Scrivener’s Tale. Fiona McIntosh

piece of paper, which she’d pushed into his hand surreptitiously.

      As soon as he was back at the apartment he threw down his packets from the bakery and dipped into the pocket where the note had been stuffed. He smoothed it out on the kitchen table and read it.

       Don’t trust him! He is lying to you! Trust only me and what I say!

      The three exclamations made her warning look desperate. So her fear was about the physician. He is lying to you! Why would Reynard lie? Lying about what? He presumed he was soon to find out more.

      He set out the pastries and put some background music on very softly. It was melodic guitar music, nothing too Latin and upbeat but nothing melancholy either.

      At just a minute or so to eleven he heard the security buzzer sound.

      ‘Reynard … Angelina?’

      ‘Good morning, Gabriel,’ Reynard’s disconnected voice said through the loudspeaker. ‘Thank you for your emailed directions.’

      ‘Just push the door,’ Gabe replied and hit the button to let them enter. He walked outside his flat to the landing, where he’d put a chair for Reynard. It was cold and, even though it felt churlish, he didn’t care. He was not permitting the physician inside while he was assessing Angelina. He leaned over the elegant wrought-iron railing that twisted serpentine-like around the shallow white marble stairs between floors and heard the lift crank into use. The lift took its time in its creaky ascent but finally it opened and there they were, the oddest couple.

      Reynard was dressed in his habitual pinstripe suit while Angelina looked wan in a short skirt, ankle boots, thick tights, a duffel coat, scarf, gloves, beanie … it was as though she was a child being dressed by a protective grandmother against the elements.

      ‘Hello again, Monsieur Reynard, Angelina,’ he said warmly to both, but looking at her.

      They stepped out of the lift.

      ‘So how do we do this?’ Reynard asked. He looked nervous.

      ‘I’ve put a chair here,’ Gabe said, gesturing toward the landing’s window. ‘It’s cold but you’re well wrapped up, I see. Did you bring a book?’

      ‘I’ll be fine,’ Reynard replied. ‘How long?’

      ‘I’d say we need at least forty-five minutes undisturbed.’ He gave a sympathetic grin but his tone was firm. ‘I can offer you coffee?’

      ‘I understand. And no, but thank you. I’ve recently had one,’ Reynard said.

      ‘Angelina, will you follow me, please?’ Gabe offered. She nodded.

      Reynard touched his arm. ‘Be careful, Gabriel. Remember my warning,’ he whispered.

      Gabe looked over his shoulder with a quizzical frown. ‘We’ll be fine,’ he assured Reynard. He closed the door on the physician and turned to the young woman. ‘It’s warm in here so feel free to take off your coat and put it down over there,’ he said, pointing to the sofa. He left it entirely to her. But it pleased him to see that she began peeling off her heavy garments. It was a good start. He turned away. ‘Now, how about a decent coffee?’

      She shook her head, dark eyes regarding him far from suspiciously. In fact, he’d describe her look as hungry but not for food. He convinced himself he was imagining it and decided that she was probably relieved to be away from Reynard’s supervision.

      ‘This is not jar coffee,’ he insisted, mock offended.

      Angelina’s face broke momentarily into a grin. She pulled off her beanie and shook out her hair; again, he had the desire to touch it. Without her bulky coat on she looked so vulnerable.

      Helena, a female colleague at university during his PhD, was doing her thesis on personality types with regard to romance and/or sex. She had used Gabe as one of her test subjects and had surprised him with a summary of the sort of woman he was most attracted to. He’d argued it, of course, and he’d seen many women since who didn’t fit that bill, but, curiously, Angelina ticked many of the boxes: small, dark, not a chatterbox, someone who seemed slightly remote from the mainstream. She would have to be very pretty, Helena had assured him with a wry smile, but not traditionally so. How thoroughly annoying, he thought now, as he looked at Angelina, that Helena could have been so accurate … or more to the point, that he could be so predictable. He cleared his throat as Angelina stepped closer.

      ‘I don’t like caffeine in any form,’ she said, and there was lightness in her tone that he had not heard before. He took a private pleasure in thinking that Reynard had probably never heard her voice.

      ‘Don’t like caffeine?’ he repeated with feigned despair. ‘How do you cope?’

      ‘I manage,’ she murmured, almost playfully. She ran a hand over the coffee machine. Her nails were trimmed blunt, but neatly, with perfect half-moons above the cuticles. They were free of varnish but still they shone. He was one of those people who noticed. Unbitten, trimmed, buffed and well-kept nails spoke droves.

      ‘You have lovely hands, Angelina,’ he said, before he could censure himself.

      ‘I’m not vain but I do take care of them,’ she said, looking at her nails briefly. She gave a rueful laugh that sounded like a soft sigh. She walked away from the coffee machine and him.

      ‘Are you warm enough?’ he asked solicitously.

      She nodded over her shoulder. He didn’t want this time to drift into awkwardness. They’d begun well and he needed to keep that positive energy bouncing between them if he was to make progress with her.

      ’finish this. ‘Angelina, today we’re just going to talk. Like a couple of old friends, having coffee and,’ he pointed to the small table, ‘sharing some pastries.’

      She looked so small and alone he felt an urge to hug her as extra reassurance. It was obvious the young woman was starved of affection, but it was not his role to provide it. Instead he opened his palms to her. ‘Can I get you a soft drink? Mineral water?’

      She eyed him gravely. ‘I’m fine, really. Do you want me to sit down?’

      He nodded and looked at the comfy chairs by the window. ‘I’ll just

      She turned away but paused at the sideboard to look at his boxed quill. ‘This is very lovely,’ she said. ‘May I touch it?’

      ‘Be my guest,’ he said over the sound of grinding the beans. He watched her pick up the quill and weigh it in her hand before she held it out to admire it in the light. ‘It’s old.’

      ‘Antique, apparently,’ he replied.

      ‘Older,’ he thought she said.

      ‘It’s from a swan, can you believe?’ he called over the noise of the machine gathering steam. He tamped down the coffee and locked the bar handle into place, then pressed the button. The machine responded with its routine noises as the pump now wound up the pressure. He walked away from the groans and grinds for a few seconds so he could hear her properly.

      ‘Only scriveners are given the swan quill.’

      Gabe was astonished by her remark.

      ‘How would you know that?’ he said with a smile as he returned to the machine to test that it was ready to froth the milk. A burst of steam wheezed. ‘Oh, Reynard, of course,’ he said, before she could reply. It made sense that Reynard would have told her about the quill.

      Gabe glanced over and noticed her short skirt ease higher up her stockinged thighs as she sat and stared out of the window. Angelina had a far more voluptuous body than he’d imagined beneath all those layers.

      ‘Voilà,’ he murmured to himself as he poured the milk into the shot of coffee.

      Gabe sipped as he moved to join her, and sighed as he finally seated himself opposite. He put the coffee on the table between them before he leaned back