On Payment

The flat smelled of new paint, and a print by, I think, Klimt, I want to say Klimt, hung on the wall of the kitchen / diner / living room.

I had been away for some days, in fruitless romantic pursuit of a librarian from the Three Counties Area. All had been going well until she'd asked me in detail about the poems of Ashbery, which I had professed to love, I confess, as a white lie in order to woo her. I have always been more of an O'Hara man, and my knowledge of Ashbery is, at best, scant.

My protestations that we might compromise on a shared love of Kenneth Koch fell on deaf ears, and it was the cold of platform two at Hereford station for me. But as I'd journeyed home I'd comforted myself with the sure knowledge that my cheery, pleasantly cluttered flat awaited. In the depths of disappointment, I've always felt, home fires are a comfort.

So you will understand that I was not my equable self when discovering, upon my return, a lick of paint and a Klimt print. In my heartbreak, I had fondly pictured everything as it was. Two shocks in one day was one too many. 

"What the fuck's happened here?"

I am not prone to swear usually, but the moment seemed apt.

From the open bathroom door I heard the sound of the radio, in there, sure enough, my housemate, Cornelius was applying paint to a wall with a vigour which I can only describe as unwise. 

"Oh, hullo" he said, without turning to face me "In answer to your intemperate question, what's happening here is that I am re-decorating. You will note that I omit the expletive. You're aware I've been wanting to do it for a while."

It was partly true, it was a topic regularly discussed at our informal flat meetings. Where he and I differed was that it was I who had been in favour of re-decorating. My flat-mate had regularly demurred, on grounds of cost. I decided to let the inconsistency pass, or I'd be there all day.

"We have indeed" I replied. "But how are we paying for this? With the train ticket to Hereford and the unsuccessful wooing I've nothing left, even if it was the early bird special." He looked at me gravely.

"I don't want you to fret, and let me express my regret at your lack of romantic success, I thought she was a keeper." I sighed, so had I. I have always been a fool for a well-read woman. "It's been paid for."

"How?" My flatmates gaze, usually so frank and open, became suddenly evasive. I tracked his quick, guilty glance. Upon the breakfast / dining / everything table lay an envelope. On that envelope, in a neat, slanted script, was written "To do your flat up". I examined the inside, it was empty. "Where did this come from?"

Cornelius shrugged, expressively. "Who knows where anything comes from? I can't be expected to keep track of everything. I don't even know who paid for these shoes." I glanced down, two tone leather, wing-tip, a trifle too spiffy to be painting in. I said so. My friend shrugged once more. "The point is not to look a gift horse in the mouth. We needed to redecorate, and we can. If the money happens to be an advance from Big Stath at Perfect Kebab who's expecting us to work it off as delivery riders, so be it. If it is a gift from providence, then that's grand too. Life is full of imponderable little mysteries." His manner aggravated me. I realised where the money for the shoes came from,

"Except that this isn't an imponderable mystery, is it? You've mortgaged my future for those shoes and a knock-off Klimt". Reader, my tone was heated.

Cornelius was imperturbable. "It's not a Klimt, it's a George Grosz, and anyway, Big Stath will probably forget, it was a promise made in drink." At this point the Universe, with its usual impeccable comic timing, caused the phone to ring, my friend didn't miss a beat "plus the exercise will do you good."

And so it was that not long after I came to deliver a large chicken kebab with extra garlic mayo to the house of Michelle, a primary school teacher with, as it turned out, an unparalleled knowledge of the novels of Kurt Vonnegut, so it's an ill wind etc etc.