September (1990) Read Online Free

grateful, because it had chased away the night, and now it was the next day and he did not have to try to sleep. Around him, people stirred. The cabin crew came around with orange juice and scalding face towels. He wiped his face and felt the stubble on his chin. Others collected themselves, found wash-bags, went to the lavatory for a shave. Noel stayed where he was. He could shave when he reached home.
    Which, three hours later, he did. Weary, dirty, and dishevelled, he clambered out of the taxi and paid the driver off. The morning air was cool, blessedly cool after New York, and it was raining lightly, a dampening drizzle. In Pembroke Square the trees were greening, the pavements wet. He smelt the freshness and, as the taxi drove away, stood for a moment and thought of spending this day on his own, recovering. Having a nap, taking a long walk. But this was not to be. There was work to be done. The office and his chairman waited. Noel picked up his bag and his brief-case, went down the area steps and opened his own front door.
    It was called a garden flat because at the back of it French windows opened out onto a tiny patio, his share of the larger garden of the tall house. In the evening the sun fell upon it, but at this early hour it lay in shadow, and the upstairs cat was comfortably ensconced in one of his canvas chairs, having apparently spent the night there.
    It was not a large flat but the rooms were spacious. A living-room and a bedroom, a small kitchen and a bathroom. Overnight guests had to sleep on the sofa, a tricky piece of equipment which, if resolutely approached, folded down into a second double bed. Mrs. Muspratt, who did for him, had been in while he was away and so all was neat and clean, but airless and stuffy.
    He opened the French windows and chased the cat away. In his bedroom, he unzipped his suitcase and took out his wash-bag. He undressed and dropped his soiled and crumpled clothes onto the floor. In the bathroom he cleaned his teeth, took a scalding shower, shaved. By now he needed, more than anything, black coffee. In his towel robe and barefooted, he padded into the kitchen, filled the kettle and switched it on, spooned coffee into his French coffee-pot. The smell of this was heartening and delicious. While the coffee filtered, he collected his mail, sat at the kitchen table and leafed through the envelopes. Nothing looked too urgent. There was, however, a garish picture postcard of Gibraltar. He turned it over. It had been posted in London and was from the wife of Hugh Pennington, an old school friend of Noel's, who lived in Ovington Street.
    Noel, I've been trying to ring you, but no reply.
    Unless we hear to the contrary, we'll expect yo u f or dinner the thirteenth. Seven-thirty for eight.
    No black tie. Love, Delia.
    He sighed. This evening. Unless we hear to the contrary. Oh well, by then he'd probably have got his second wind. And it would be more amusing than watching television. He dropped the postcard onto the table, heaved himself to his feet, and went to pour his coffee.
    Shut in the office, in conference for most of the day, Noel lost track and sight of what was happening out of doors. Finally emerging and driving home through rush-hour traffic that did not rush but moved at the pace of an arthritic snail, he saw that the rain of the morning had been blown away by the breeze and it was a perfect May evening. By now he had reached that state beyond exhaustion when all is light and clear and strangely disembodied, and the prospect of sleep seemed as far away as death. Instead, another shower, a change of clothes, and a drink. And then he would not take his car but walk to Ovington Street. The fresh air and exercise would whet his appetite for the excellent meal that he hoped was waiting for him. He could scarcely remember when he had last sat at a table and eaten something that was not a sandwich.
    The walk was a good idea. He went by leafy back roads, residential terraces, and gardens