words did not come.
‘Join you?’ he finished.
‘If you want.’
‘I must have made my wants clear by now.’
We turned into Bond Street, and crossed. There was a café nearly opposite that tried to look Continental, with a sunshade in the open entrance and an artificial palm. We went in there. He
ordered tea and toast. He was always heavier than I remembered him. He sat on the edge of the tubular chair with an air of nonconformity, like a carpenter invited into the parlour during working
hours.
He said: ‘You’re always out when I ring.’
‘Well . . . I often am out. I—’
‘Last time we met, you asked me to look the facts of life in the face, didn’t you? Well, most of the facts of life I know begin with boy meets girl. Clue me up with the special ones
in this case.’
I fumbled in my bag. ‘Well, as you pointed out when we first met, I’m lame.’
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘I had polio.’
‘So?’
‘So I’ve got a rotten leg. Understand? It’s about an inch shorter than the other. Also the muscles have wasted. It’s as thin as a stick and as much use. Can’t you
see for yourself?’
‘Is that a good reason for hating me?’
I said angrily: ‘Can’t I have likes and dislikes of my own?’
Just then the waitress came with our order and he glowered across the room as if thinking he’d get up and leave. But he stayed on, and with fingers shaking with annoyance I poured the
tea.
He said: ‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-six.’
‘I’m twenty-five. I want to paint you.’
‘Oh, so that’s it . . . And all the time I thought you were attracted by my exquisite charm.’
‘I am, God damn you.’
‘Sugar?’
‘No . . . I reckon you don’t take me seriously at all.’
‘Should I?’
‘Yes.’
We looked at each other like personal enemies. Bond Street roared by without anybody taking the least notice of it.
‘What time d’you get off tonight?’
‘Why?’
‘Never mind. Tell me.’
‘Oh, it’ll be late. Six-thirty or seven.’
‘I’ll wait for you.’
‘You’re wasting your time.’
‘Well, it’s my time, isn’t it?’
I sipped the tea and burned my lip.
‘I live in Rotherhithe,’ he said. ‘D’you know where that is?’
‘Near Tower Bridge?’
‘Fairly. I’ve got a studio near what’s called Cherry Garden Pier. It looks over the river. I’d like to show it to you.’
‘All right,’ I said.
‘You’ll come?’ He looked really astonished, staggered.
‘Yes – to see it – I don’t mind.’
‘When – tonight?’
‘Yes – just to see it. But not – forget this idea of painting me – tonight or any time. That’s out.’
‘OK, OK. I only asked.’
‘Yes, but is that why you wanted me to come to your studio?’ He took a bite of his toast. His teeth I remembered as soon as I saw them again. ‘I wanted it for every reason,
Deborah. You can’t hardly have failed to notice that, can you? But so far I’ve had no encouragement. Damn all. Well . . . this is encouragement—’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Wait. This is encouragement but no more. Message received. I deal but you play the hand. Right? I’ll meet you at six-thirty. The bloody parking meters will be off duty by then.
I’ll be outside the front door or as near as I can get. Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
He looked at me. ‘You’re not going to nip out of a back entrance while I’m not looking?’
‘Why should I?’
He shrugged. ‘Why should you? No reason, except that maybe you’ve suddenly gone dead easy, and I’m scared of the double cross.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I haven’t gone dead easy.’
In fact, the thought had crossed my mind to do what he suspected; but you can’t sink quite as low. He was waiting for me in that little uncomfortable red car and we drove
south across Westminster Bridge and then took the New Kent Road. ‘Traffic’s always grotty at this time of day,’ he said, his face in uncomfortable, wry planes as he stared at the
car