A Category Three row

It took Torquil rather longer to clean the common stair than he had anticipated. He had thought he would finish within twenty minutes; in fact, it was a full three-quarters of an hour before he appeared once more at Domenica’s door, the bedraggled and dripping mop in hand.

“That’s your duty done for the month,” said Domenica, relieving him of the equipment. “You’ve earned your coffee.”

He sniffed at the air. “I can smell it,” he said. “Coffee. One of my favourite smells. Alongside freshly cooked bacon. And the smell of a new shirt.”

“I go for dried lavender,” said Domenica, adding, “À chacun son parfum.”

“Bay rum,” said Torquil. “Do you like the smell of that?’

Domenica looked doubtful. “Those are what I’d call a masculine smell. Angus likes bay rum. He had a bottle of it in the bathroom but the cap was a bit loose and the rum part evaporated. It smelled of nothing in particular after that.”

“I sometimes use it as an aftershave,” said Torquil, rubbing his chin.

Domenica took the opportunity to glance at his chin again – at the strategically-placed dimple. She thought: a few millimetres the wrong way, and a facial feature can be all wrong. That was not the case here.

They made their way into the kitchen, where Domenica poured their coffee.

“You said something about noise,” said Domenica. “And then we were sidetracked by talk about young Bertie. Did you have a party? As I said, we don’t hear much in this building.” She paused. “Mind you, Bertie plays the saxophone from time to time. We get As Time Goes By drifting up occasionally. He plays it rather well.”

“My favourite film,” said Torquil. Casablanca, thought Domenica. Bay rum. The right attitude to cleaning the stair. Dimples. All very positive.

“Yes,” she said. “It has wonderful lines.” “About the day the Germans invaded Paris?”

Domenica nodded. “Yes. What does Rick say? I remember every detail: the Germans wore grey; you wore blue.”

Torquil took a sip of his coffee. “That’s very funny.” He hesitated. “It wasn’t a party, you know.”

“No?”

“No. It was a row. A real screaming match, I’m afraid.”

Domenica said that she was sorry to hear that. “Mind you, I remember how, in my student days – rather a long time back – we had a flat over in Marchmont. It was in Warrender Park Terrace – in one of those buildings that look down over the Meadows. We had a view of the Castle. There it was, on the horizon. I remember thinking: how lucky I am to be able to look out over a castle from my bedroom.”

“I think that living in Edinburgh is a little like living on an opera set,” said Torquil. “You almost expect a window to be opened and an aria to burst forth.”

“Or a chorus of tobacco-factory girls to appear – as in Carmen. Except, nobody has tobacco factories any longer. Or, rather, they’re discreet about them.”

“A chorus of computer programmers doesn’t have quite the same ring,” said Torquil.

“Modern life is inimical to opera,” said Domenica.

Torquil disagreed. “Nixon in China? Scottish Opera did that recently. I saw it. It was wonderful.”

“Oh, I think there are plenty of suitable themes,” said Domenica. “For example, Mr Gorbachev would have made a wonderful opera. And Mr Obama too. Nelson Mandela. These would all be great operatic subjects.” She paused. “No, I was thinking more of the accoutrements of modern life. That’s the problem for opera, I’d have thought.”

Torquil looked puzzled. “But Nixon in China had a plane …”

“Planes are fine,” said Domenica. “Flight is timeless. Icarus is an ancient story. No, I was thinking of antibiotics. Take Bohème, for instance. Mimi is ill for the entire opera, and then, of course, succumbs – as is only proper for an operatic heroine. Credible enough for the nine - teenth century. But if it were set in modern times … well, what could the librettist do? The obvious solution is antibiotics – and Mimi would be as right as rain.”

Torquil burst out laughing. “No prolonged death scene.”

“No. You see? Modern technology ruins everything: our sense of the unknown, for example – because there’s no longer any reason for anything to be unknown. If you don’t know something, the internet is a few keystrokes away – and you have your solution. There are no secrets any longer.”

Torquil reached for his coffee cup. “Is that such a bad thing?”

“I would have thought so,” said Domenica. “It makes it rather difficult to escape your past – if you want to do that, of course – which some people may.” She took a sip of her coffee. “But we’re getting into profound issues here. What was this row you people had?”

Torquil sighed. “All of us are good friends, you know. There’s no fundamental problem. It’s really to do with …”

He broke off, as if uncertain whether to continue. But Domenica’s curiosity had been roused. Rows in shared flats fell into three categories, she thought: a row about food was Category One (Who ate my cheese?); a row about mess was Category Two (You’re a real pig, you know); and the third category was a row about sex (I didn’t know you felt that way ...)

“I shouldn’t pry,” she said. She shouldn’t, but she was still very interested. And she was an anthropologist, after all. Nil humani mihi alienum. Terence – I think.”

“It’s about bedrooms,” said Torquil. “It’s about who gets which bedroom.”

Domenica nodded. Category Three row, she thought. “You don’t have to tell me,” she said, somewhat reluctantly. “No, I don’t mind,” said Torquil.

She looked at him appreciatively. “You see,” he began. “As I think I told you, there are five of us: Me, Rose, Paul, Alastair and Phoebe.”

“Yes, you did. You told me.”

“And the flat has three bedrooms. It’s spacious enough, but there are only those three bedrooms.” Domenica waited.

“So,” Torquil continued, “everybody has to share – except one person.”

“And that person is?” prompted Domenica.

“Me, as it happens,” said Torquil. And then, in justification, “I found the flat. I signed the lease. I’m the one who’s responsible for everything.”

“Then it’s fair enough that you should have the single room.”

He looked grateful for the recognition of his claim. “Thank you. But then that means that Rose and Phoebe share, and Paul and Alastair share too.”

Domenica thought about that. “That sounds reasonable.”

“Yes, but …”

Sometimes but conceals a whole hinterland of issues, decided Domenica, and this, she suspected, was just such a but.

‘I think that living in Edinburgh is a little like living on an opera set,’ said Torquil. ‘You almost expect a window

to be opened and an aria to burst forth’