Chapter Five
STUART, TEN YEARS EARLIER
I lift my fresh pint from the bar and carry it toward her table.
“Nice dog,” I say. “Westie?”
She nods.
“How old?”
“Nearly a year.”
“Oh,” I say. “Still a baby, then. He’s being very good. Surprised he’s not trying to drag you out of here.”
I regard the dog, my pint, the woman.
“Do you mind if I join you?” I say.
She looks horrified, which is fair enough. I’m a strange man approaching her on a Tuesday lunchtime in her local pub. I see her eyes go from my pint to my face to the door and back again.
“Why?”
“Because I thought you might prefer company to drinking alone?”
“I’m not drinking al—”
I cock my head to one side; my eyes go to her drink.
“I’m fine,” she says. “But thank you.”
I nod. “No worries,” I say. “I’ll be over there if you change your mind.”
“I won’t,” she says with the kind of pursed-lipped smile that was trained into her by parents who cared about appearances.
I take my pint to a table at the other side of the bar and scroll through my phone for a while.
Within half an hour I see her at the bar, ordering another drink.
Her back is tight and narrow through her smart jacket.
I can see the tips of her shoulder blades.
I see that her shoes are old-fashioned and scuffed.
She is not a Hampstead yummy mummy, far from it, but she is not bad-looking. Thirtyish. Well-spoken.
By 3 p.m. she is four vodkas down and unsteady on her feet.
I see her check the time on her phone and head to the bar, where she orders herself a double espresso.
She drinks it down in two gulps, gathers her dog, her bag, her coat, and leaves.
I don’t follow her. I’ve got the size of her.
She’s gone to collect a kid from school.
She’ll eat mints or chew gum on the way.
The mothers at the gate will talk about her.
She’ll get home having probably picked up another coffee on the way and tell her husband, her partner, whoever, that she and the dog had a wonderful walk on the Heath.
I can guarantee she’ll be back here tomorrow.
And so will I.