I glance up briefly. There’s one of those interchangeable men in suits standing there,
pointing at the club chair opposite mine.
‘No, no – have it,’ I say, looking down at my present list again. They had really nice
stripy cashmere scarves at the shop down the road from home – I’ll get her one of those in
the morning. And some books. And maybe some pants, so Jake doesn’t feel victimized. ‘I’m
not expecting anyone.’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘Not at all,’ I say, still looking at my lap and scribbling ‘T – scarf + pants’ on my
list. ‘I’m going in a minute, anyway.’
‘I’m grateful. It’s very busy in here,’ the man says. ‘May I get you another
drink?’
‘No, thank you. I think I’d better . . .’ I look up properly for the first time.
‘Oh.’
He is raising his eyebrows, and smiling.
It feels like about twenty minutes go by, in slow motion. I am looking at the man. He
is looking at me. Nobody is speaking. I can hear the old ladies laughing, though they
sound very far away.
‘Another drink?’ he repeats.
I realize that, for the second time today, my mouth is slightly open. I snap it shut,
only to open it again. ‘I, er. I. No. I have to go. I can’t. I. Yes. NO!’ is what comes
out, humiliatingly. I can literally feel the blood rising to the surface of my skin. I am
about to become puce.
‘Have one more. For Christmas,’ he laughs. ‘Same again? I promise I’ll leave you alone
with your, ah, paper-work.’
I say ‘Okay’ in a weird squeaky voice.
To me, the man is the most attractive man I have ever seen. I don’t know what else to
say: it’s a simple statement of fact. I, Clara Dunphy née Hutt, have literally, in my
life, never seen anyone so handsome. It’s subjective, of course. But . . . it’s not just
handsomeness. I know handsomeness, from interviewing the odd film star and so on for work:
it takes you aback initially, but you adjust to it very quickly and just feel annoyed when
you go back into the real world and find everyone walking about with their plain old
faces. You don’t, as I do now, feel like you’ve been winded, punched, jacked out of time.
And that little stab in my stomach. I know what that is. That’s not good. That’s not
supposed to happen to the old-lady wife and mother. I mean, it’s been years. How
weird.