brushing the other hand over her neck to smooth her chignon. Her golden brown short-sleeved dress matched her eyes. Irene realized that the woman in front of her had been a stunning beauty in her youth; she was still very attractive.
“Hello, Estelle,” said Glen. “You can treat me to a cup while Irene gets settled in the room.” He asked Irene, “Is fifteen minutes enough time?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. I’ll be waiting on the couch.”
HER ROOM was located on the top floor. For the first time in her life, she encountered a one-person elevator. It wouldn’t have been possible to get anyone else inside the tiny cage unless they were tenderly entwined and didn’t have any luggage. When the small elevator had safely rattled its way to the fourth floor and opened its doors, Irene decided that she would have to use the stairs from now on.
The room was surprisingly large, decorated in emerald green and golden tan. Everything was bright and new, from the carpet on the floor to the tiled bathroom. A graphic print with a theme from the Carnaval in Rio adorned the wall.
Irene hung up the few clothes she had brought in the closet and took the opportunity to use the toilet. Then she walked down the stairs to the lobby.
“SHOULD WE walk? It’s only about half a mile from here,” Glen Thompson said.
“I’d love to walk,” Irene agreed.
The sun was shining, but it was still quite cold in the wind.
A surprising number of houses had scaffolding on the outside and several were already restored. Irene realized that Bayswater was a part of the city which was regaining its old character. As if he could read her thoughts, Glen said, “Quite a few immigrants live here in Bayswater but at the same time, we have an influx of English people who want to live in central London. Of course, other areas of the city are more fashionable, like Mayfair or Holland Park, but the houses there are terribly expensive. Yet even if Bayswater has become trendy, it’s nothing compared to Notting Hill. That’s where Rebecka Schyttelius lives. I don’t know if you’ve seen the movie with Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant . . . ?”
“No.”
“The movie had an amazing impact, and now it’s fashionable to live in Notting Hill.”
Irene noticed that they were headed west. Pretty soon, the houses became dirtier and more decayed. There was also a lot of scaffolding here, but the houses that were undergoing renovation hadn’t originally been as beautiful as the ones in Bayswater.
“Notting Hill is a old blue-collar neighborhood. But there are a few really nice houses, like the one up there.”
Glen pointed at a large white four-story house with a beautifully ornamented façade. The first floors had narrow balconies running along the whole width of the house, where flowers in boxes and pots were already blooming. The balconies faced a thickly wooded park surrounded by a high iron fence. The general public could only peer through the bars at the greenery, because a sign hanging on the gate told them that it was private.
They walked past a large Tudor-style red brick house, continued to the next cross street, and found themselves on Ossington Street. A pub was located at the corner which, according to the black sign with an ornate golden text, was called “Shakespeare.” The building that housed the pub looked considerably older than the surrounding structures. It was low with small, lead-paned mullioned windows, painted a dull greenish-brown color.
Even here on Ossington Street, scaffolding dominated, particularly on one side. Most of the houses on the other side seemed to have been restored already. Glen Thompson stopped in front of a white stucco house with a bright red door. Two brass plates shone on the door, but the distance was too great for Irene to be able to read them.
“Here it is,” Glen announced after checking the address on a piece of paper.
Irene noted that the next house and Rebecka’s house looked identical, aside from the fact that the neighbor’s door was bright blue. There were even two matching brass plates on the blue door.
A high stone stoop led up to the red door. “Datacons. Lefévre & St. Clair” read the larger sign. “Rebecka Schyttelius” had been engraved on the smaller one. So Rebecka lived at her place of work.
Glen Thompson pushed the shiny new brass-surrounded doorbell. There was a faint dingdong from inside the house. After a few seconds, they heard quick steps and the door opened.