When he whistled she poured another drink from the decanter and when he clapped she stood by his side; and neither of us knew whether he was paying her. I like to think he was paying her because it makes the situation more bearable to think about. He had a smile like polished army boots and a haircut to match. She had eyes like nails and peculiarly small feet. The music he had chosen was light and smaltzy and I remember Eric saying later that it felt entirely unfitting the occasion - but there we were: Us, in our matching dark blue suits, he in his slacks and casuals and she in a red and white polka-dot dress that went in at the waist (egg-timer style). I had been doing too much business that winter and the work had taken toil on my peace of mind. I was deeply unhappy and all I could think about while I sat there in his lounge was just how much I missed spending time with my wife. Eric didn't know if they were married. She had white gloves on her hands hiding any potential signs while he wore many rings, several on each finger. Eric sat across from me on the leather three-piece-suite staring intently at a painting on the wall. It was a religious scene of monks standing in the grounds of a cathedral. The artist hadn't done a very good job of the cathedral and where it should have looked thick and impenetrable it instead looked soft and pliable, as if in fact it wasn't stone, brick and wood holding this cathedral together but rather glue, linoleum and soft plastics. The nuns were there too, with their wimples. They were decidedly less well painted than the monks and had a tendency to fade into the background of the cathedral to form a gloopy plasticky mess of wall and flesh. The sunlight was also too luridly orange, and gave the whole scene an ill queasy feel to it. It suited the mansion perfectly. I remember that my gin smelt faintly of almonds and for one terrible moment I thought that our drinks had been laced with arsenic; but it was a ridiculous and passing thought. Eric and I were really of very little significance. We knew nothing, saw nothing and more often than not sold nothing! We were merely humble peddlers and he the great land baron. Sure, he could have killed us off easily, but really it would have served him little purpose. I merely include this somewhat dramatic sentiment to indicate that if he wanted to get rid of us, he could have done - it was well within his reach.
      Eric sat there staring at the picture for a long time before he spoke. The first question he asked our employer was about the décor, which I thought peculiar. The woman must have thought so too because from her lips I saw the faintest smile emerge, which was quickly stifled. Thinking about it now I might have given the wrong idea about the whistling and clapping. Not to say it wasn't obnoxious and condescending (it most certainly was) but it was done with a sense of pastiche and fun - I think. He was the kind of man where it was hard to tell. I can't remember the exact question that Eric asked (the events that I'm recounting took place a good year ago) but it was something about whether the Pollock on the wall was real or imitation. It was of course real. The conversation slowly deadened and the music changed to, of all things, a cover of We Will Meet Again by Vera Lyn. He explained that he had held a deep fascination for Vera Lyn in his youth, often spending hours at a time listening to her music on an old record his grandma had given him. Was this an appeal for human warmth? Why he told us this I do not know but my mind was elsewhere. It was clear to me that my wife was unhappy. I caught this in the little packages of regret and sometimes anger that came dripping from her mouth. I had tried to console her many a time; I'd even had Eric round to talk to her. But Eric wasn't good with women and had no chance of improving the situation.
      Eric and I had known each other since college and I was always the more intellectual of the two. While I was reading Decartes and Satre, he was playing on his Megadrive and knocking back bottles of Stella. Not that I consider him beneath me. Eric has the firm and sensible mind which I've always lacked and I cannot say that I would have had half as much business had I worked without him. It was Eric that offered her a cigarette, rather than myself. She plucked it from his hands with tiny fingers and lit it with a gator-skin lighter she took from her pocket. When Eric then made a joke about smoking damaging your health she laughed. Her laugh was rich and sticky, but like treacle rather than honey. My wife has a horny, smirking laugh which I both love and despise. If she were more attractive I'd suspect infidelity. But as it is I love her for her brain, not her looks. He too took a cigarette and in an act both repulsive and strangely inexplicable, slipped it behind his ear. Silence again. I knew that at this rate we wouldn't get a sale. The atmosphere was all wrong. It's best in times like this to lull the customer into a state of placid joviality. Instead the atmosphere was stained with suspicion and anxiety and I had started to feel nauseous. The stereo was now garbling out some insincere bullshit about moonlight and roses and it had started to make me feel dizzy. Eric, in desperate need of conversation, has turned his attention to the hat-stand by the and was asking her about its origins. Apparently it came from Peru. It was a sad thing to see that our employer answered instead of her, not least because his explanation involved lots of etymological detail and stale diversions into relatives and geography. I longed to hear her voice but instead asked where the bathroom was."Third door on the left" he answered.
      The bathroom was, like so many modern bathrooms, sterile and uninviting. The pearl white tiles were cold on the feet (I always take my socks off when entering a bathroom, I don't know why but I've done it for years and will probably keep on doing it until I die). On one of the walls was mounted the large, flat surface of a mirror, under which lay the sink. On the wall directly opposite was a towel rack and under it a radiator. I felt as if I'd entered a shrine and perhaps it was because of this impression that I did next what I would normally have only dreamt of doing. I stripped down and stood with my back up against the radiator, the towels covering my face. I closed my eyes and let the warmth spread its thick wide fingers over my body. I stood like this for about five minutes with my legs close together and my head titled back against the wall. Having gone this far, I went over and pulled the cord of the light, casting the room into mid-day darkness. Then I walked over and stood by the shower looking at its ivory whites and long stem neck. I don't know how long I stared at the red shower light for. I think, in an odd way, I was hoping for a religious experience - a moment of lifting. But my absurd desire did not come and I stepped into the shower and started to wash myself. I aimed the shower's nozzle at my face and gasped as the slick jet of water pounded my skin. Then I titled my head up and let the water fall upon my neck, all the while my eyes closed. I kept on swaying my body this way and that for maximum warmth and invigoration. Part of my mind wanted to take a piss but, of course, I didn't. This was more than just a matter of getting naked in a rich man's bathroom, and although at this point I wasn't sure exactly what this experience was meant to represent, I didn't want to trivialize it. I thought again of my wife."When I get back to town I'll buy her a bunch of roses and then make sure the washing has been put into the tumble drier". My voice felt thin and shallow against the sheet of water. I was becoming cold and shivery now and started thinking that Eric would wonder where I had got to. So, with a suddenly renewed sense of emergency, I stepped out of the shower and grabbed one of the towels from the rack. Drying myself rapidly I put on my boxers, my trousers, my shirt, my suit jacket, my tie and lastly my socks. Then I went out into the corridor.
      Downstairs the boss had gone and Eric and the woman were exactly where I'd left them. I sat back down in the seat I had previously occupied and looked at them both. Eric told me that the boss had gone to pour us drinks; I smiled slightly and nodded. The stereo was no longer playing. I could tell we were all aching for something to say. Now was the time to be a savior. I wanted to bundle her up and put her in my van - take her home with me and feed her up on breakfast cereal and chocolate. At that moment I would have given my wedding ring just to reach across and hug her. I could tell that Eric felt the same. Yet, inevitably, we all just sat there staring at the paintings, saying nothing. The effect she had on me I cannot describe. I felt humbled and awed and yet could see that she was little more than a child. Not that she was young; in her 40s I would guess; but she had about her a trembling fragility - an animal quality. I guess I wanted to protect and nurture her more than anything. Sound in the corridor. It was now or never. We kept staring at the paintings. The nuns were appallingly done; a pre-schooler could have done better. Boss at the door; handle turning. I needed to do something but I didn't know what. Eric just looked straight ahead. Door open. He came back into the room, glasses in hand. He waited until he had sat down until he told us it was time for business to start.
      In the end we sold him a Kalashnikov AK-47 and had done with it. We left the mansion feeling angry and defeated and drove home in complete silence. In the year following we didn't do much business and Eric moved back into hardware sales; but at least my wife seemed a little happier.