping on people is the pits I thought crossly as I decided to take a good look round his room. It was a complete and utter shambles – I had to fight the urge to tidy it up. The floor was strewn with discarded clothes, piles of old newspapers, rolled up posters and boxes of books. On the desk was a laptop computer surrounded by a mess of paperwork. His writing was appalling but on one pad I could just make out the words, ‘heavenly body,’ and there was a pair of binoculars – well! So he clearly wasn’t gay, he was a bit of a saddo I reflected crossly, or maybe he was a Lonely Young Man. But what a disgusting invasion of privacy I reflected indignantly as I inspected the rest of his room. On the mantelpiece were some strange-looking bits of rock, and, in a silver frame, a black and white photo of an attractive blonde of about thirty-five. She was laughing, her left hand clapped to her chest as though she’d just heard the most wonderful joke. Now I glanced at the bed. A maroon duvet was pulled loosely over it, but from underneath – oh God, not another one – protruded a square of floral silk. I lifted up the quilt. Under the pillow was a short silk nightie with a Janet Reger label. Well, well, well! And I was just thinking about leaving my Am I A Transvestite? leaflet lying casually about when I heard the telephone ring. I quickly replaced the nightie, swung the telescope back into position, then grabbed the shoebox and ran downstairs.

      ‘Hello,’ I said breathlessly. There was nothing at the other end. ‘Hello?’ I said again. Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of heavy breathing. Goose bumps raised themselves up on my arms. ‘Hello?’ I repeated, more sharply now. ‘Hello, who is this please?’ I suddenly remembered the silent call I’d had the night Theo had first come round. Now all I could hear was deliberate, slow, heavy breathing. I shuddered – oh God, this was vile. Tempting though it was to let loose with a stream of unbridled abuse I decided just to put the phone down.

      ‘I think I’m getting nuisance phone calls,’ I said to Henry as we walked around the Windsmoor concession in Debenhams the following Saturday. ‘How about this?’ I held up a stretch lace, high-necked blouse. He cocked his head to one side.

      ‘I’d prefer a scoop neckline,’ he said.

      ‘Not advisable – you’ve got a hairy chest.’ I showed him a red crushed velvet jacket – size twenty. ‘This take your fancy?’ He shook his head.

      ‘So what happens with these calls?’ he asked as I riffled through a rack of large frocks. ‘Do they speak to you?’

      ‘No they don’t. All I hear is heavy breathing.’

      ‘Oh, nasty. So what do you do?’

      ‘I do what I advise my readers to do. I don’t speak to them, or try and engage them in conversation, and I don’t blow a whistle down the phone. I simply wait a few seconds, say absolutely nothing, then quietly put down the phone. They want you to react Henry – that’s why they do it; so it’s much better to spoil their fun. Eventually the tiny-minded wankers realise that

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