1
ASLEEP IN THE STARS
She had four and a half minutes left to live.
She sat alone at the cramped bar of the Seven Stars and stared forlornly into her third empty glass of the evening, feeling invisible.
The four-hundred-year-old public house was tucked behind the Royal Courts of Justice. It had been simply furnished with a few small tables, wooden settles and framed posters of old British courtroom movies. Miss Curtis had been coming here for years, ever since she had first become a legal secretary, but every time she walked through the door, she imagined her father’s disapproval of her drinking alone in a London pub. It wasn’t something a vicar’s daughter should do.
Hemmed in by barristers and clerks, she could not help wondering if this was all that would be left for her now. She wanted to remain in employment, but companies had grown clever about making women of a certain age redundant. After her last pay-off, she had spent time working for a philosophical society instead of heading back into another large firm. Now she was waiting for – what exactly? Someone to surprise her, someone to appreciate her, someone –
She stared back into the melting ice cubes.
Her name was Naomi, but her colleagues called her Miss Curtis. What was the point of having an exotic name if nobody used it? She was sturdy-beamed and rather plain, with thick arms and a straight fringe of greying hair, so perhaps Curtis suited her better. If she had married, perhaps she would have gained a more appealing surname. She regretted having nothing to show for the past except the passing marks of time.
She checked the message on her mobile again. It was brief and unsigned, but casual acquaintances sometimes called and suggested a drink, then failed to turn up; the legal profession was like that. Looking around the bar, she saw no one she recognized. Friends usually knew where to find her.
‘Give me another Gordon’s, darling. Better make it a double.’
Adorable boy, she thought. The barman was impossibly slim, probably not much older than twenty-one, and didn’t regard her with pity, just gave her the same friendly smile he bestowed on everyone else. Probably Polish; the ones who worked in bars now were quick to show pleasure, and had a rather old-fashioned politeness about them that she admired.
She touched her hair back into place and watched him at work. She would never eat alone in a restaurant, but taking a drink by herself in a pub was different. Nobody knew her past here, or cared. There were no tourists in for once, just the Friday-night after-office crowd jammed into the tiny narrow rooms and spread out across the pavement on an unnaturally warm winter night. It would have to be a lot colder than this to stop the city boys from drinking outside.
When she noticed him, it seemed he had been standing at her side for a while, trying to get served. ‘Here,’ she said, pushing back her stool. ‘Get in while you can.’
‘Thanks.’ He had a nice profile, but quickly turned his head from her, probably through shyness. He was a lot younger than she was, slightly built, with long brown hair that fell across his face. There was something distantly recognizable about him. ‘Can I get you one while I’m here?’ he asked.
Rather a common voice, she thought. South London. But familiar in the way that certain men belong in pubs. Someone I’ve talked to after a few gins?
‘Go on, then, I’ll have another Gordon’s, plenty of ice.’
He slid the drink over to her, looking around. ‘I wonder if it’s always this crowded.’
‘Pretty much. Don’t even think about finding your way to the toilets, they’re up those stairs.’ She pointed to the steep wooden passageway where a pair of tall prosecutors were making a meal out of having to squeeze past each other.
He muttered something, but it was lost in a burst of raucous laughter behind them.
‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’ she asked.
‘I said it feels like home in here.’ He turned to her. She tried not to stare.
‘My home was never like this.’
‘You know what I mean. Cosy. Warm. Sort of friendly.’
Is he just being friendly, she thought, or is it something else? He was standing rather too close to her, and even though it was nice to feel the heat of his arm against her shoulder, it was not what she wanted. In a pub like this everyone’s space was invaded; trespass was part of the attraction. But she did not want – was not looking for – anything else, other than another drink, and then another.
He showed no inclination to move away. Perhaps he was lonely, a stranger in town. He liked the pubs around here, he told her – Penderel’s Oak, the Old Mitre, the Punch Tavern, the Crown and Sugarloaf.
‘Seen the displays in the window outside this place?’ he asked.