‘I don’t …’ No, I didn’t want to tell him. But perhaps I ought to. But then what? What would he do or say? A tremor quickened in my lower stomach, a tightening at my core.
‘Well?’
‘It’s just … I spilled something on it. I’m sorry. I’ll get it professionally cleaned.’ What was I saying? Was I really going to explain what had happened to some remote tradesperson?
‘Bring it down,’ he said.
‘Now?’
He nodded, the corners of his mouth tight.
My legs were heavy on the ascent of the staircase, and I felt sick with panic, yet at the same time exhilarated, as if I were embarking on some fantastic adventure.
When I sniffed the leather, my faint hope that the aroma had faded overnight was dashed. Maybe Jasper wouldn’t notice. But no. That was just exactly the kind of thing he would notice. In fact, he probably knew what had happened already. I had the feeling he could see inside me, peel away my layers and pluck out my private thoughts.
I put its metal ring around my finger and let it dangle on my way back downstairs. All the beautiful pictures watched me pass, all the ballerinas, bons vivants, burlesque girls. They were the witnesses to my onward march of shame.
Jasper was breaking eggs into the pan when I re-entered the kitchen.
‘Ah,’ he said, looking up. ‘Show me.’
He held out the hand that wasn’t occupied with pushing the bacon around with a spatula.
I laid the strop across his palm, tenderly, giving it the respect I had forgotten to accord it last night.
He put down the spatula and inspected the strop at close quarters.
‘Where’s the spillage?’ he asked.
It wasn’t visible but I pointed towards the damned spot.
He frowned.
‘I don’t see anything. What did you spill?’
He bent closer and then drew in a breath, raising his eyes to mine. I held myself perfectly still for a horrible second, then he smiled the most radiant smile I had ever seen.
‘Oh, I see,’ he said.
I had nothing to say. I stood there, panting a little, wondering why my legs wouldn’t let me run away.
He wrapped it around his hand, slowly, making sure I paid attention.
‘What shall we do about this?’ he wondered aloud.
‘I can get it cleaned,’ I repeated.
‘No, no.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ll take care of that. That wasn’t what I meant.’
With a tremor of shock, it occurred to me that I had been meaning to leave, so all of this was technically avoidable. The thought crashed into my head but I didn’t want to let it in. I didn’t want to leave now. I wanted to know what was going to happen. I wanted to read the next page of the story.
‘What did you mean then?’ I whispered.
‘What am I going to do with you?’
The pan hissed and spat behind him. He sighed and turned his attention to it, putting down the strop and picking up the spatula.
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘No, before you do that, take your bloody bags back upstairs.’