'Of course. Had you forgotten, Miss Darlington? We are booked to appear together for a whole week.'
'Oh... oh yes... I'm afraid I had forgotten that.'
'But it's all right, isn't it?' he asked anxiously. 'After hearing you tonight I could not bear to have anyone else play my music.'
'I think it's all right,' she said. 'Yes, I think
that'll be all right.' She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. 'My heavens, it's late! I must go! I'll never get up in the morning to get to work!'
'To work?' Mr Botibol said. 'To work?' Then slowly, reluctantly, he forced himself back to reality, 'Ah yes, to work. Of course, you have to get to work.'
'I certainly do.'
'Where do you work, Miss Darlington?'
'Me? Well,' and now she hesitated a moment, looking at Mr Botibol. 'As a matter of fact I work at the old Academy.'
'I hope it is pleasant work,' he said. 'What Academy is that?'
'I teach the piano.'
Mr Botibol jumped as though someone had stuck him from behind with a hatpin. His mouth opened very wide.
'It's quite all right,' she said, smiling. 'I've always wanted to be Horowitz. And could I, do you think could I please be Schnabel tomorrow?'
Vengeance is Mine Inc.
It was snowing when I woke up.
I could tell that it was snowing because there was a kind of brightness in the room and it was quiet outside with no footstep-noises coming up from the street and no tyre-noises but only the engines of the cars. I looked up and I saw George over by the window in his green dressing-gown, bending over the paraffin-stove, making the coffee.
'Snowing,' I said.
'It's cold,' George answered. 'It's really cold.'
I got out of bed and fetched the morning paper from outside the door. It was cold all right and I ran back quickly and jumped into bed and lay still for a while under the bedclothes, holding my hands tight between my legs for warmth.
'No letters?' George said.
'No. No letters.'
'Doesn't look as if the old man's going to cough up.'
'Maybe he thinks four hundred and fifty is enough for one month,' I said.
'He's never been to New York. He doesn't know the cost of living here.'
'You shouldn't have spent it all in one week.'
George stood up and looked at me. 'We shouldn't have spent it, you mean.'
'That's right,' I said. 'We.' I began reading the paper.
The coffee was ready now and George brought the pot over and put it on the table between our beds. 'A person can't live without money,' he said. 'The old man ought to know that.' He got back into his bed without taking off his green dressing-gown. I went on reading. I finished the racing page and the football page and then I started on Lionel Pantaloon, the great political and society columnist. I always read Pantaloon - same as the other twenty or thirty million people in the country. He's a habit with me; he's more than a habit; he's a part of my morning, like three cups of coffee, or shaving.
'This fellow's got a nerve,' I said.
'Who?'