He had turned forty, and had celebrated his first sober birthday, when he agreed to give Fleur’s eyes a tuck, and dispense with ‘those nasty little droops on my chin’. When the job was successfully completed, he was added to her party list and, although he did not attend her weekends in the shires, he frequently dined at the house on Stanley Crescent.
On the morning of the night, Phyllis awoke, still in the arms of Somnos. At least that was how she entered the event in her Opera House diary. In the moment between sleep and waking she stirred, and the contours of her dream slipped away, leaving her with only the memory of a woman’s face. She kept her eyes closed, holding the impressions of feelings, alive but disembodied, and trying to recapture more fragments, or even drift back into that state that makes beggars the equals of kings. She didn’t succeed.
Her cat knew she was awake. He came into the bedroom, black and glossy, mewed hello, and settled on the pillow for his morning cuddle. He had an unusually engaging voice; a trait, along with his eyes, that must have been inherited from a Burmese ancestor.
Her flatmate’s bed was empty, the sheets without warmth. Early turn, she remembered. Phyllis showered, drank a cup of coffee, gave the cat a snack, checked that his backdoor flap wasn’t bolted, and set off for the Underground.
Phyllis had been born in America. From birth, the auburn curls and high colour of the red-headed child had assured that she was showered with affection from almost every quarter. It was her destiny to fill the role of a beloved. In spite of this, she grew up with an innate modesty. In fact, there was a seriousness about her that was often interpreted as indifference—even coldness—by some. This wasn’t strictly true, although by the time she attended junior high school it was clear she was wary about any show of emotion. She developed no visible passions, save an addiction to the classic black-and-white musicals shown on TV, and a crush she developed on her music teacher, a Miss Vincent from Glasgow in Britain. She was late becoming a woman; she didn’t own a bra until well into her freshman year at Bard. There she was a competent student without excelling in any particular field. The only constant in her life was music—but even this became a private matter after Miss Vincent moved on at the end of Phyllis’s first semester.
At that point, something in Phyllis closed down. For reasons known only to her, she sang, like some girls masturbate, in the dark, and frequently at night. In the edition of the college magazine that marked her graduation, Phyllis had listed her three wishes for the future as: to have her own bathroom; to wear only satin underwear; and to visit Greece. She left college without a best friend, and with no idea of how she intended to make a living. She didn’t go home, but instead made her way to New York, where she checked into a modest hotel and postponed her decision about a career by presenting herself to a model agent who specialised in hands and feet.