“I remember going to his place. I remember you and Freddie dancing.”
“Freddie loves to dance.”
“Then I remember his sofa.”
Sylvia laughed throatily. “I bet you do. That sofa’s seen a lot of action in its time.”
“That makes me feel so much better. Thank you.”
“You know what I mean. He’s no monk.” Sylvia held her nails up and waved them in the air to dry. “And you’re no angel.”
“I don’t want to think about it.”
“You don’t regret it, do you? The secret of life is not to regret anything. Waste of time. You had fun, didn’t you?”
“I can’t remember.”
“You looked like you were having fun when we left.”
Clementine felt her spirits dive. “I feared you’d left.”
“I’m no voyeur, Clemmie. Besides, me and Freddie had business of our own to see to. Mmm, now there’s a man who knows how to pleasure a woman without having to use satellite navigation.”
The door swung open, and Mr. Atwood walked in. “Morning, girls,” he said cheerfully. Then he saw Clementine hunched on her chair, with her handbag on her knee. “You leaving us already, Clementine?”
“Just going to get you a skinny latte and a muffin,” she replied, getting up.
“Good girl. Will you get me the Gazette and Telegraph? Oh, and while you’re there, it’s my wife’s birthday tomorrow—see if you can find something appropriate.”
“Appropriate?”
“A scented candle or something. You’re a woman, you know what women like. I haven’t a clue, and I always get it wrong.”
“I don’t know what your wife likes.”
“I do,” said Sylvia, screwing the top onto the varnish. “Go into Kitchen Delights and get her something in there. It’s her favorite shop.”
“What if she has it already?”
“It’s the thought that counts,” said Mr. Atwood. “The thought will be enough to keep the little lady happy.”
“I’ll do my best.” Clementine rather relished the idea of spending time outside the office.
“Be a love and bring me a chocolate brownie and a cup of tea, milk no sugar,” Sylvia added. “And a black coffee for Mr. Fisher.” The telephone rang. She picked it up, careful to avoid ruining her nails, and answered in a singsong voice. “Atwood and Fisher, Sylvia speaking. How can I help you?”
Mr. Atwood strode into his office, straightening the magazines on the coffee table in the reception area on the way, and closed the door behind him. Clementine squinted in the sun as she stepped into the street. She wanted to keep walking until she lost herself.
She went to Kitchen Delights first, deliberately spending as much time as possible browsing for a suitable present. She envisaged poor Mrs. Atwood in an apron, slaving away at the oven for a man who couldn’t even be bothered to choose her birthday present himself. What sort of husband was that? She couldn’t imagine the woman being happy with a few cooking bowls. What was wrong with a pretty necklace or handbag? Mr. Atwood had no idea, and nor, for that matter, had Sylvia. Provincial people, she sniffed disdainfully, picking up a set of jelly molds. After a good fifteen minutes, she settled on a shiny pink food mixer.
Very fetching, she thought, pleased with her choice. She looked at the price tag and winced. Expensive, but it costs to be lazy.
She wandered around to the Black Bean Coffee Shop with her bag, buying the newspapers, a birthday card, and wrapping paper on the way—she lingered a good ten minutes over the cards, finding the most in appropriate card possible to cheer herself up.
By the time she reached the coffee shop she was feeling a lot better. She flopped into one of the velvet sofas with a latte and a bun, and read the latest on the robberies in the Gazette. Another twenty minutes was wasted in the most satisfactory fashion. She took a luxurious deep breath and watched the other customers: a couple of mothers with toddlers, a trio of businessmen having a meeting, schoolgirls playing truant. But she couldn’t stay away all morning. Reluctantly, she drained her cup and joined the queue to buy the long list of requests to take back to the office. She thought of Joe, and her fears returned to churn her stomach to butter. The door swung open, and a man in a suede jacket and denim jeans walked in. She glanced at him. But instead of turning back, she remained agog, unable to tear her eyes away. He looked around the coffee shop, then took his place in the queue behind her.
Clementine wrenched her eyes off him with some effort, though not before she had extracted a smile. She felt a blush creep up her chest and flourish on her face, and she forgot all about Joe and her sense of inadequacy. She could smell the sandalwood of the stranger’s cologne. She breathed it in, savoring the scent of foreign places. He was obviously not English. Englishmen didn’t wear jeans so well, and they never bothered with such elaborately buckled belts. She looked down at his feet: brown suede loafers. She hadn’t seen a pair of those since she’d left London. The queue moved quickly and soon she was at the counter, giving her order. She stood aside to make room for the stranger as the girl placed the muffin and brownie into a bag and went off to make her tea and coffee.