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town and enjoy her leisure. She polished the surrounds
     of the floor and wedged the window open with Brenda’s tennis racket. The room lacked character, she thought, looking critically
     at the yellow utility furniture and the ladies in crinolines walking in pairs across the wallpaper. There was no colour scheme
     – nothing matched; there was no unity of design. Every time she made some little improvement, like arranging a curtain round
     the washbasin near the door, it only drew attention to the cracked tiles and the yards of antiquated piping climbing in convoluted
     loops up the wall. On the shelf she had improvised above the fireplace were some paperbacks, two library books and a bottle
     of H.P. sauce that Brenda had carelessly placed. Dissatisfied by all she saw, she went discontentedly on to the landing and
     carried the milk bottles downstairs. Lying on the doormat was an envelope addressed to her. When she opened it she thought
     she might faint. It was as if life until this moment had been spent underground or beneath the sluggish waters of a river.
     Now, as she read the words he had written, she shot to the surface, up into the blinding sunlight and the sweet-tasting air:
My dear Freda,
    If it is permissible may I call after work to offer my respects.
    Your friend,
    Vittorio.
    She clutched the note to her breast and flew in her fluffy bedroom-slippers up the stairs. Why can’t life always be like this,
     she thought, smiling and smiling at the lovely room with its cheerful wallpaper and the gay curtain that hid the waste-pipe
     of the washbasin. She revolved slowly in front of the open window, the street turning with her: the shining bonnets of the
     cars at the kerb, the spearheads of the painted railings, the thin black trees that were bouncing in the wind. Above the gardens
     devoid of leaf save for laurel bush and privet hedge, the pigeons rose and dipped and rose again, lifting to the rooftops.
     A woman in a long plaid skirt blew like a paper boat along the pavement.
    Freda couldn’t stop smiling. She closed the window and boiled a kettle of water, reaching to the shelf above the cooker for
     her toilet bag with her own special soap and her own clean flannel. She’d had to hide her things from Brenda, who was less
     than fussy – who could wipe her neck or her shoes on the dishcloth or her underclothes, all with equal impartiality, if nothing
     else was available. She’d have to tell her to go out for the evening. Anywhere would do: there was a new film on at the Odeon
     called
Super Dick.
She carried the blue plastic bowl filled with warm water into the living room and knelt in front of the gas fire. Grown solemn
     now and a little peaked, the tender sensual smile gone from her mouth, she curled her pudgy toes on the worn hearthrug and
     began to wash herself. It would be nice to buy a piece of steak for Vittorio. She couldn’t afford any for herself, but he’d
     appreciate her appetite was poor the day after her mother’s funeral. And she’d provide a salad of lettuceand green peppers and make a real dressing of garlic and lemon juice, such as he was used to. As for Brenda, she could go
     to the chippie for her supper. She was always saying she didn’t care for food, that it was sheer affectation to put herbs
     in things. People who baked food in the oven, she said, were daft – you could fry everything in a pan twice as quick. Despite
     her private schooling and her advantages, she’d been brought up on spam and chips and powdered eggs, and it was no wonder
     her husband Stanley had gone to the Little Legion every night. She couldn’t understand why suddenly she felt such resentment
     towards Brenda – the thought of her was spoiling her anticipation of the night to come. She frowned and slapped the soapy
     flannel against the soft contours of her arm. It’s my room, she told herself. I found it. I have every right to take my chances,
     to live my life. She felt refined out of existence