The Post-Birthday World Read Online Free PDF Page B

cathedral after all. Sheets of incendiary sunlight flashed across the Thames, like an oil slick to which some rascal had touched a match. Meanwhile, the Jaguar communicated every little bit of gravel to the bucket seat like a pea to a princess.
“These days, everyone wants to drive so high up,” she said at last. “Those SUVs. When I was growing up, all the cool people tucked down as close to the road as possible.”
“I’m yesterday’s man in every way,” said Ramsey, “if you believe my press.”
“If they mean your taste in cars, I’m all for it.”
Commonly she didn’t give two hoots about cars. But she liked this one—that it was a classic from 1965, but unrestored, with its leather upholstery well worn; that it was valuable rather than merely expensive. Ramsey’s driving was aggressive, full of accelerating thrusts and sudden downshifts. In contrast to the delicate articulation of his body, a refinement in his face, a social deference or even shyness, and a conspicuous fluidity of motion, all of which legislated toward a subtle collective effeminacy, Ramsey drove like a man. Although his rash weavings in and out of lane and close shaves with adjacent bumpers would ordinarily have made her edgy, the maneuverings were precise, boldness twinned with calculation perfectly replicating the authority with which he negotiated a snooker table. She trusted him. Besides, if Irina theoretically believed that modern women should be independent and forceful, all that, the truth was that old-fashioned passivity could be sumptuous. Total abnegation of responsibility presented the same appeal of sleep, and the ecstasy of surrender helped to explain why once a year, for fifteen minutes a go, Irina fell in love with her dentist. If the active deliciousness of being ferried about and paid for was little observed of late and potentially on the way to extinction, it was all the more intoxicating for being retrograde.
“So what you done today?” asked Ramsey.
“I made pies,” said Irina festively. “They’re therapeutic.”
“Why’d you need therapy?”
“When Lawrence is away . . . I can get a bit out of kilter. You wouldn’t think it, but I have another side, and—it has to be controlled.”
“What happens when it ain’t?”
Silence best implied that they were both better off not finding out. “So what did you do today?”
“I played a few practice frames, but mostly agonized all afternoon over where to take you to dinner.” From most men this would have been flattering horseshit, but Ramsey had a funny naïveté about him, and was probably telling the truth.
“Are you satisfied with your decision?”
“I’m never satisfied.” As he tossed his keys to a parking attendant, Irina waited for Ramsey to open her door. The queen-bee routine wasn’t like her, but sometimes acting out of character was like breaking out of jail.
The Japanese would put the emphasis of Omen on the second syllable, but the name of the restaurant still exuded a foreboding. Omen was small and exclusive-looking, their table more exclusive still, up a few steps at the back and on its own. If Irina had dreaded being cooped up with Ramsey in the mortifying coziness of her own flat, Omen’s premiere seating was no less claustrophobic. When Ramsey reached to pull the curtain, Irina asked could he please keep it open, “for air.” With an expression of perplexity, he obliged. They’d only read through the starters when a young man skipped up the stairs to their table, clutching a menu.
“Oi, Ramsey!” the young man whispered, as one feels compelled to in Japanese restaurants. “Could you give us an autograph? That’s right, just across the top there, like.” He had slid his menu beside Ramsey’s chopsticks.
“No problem, mate.” Ramsey withdrew a slender gold ballpoint from his inside pocket; everything he owned seemed to reiterate the taut, sleek design of his body, and the signature itself was spidery, like his