Tigerlily's Orchids by Ruth Rendell Page A

He would go up to that new gym which had opened on the borders of Mill Hill, see what it was like and maybe sign up. Back in the flat to put on a jacket, he heard ‘Nessun dorma’ repeating and repeating itself over and over in his bedroom. He let it repeat, slipped on his very handsome Burberry jacket and, having contemplated his reflection in the mirror to his great satisfaction, went out into the fresh air, leaving his phone behind.
    It was rather a nice, pale grey, mild sort of day. A couple of small white flowers Stuart supposed must be snowdrops poked timidly through the earth just inside Lichfield House’s front gate. The street was deserted but for hundreds of cars parked nose to tail along both sides. For the first time ever he saw someone go into the Bel Esprit Centre. Halfway to the roundabout, he passed Wally Scurlock trotting along briskly, very upright, very purposeful.
    â€˜Good morning, sir, and how are you today?’
    Stuart said he was good, though he wasn’t, not at all. The man coming down the opposite side was called Duncan something – Stuart had forgotten what. He looked like a paedophile, or how he thought a paedophile would look, furtive, covert, and wearing a raincoat. He cheered himself up a bit by reflecting on what Scurlock and the paedophile must think of him. How they must envy him, his slim figure, his handsome features andfine, luxuriant head of hair. Both the paedophile and the caretaker were bald.
    When he had been to the gym and paid in advance for twelve sessions, the desire for a cigarette returned. Everyone said it would be a mistake to give in to it. You only had to have one and you were hooked all over again. Stuart walked past the hairdresser’s, the building society and the now closed-down bathroom shop and went into the newsagent’s. It was a large newsagent’s, selling greetings cards and wrapping paper, sweets and cigarettes, as well as papers. Nothing alerted him as to what was to come, nothing said to him, go, turn round and leave now. If this was his fate, perhaps the most significant moment of his life, as forecast by the
sortes
, he didn’t recognise it. If this was to determine his death he knew nothing of it or that, like the sword of Damocles, it hung by a hair above his head. He had never heard of Damocles. All he thought about was cigarettes, which brand should he buy and would he need a disposable lighter or would matches do?
    He saw that there were two people in the shop apart from the man behind the counter, a man and a girl. If he had thought about it he might have decided they were not together, for the girl who had her back to him was at the counter, waiting to be served while the man appeared to be choosing a birthday card. Then, taking her change, she turned round.
    The song which tells of a ‘lady sweet and kind, ne’er a face so pleased my mind’ Stuart was unfamiliar with, but the sentiment was his own. Never had a face so pleased his mind as this one. He knew with a seriousness and an intensity quite foreign to him that this was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and if it were possible to fall in love at first sight this was what was happening to him. It was not a European face but seemed to belong in South-East Asia, pale-skinned with features of perfect regularity, the upper lip short,the mouth full, the eyes large, grave, thickly lashed, a dark golden brown. Her hair hung in two thick black curtains from a centre parting.
    She looked at him and lowered those eyes, opening the pack of cigarettes she had bought. He stammered out a request to the shopman for the same brand and, completely disorientated, fumbled for change, dropping coins on the floor. He stooped down to pick them up and so did she, handing him a two-pound coin with a little nod.
    â€˜Thank you,’ he said. ‘Thank you very much.’
    The man who hadn’t bought a greetings card was standing quite near them now, watching