The Angel's Game (The Cemetery of Forgotten 2)

When I returned home an hour later, I found her sitting on my doorstep clutching what I imagined must be her story. As soon as she saw me she stood up and forced a smile.

“I told you to leave it in my letter box,” I said.

Isabella nodded and shrugged her shoulders.

“As a token of my gratitude I’ve brought you some coffee from my parents’ shop. It’s Colombian and really good. The coffee didn’t fit through your letter box so I thought I’d better wait for you.”

An excuse like that could have been invented only by a budding novelist. I sighed and opened the door.

“In.”

I went up the stairs, Isabella following like a lapdog a few steps behind.

“Do you always take that long to have your breakfast? Not that it’s any of my business, of course, but I’ve been waiting here for three-quarters of an hour, so I was beginning to worry. I said to myself, I hope he hasn’t choked on something. It would be just my luck. The one time I meet a writer in the flesh and then he goes and swallows an olive the wrong way and bang goes my literary career,” she rattled on.

I stopped halfway up the steps and looked at her with the most hostile expression I could muster.

“Isabella, for things to work out between us we’re going to have to set down a few rules. The first is that I ask the questions and you just answer them. When there are no questions from me, you don’t give me answers or spontaneous speeches. The second rule is that I can take as long as I damn well please to have breakfast, an afternoon snack, or to daydream, and that does not constitute a matter for debate.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you. I understand that slow digestion of food is an aid to inspiration.”

“The third rule is that sarcasm is not allowed before noon. Understood?”

“Yes, Señor Martín.”

“The fourth is that you must not call me Señor Martín, not even at my funeral. I might seem like a fossil to you, but I like to think that I’m still young. In fact, I am young.”

“What should I call you?”

“By my name, David.”

The girl nodded. I opened the door of the apartment and showed her in. Isabella hesitated for a moment, then slipped in, giving a little jump.

“I think you still look quite young for your age, David.”

I stared at her in astonishment.

“How old do you think I am?”

Isabella looked me up and down, assessing.

“About thirty? But a young-looking thirty?”

“Just shut up and go and make some coffee with that concoction you’ve brought.”

“Where is the kitchen?”

“Look for it.”

We shared a delicious Colombian coffee sitting in the gallery. Isabella held her cup and watched me furtively as I read the twenty pages she had brought with her. Every time I turned a page and looked up I was confronted by her expectant gaze.

“If you’re going to sit there looking at me like an owl, this will take a long time.”

“What do you want m

e to do?”

“Didn’t you want to be my assistant? Then assist. Look for something that needs tidying and tidy it, for example.”