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       17

      Nicola had moved into this flat in her late twenties; quite soon she would have been living here for exactly five years.

      The flat was one of those lucky scores – such things can’t be sought or even found serendipitously: they fall into the laps of those who manage to be in the right place at the right time by sheer accident. It had been one of the last of those dilapidated, rent-controlled Notting Hill flats, in a Victorian building whose 120-year lease was due when Nicola first moved in to expire a few years later.

      The time arrived, the freehold of the building duly changed hands, and the new owners promptly notified each of the building’s several tenants of his or her consequent options. Nicola, like her neighbours, was presented thus with the choice either of vacating her flat in return for a cash payment, or of purchasing the leasehold of the flat herself. Were she simply to remain as tenant the flat would be modernised and, as the house agents say, substantially upgraded; a new and quite unaffordable rent would thereafter be levied. Nicola’s only possible choice – unable to afford to pay a higher rent, or to buy the leasehold – would have been to take the money and run; and she would have had to run rather a long way before finding another affordable flat – whether to rent, or to buy. It would not be so pretty nor so conveniently situated; she would certainly have been thrown into disarray for a period of several months or even years, had it not been for Jonathan.

      Ah, Jonathan.

      ‘Well, it all looks pretty straightforward,’ he said. He was sitting on the sofa – the sofa that had been, the old wreck with its faded linen slipcover, when Nicola had been the sole inhabitant of this second-floor flat – reading through the letter from the new landlords, a property company with a Mayfair address. It had arrived in that morning’s post; she’d read it walking up the street to the tube: horrible. She’d telephoned Jonathan at work and asked him to come round that evening and take a butcher’s.

      They’d been walking out for slightly less than a year: it seemed to be going quite beautifully: except for that edge of anxiety or even of fear – ‘can it last? are we actually – shall we – do you really love me?’ – never articulated but always there, like a drone note which was silenced only during the act of love itself. But they lived, she lived, in hope, because it seemed, it just absolutely seemed to be the right, and just possibly, in so far as anything might be, the perfect thing: Jonathan and Nicola. A nice couple. Nicola and Jonathan – a couple: better off in every significant way together than alone: a couple, with their own jokes, their own memories, and their own impregnable psychic space. ‘You couldn’t pop round tonight could you? Just quickly?’ ‘Of course. No problem. Shall I bring something to eat?’ ‘No, it’s alright. I think there’s some food …’ ‘Well, we can always go out. I’ll see you about sevenish.’

      He’d arrived with some flowers for her, and a bottle of wine. ‘Jonathan, you are nice.’ ‘Am I? Am I? Come here.’ The dark blue smell of English serge: nothing else like it. Then the smell of Jonathan. Nothing else … ‘Now, where’s this letter of yours?’

      Jonathan sitting on the old sofa, glass of wine in one hand, the letter in the other. ‘Well, it all looks pretty straightforward.’ ‘I hoped it wasn’t.’ ‘How do you mean?’ ‘I hoped there was a loophole.’ ‘No; you see …’ ‘So—’ while she was chopping something, or peeling something, getting their dinner together; he had come into the kitchen, he was leaning against a workbench, watching her; she stopped what she was doing. She stared down at the chopping board. ‘So … I don’t really have any choice.’ She felt completely hollow. It was a disaster. She was so perfectly happy, here. There was a view from the bedroom window of the communal gardens; you could hear children playing, shrieking, sometimes, with the joy that only children know. She picked up the vegetable knife again and stared at it as if ignorant of its function. ‘I’m going to have to find somewhere else to live.’ Slowly. The horror of it.

      ‘You could buy the leasehold. It’d be a steal: as the sitting tenant you’d get something like a one-third reduction in the market price.’

      ‘I know. I can’t afford it even then. I’ve been doing the arithmetic all day. You know what I earn – it’s just not possible.’

      He thought for a moment. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said. ‘Well – look, what about getting on with the dinner, eh? I’m starving: I could get dangerous if we don’t eat soon. Here, have some more of this.’ He refilled her glass. ‘Can I do anything?’ ‘It’s okay. Alright. I’m nearly there.’ Carry on; be brave.

      After they’d sat down and begun to eat, he looked across at her. ‘There is one other solution,’ he said. She’d thought of it too, of course. She was almost sick, now, with apprehension, hoping almost to the point of panic that he might

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