When McVicar had bought the flat, he’d needed somewhere to live that wasn’t too expensive.  He had only a modest amount to spend, after the divorce.  He had a fairly clear idea of what would suit him.  And he was pretty sure, from the ad in the Evening News, that the flat in Kings’ Road wasn’t it.  But there was nothing else of interest being advertised that week, so he went to see it anyway, just to give himself something to do on a spring evening. 

He’d got off the bus just before the roundabout. 
He liked what he saw. This was a real place with real shops, some of them scruffy.  It wasn’t band-box fresh, or false, which was OK by him.  He’d had enough of suburbs where everyone kept up appearances, eating Spam in secret while trying to scrape up the mortgage repayments.

Then there was the view. 
From the roundabout, you looked straight down Kings Road to the sea.  That day, it had been grey, with white breakers foaming and boiling at the foot of the street. 
 
McVicar felt safe the moment he entered the place.  Perhaps it was because the flat was tucked away at the rear of the building, away from street noise. Not that there was much street noise, or traffic, as Kings Road was a cul-de-sac, a dead-end, stopping just before the Esplanade that ran beside the beach.

Each of the flat’s two rooms had a good-sized window that looked on to a calm back-court.  The bedroom had space for a double bed, a wardrobe and not much else.  The other room was the living room.  At one end, raised up as if on a stage, was a kitchen area.  
Right from the start McVicar had liked that. 
It encouraged him to make an effort, to cook properly, to perform, like a celebrity chef on a TV programme. 

Even if he was only cooking for one.

©  David Gray