(1992) Prophecy by Peter James Read Free Book Online Page B

room.
    Frannie had hung a couple of Egyptian prints on the walls, and on the mantelpiece were her family photographs, as well as two small fragments of tessera that she had pocketed from one of the first digs she had ever been on, and which still gave her a thrill. In spite of all the objects she handled daily at the Museum, nothing quite measured the feelings she got from the few treasures of her own.
    She had finished getting ready by twenty past seven and had forty minutes to kill. She looked around the sitting-room. Her efforts of last night had improved it a little. It was the first flat she had ever had of her own and she did not mind the cheap furniture and the drabness because it had given her freedom and independence. She always enjoyed playing hostess when her friends came round. But most of them were as used to the flat’s less-than-impressive air as she was. It was only now, with Oliver coming, that Frannie suddenly found herself gazing uncomfortably at the ugly vinyl sofa and armchairs, the dining-table with its peeling mahogany laminate, and the shabby net curtains.
    The only stamp of her own personality on the room lay in the framed posters of past exhibitions at the Museum, her books and her pride and joy – a small, plain earthenware Roman vase that sat on the coffee table. It was pear-shaped and rather dumpy, with the handle and part of the rim missing, and had been carefully glued back together by the amateur archaeologist who had dug up the pieces in 1925.
    Often Frannie wondered about the life of the Roman artisan who had made it, imagined what he or she had looked like. The clay indicated it had been made in Italy and brought over maybe by an immigrant like her own parents. She had paid five hundred pounds for the vase three years ago in the Portobello Road, on the day she had received the letter from the Museum telling her she had got the job. It had been a spur-of-the-moment bit of madness that had blown her savings, but she had never regretted it.
    She switched off the overhead light, leaving just a table light and the wonky lamp standard and that made a further improvement, made the room seem almost cosy. Another year and she would buy somewhere of her own. It would be tiny but it would be tasteful, she resolved.
    She picked the Jilly Cooper novel she had just started off the sofa, made a mental note of the page number and closed it, tucking it into her bookshelves, and pulled out instead a paperback of Guy de Maupassant short stories, which she opened and placed casually, face down, in the same position on the sofa.
    As eight o’clock approached, Frannie began to feel nervous. She went into the bedroom, and felt a bit reassured by the girl who stared back at her from the mirror. The short dress showed off her legs and herfigure well. She had frown lines from anxiety so she deliberately relaxed and smiled. A sultry girl with dark, shiny hair that framed her face and touched her shoulders smiled back. The girl looked OK.
    She looked great.
    She went back into the sitting-room, sat down and picked up the Maupassant, glancing through, unable to concentrate. She could hear muffled gunshots ringing out from the television in the flat above. Her watch said eight-fifteen. Then eight-thirty. He wasn’t coming. Chickened out. Stood her up. Going to end up spending the evening watching the box.
    Then she heard footsteps. A shadow crossed the curtains. The doorbell rang.
    She jumped up, went into the hall and opened the front door. Oliver Halkin peered over the huge bunch of flowers in his hands, looking relieved that he had found the right place. ‘Sorry I’m so late,’ he said. He pushed the flowers forward as if he was slightly embarrassed by them. ‘I hope you – sort of like these –’
    ‘Wow!’ she said. Their scents blotted out for a brief moment the rank, humid smells of London at night, of unemptied dustbins, exhaust fumes and dust, reminding her that there was another world of parkland and