Another Country by Anjali Joseph Read Free Book Online Page A

again? In the bleached light, the furniture was impassive.
    Near the hall table, next to Simon’s desert boots, she found her shoes and pulled them on. She managed to slide back the door bolt, and shut the door behind her. The landing and stairwell were now those of many Parisian buildings. As she walked through the cold interior courtyard, the stone was slimy with dew; black plastic bags gave off overripe odours.
    She briefly feared the outer door wouldn’t let her leave, but she found the button to press and slipped into the street. It was raining, and cold. She walked slowly home, reassured by the quotidian misery of the Monoprix, with its fluorescent lights on against the dim day. It was eight o’clock. She bought bread, milk, and coffee. As she crossed the road towards her building, she saw in the alcove of the Crédit Lyonnais the mad old woman, wrapped in her layers of clothing, sitting on the stone ledge. She held a Styrofoam cup of coffee in claw-like fingers. Leela walked towards her, trying not to look, and angry eyes burned into hers. The old woman spat.
    In the studio, Leela took a shower, then made coffee. She turned on the television, the lights, the electric heater, and sat on the floor cushion. Late episodes of The Bold and the Beautiful , dubbed into French, were airing, and she watched one, depressed by the huge jaws of the men, their suits, the women’s heels and tans and bouffant hair. The rain became louder, smashing on the thick pane of the single window. Leela imagined floods, people’s cold, wet stockinged feet on the tarmac outside, bus horns, Paris cursing. She didn’t have to go to work. She thought of Simon, when they’d been chatting in the kitchen, saying he kept his car in a garage nearby, that they should take it out and go for a drive in the country one weekend, and she wondered abstractly and yet inquisitively, as a child to whom something has been promised, whether this would happen. Maybe Simon would be her boyfriend? She imagined them doing the things couples did – being seen here and there – and she pictured Patrick’s face when he saw them. But she could see it as nothing other than pleased, if surprised, and she stopped thinking of it and hunched tighter on the floor cushion.
    When the programme ended, she went to wash the cup and cafetière, and saw the Chinese student in the window opposite. The air outside was dark and stormy; the light in the toilet was on, and while she washed up she glanced across and thought how cold the little cubicle must be. When the man in the facing window made a gesture of privacy – buttoning up his trousers – he lifted his head and turned, as though drawn to the facing light in her window, and she thought their eyes met for a moment before, embarrassed, even slightly sad, both quickly turned away.

Chapter 8
    â€˜Who’s there?’
    Leela froze, her hand still out, and wondered if she’d forgotten herself sufficiently to have replaced ‘hello’ with ‘knock knock’.
    â€˜Um, sorry?’ she said.
    He laughed. He was dark-haired, slightly lantern-jawed, handsome in the alienating way of Captain America.
    â€˜Just joking. I meant, who’re you? I’m Greg.’ He was definitely not French; she thought she heard the Home Counties in his accent.
    â€˜Oh, hi Greg.’ She felt relieved, as well as shifty, clutching her plastic cup of red wine. She’d helped lug the bottles up when classes ended that afternoon. Attendance at the monthly school social – an opportunity for students to practise their English with teachers in an informal setting – was obligatory. ‘I’m Leela.’
    The fluorescent lights were bright, it was seven forty-five, and three of her students were across the room, looking around, diffident but hopeful, avoiding the wine.
    â€˜Hi Leela.’ He smiled at her. The corners of his eyes crinkled. Something about him made