Though the apartment was small and conservative-looking, there was nevertheless a man at the front entrance wearing a smart uniform who came and opened the door for Mrs. Dewhurst. He was about to approach the passenger door but Pamela, without thinking, had got out already, and now stood under the awning feeling like a fool. The man didn't blink an eye at her faux pas, however, and merely got into the car after being handed the keys and drove away.
The look on Pamela's face prompted a smile from Mrs. Dewhurst as she made her way brusquely towards the entrance. 'He's merely parking it, my dear, not stealing it. Come along, come along.'
Pamela followed, feeling both a little breathless at the woman's vigour, and as though she were a little bit of flotsam or jetsam that had been caught in the woman's wake. The building was very plain and unadorned, but she could tell by the smell alone that it was very expensive. Everything had a patina of age, but of immaculate age, carefully preserved, perfectly maintained, and there was something extra, something indefinable, that spoke of an habitual control. No one would let this place go to rack and ruin.
She had rarely ridden on lifts. Those few she was familiar with lurched and bounced alarmingly. This one was smooth and unbelievably fast, shooting so quickly up to the fifth floor that for a moment she felt an alarming tingle in her vitals and the press of gravity. She almost commented on this as they stepped off the lift but bit her tongue, not wanting to appear foolish or ignorant. Mrs. Dewhurst was watching her with a small smile that was disturbingly knowing, however, that didn't leave her face as she led Pamela to her flat. Once inside Mrs. Dewhurst removed her coat, took Pamela's as well, and hung them in the closet. 'Now, my dear, just have a seat in the . . . oh, dear, I've forgotten what it's called. Not the parlour. That was Victorian. We call it the sitting room-'
'You mean, the living room?' Pamela ventured.
'That's it. The living room. Just sit yourself down, and I'll bring you some refreshment. Would you like a drink?'
'Um . . . tea, if you've got it.'
'Tea? Wouldn't you prefer a glass of wine, or sherry-?
'No! I . . .' Pamela instantly regretting blurting out her protest before she could think. How could she explain? For people like Mrs. Dewhurst, drinking was a casual, social thing. For people like herself it was drunkenness, escape, a way of life.
'It's all right if you'd prefer tea or something else,' Mrs. Dewhurst said with that same small smile as she made her way to the small kitchen. 'But tell me,' she said through the portal between the kitchen and sitting room, 'do you drink at all?'