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knees. “Mr. Chartwell, listen, with all respect, I don’t know anything about you. Don’t you think I should know more about you if you want to move in?”
    “Oh, you want to know more about me?” Mr. Chartwell said, tongue out. “Okay, I don’t like beetroot.”
    “Right,” Esther answered with slight bite. “And what about the rest? What about absolutely everything else? … You haven’t told me what you do for a living, what your first name is, what you’re doing here, or anything. I don’t even know what you are. I think you owe me some sort of an explanation.”
    Mr. Chartwell arranged his face to display the highest level of scorn. “You think your position of landlady necessitates that I tell you everything about my circumstances?”
    Made nervous by his attack, Esther said, “I don’t think it’s so awful to ask you. I think anyone would be—”
    “Well, can I expect you to tell me about yourself in return?” Mr. Chartwell interrupted.
    “Why?”
    He watched her face.
    Esther shrugged. “I guess so.”
    “… You’ll talk honestly about your life?”
    “It’s no secret,” she said, although it was.
    While Mr. Chartwell considered this, his whiskery eyebrows moved. They weren’t eyebrows so much as thumbprint-sized buds above his eyes, but they were expressive in the same way. A ladybird landed on his thigh and the leg kicked out in an impulsive move.
    “Fine,” he said eventually. “I don’t usually do this, but I can make a concession on this occasion, under the strict understanding that this information is absolutely confidential.”
    “Absolutely,” said Esther. She felt Mr. Chartwell studying her again and didn’t meet his eyes, making an ordeal of examining her wine, dipping a finger to retrieve an imaginary fly, then checking the glass again from all angles.
    With a grunt Mr. Chartwell heaved himself up. He didn’t rise onto his two back legs this time, choosing to walk informally on all fours. Although he moved easily on two legs, it looked oafish, as if invisible hands were lifting him under the arms. It reminded Esther of a child holding up a cat to make it dance with its hind paws.
    She followed behind. “Don’t you want to stay outside? It’s still warm.”
    Mr. Chartwell gave her a shot of his profile. “I can’t risk being overheard.” He reached up, turned the door handle, and then pushed through, filling the doorway.

CHAPTER 8
    7.30 p.m
.
    M r. Chartwell wedged himself into a wooden chair at the powder-blue Formica-topped table. The chair sent out a ripple of creaks at his weight. The yellow kitchen wall behind him was a complementary backdrop for his jet-black fur. Opposite him, Esther sat with the incredible posture of the very edgy. The promise of revelation had created a sense of electricity in the room. But while the tension made Esther worry, Mr. Chartwell was quiet with deep monastic contemplation.
    Not wanting to be distracted by hunger, she had laid out a plate with some cheeses and a handful of crackers. They lay unmolested. The weight of expectation building, it became a contest to see who could remain silent the longest. Esther trapped a sound against the roof of her mouth before it became a recognizableword. Then Mr. Chartwell cleared his throat. Esther leant forward.
    “Could I have some of the Red Leicester?” he asked, carving a great chunk of it off with the knife. He shovelled it in and resumed his thinking. They both listened to him chew. Not just a sickening noise, it was also a vigorous one. The shape of his face didn’t permit quiet eating, or subtle eating with a closed mouth. Loud and visible, the cheese mashed into a pulp.
    The Red Leicester finished, Mr. Chartwell went to speak again. “And that Cheshire, do you mind?” Another slab was hacked off and fed through the jaws. Crumbs fell from his teeth, littering the table and the fur on his chest. He wiped at the crumbs and this made it worse.
    Esther couldn’t look at him. To