This was no error, however, this was the genuine article. The man’s eyes were glued to Gavin, so enamoured of him he seemed to be hurting with it. His mouth was open, as though the words of introduction had failed him. Not much of a face, but far from ugly. Tanned too often, and too quickly: maybe he’d lived abroad. He was assuming the man was English: his prevarication suggested it.
Against habit, Gavin made the opening move.
‘You like French movies?’
The punter seemed to deflate with relief that the silence between them had been broken.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘You going in?’
The man pulled a face.
‘I… I… don’t think I will.’
‘Bit cold
‘Yes. It is.’
‘Bit cold for standing around, I mean.’
‘Oh-yes.’
The punter took the bait.
‘Maybe . . . you’d like a drink?’
Gavin smiled.
‘Sure, why not?’
‘My flat’s not far.’
‘Sure.’
‘I was getting a bit cheesed off, you know, at home.’
‘I know the feeling.’
Now the other man smiled. ‘You are . . .?’
‘Gavin.’
The man offered his leather-gloved hand. Very formal, business-like. The grip as they shook was strong, no trace of his earlier hesitation remaining.
‘I’m Kenneth,’ he said, ‘Ken Reynolds.’
‘Ken.’
‘Shall we get out of the cold?’
‘Suits me.’
‘I’m only a short walk from here.’
A wave of musty, centrally-heated air hit them as Reynolds opened the door of his apartment. Climbing the three flights of stairs had snatched Gavin’s breath, but Reynolds wasn’t slowed
at all. Health freak maybe. Occupation? Something in the city. The handshake, the leather gloves. Maybe Civil Service.
‘Come in, come in.’
There was money here. Underfoot the pile of the carpet was lush, hushing their steps as they entered. The hallway was almost bare: a calendar hung on the wall, a small table with telephone, a heap of directories, a coat-stand.
‘It’s warmer in here.’
Reynolds was shrugging off his coat and hanging it up. His gloves remained on as he led Gavin a few yards down the hallway and into a large room.
‘Let’s have your jacket,’ he said.
‘Oh … sure.’
Gavin took off his jacket, and Reynolds slipped out into the hall with it. When he came in again he was working off his gloves; a slick of sweat made it a difficult job. The guy was still nervous: even on his home ground. Usually they started to calm down once they were safe behind locked doors. Not this one: he was a catalogue of fidgets.
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Yeah; that would be good.’
‘What’s your poison?’
‘Vodka.’
‘Surely. Anything with it?’
‘Just a drop of water.’
‘Purist, eh?’
Gavin didn’t quite understand the remark.
‘Yeah,’ he said.
‘Man after my own heart. Will you give me a moment – I’ll just fetch some ice.’
‘No problem.’
Reynolds dropped the gloves on a chair by the door, and left Gavin to the room. It, like the hallway, was almost stiflingly warm, but there was nothing homely or welcoming about it. Whatever his profession, Reynolds was a collector. The room was dominated by displays of antiquities, mounted on the walls, and lined up on shelves. There was very little furniture, and what there was seemed odd: battered tubular frame chairs had no place in an apartment this expensive. Maybe the man was a university don, or a museum governor, something academic. This was no stockbroker’s living room.
Gavin knew nothing about art, and even less about history, so the displays meant very little to him, but he went to have a closer look, just to show willing. The guy was bound to ask him what he thought of the stuff. The shelves were deadly dull. Bits and pieces of pottery and sculpture: nothing in its entirety, just fragments. On some of the shards there remained a glimpse of design, though age had almost washed the colours out. Some of the sculpture was recognisably human: part of a torso, or foot (all five toes in place), a face that was all but eaten away, no longer male or female. Gavin stifled a yawn. The heat, the exhibits and the thought of sex made him lethargic.