Perfect Day

at her sceptically.
    ‘I don’t just mean you,’ she says. ‘It’s like each table has its story. There’s this couple sitting by the window now with a child, and I’m trying to work out whether she’s his new girlfriend, or his sister, and why they’re meeting in some crappy pizza restaurant on a Friday evening. They arrived separately, and they’re quite smart, you know, and he looks really sad...’
    ‘Perhaps they’re divorced.’
    ‘If they are divorced, I think he really regrets it,’ Kate says.
    ‘Perhaps it wasn’t his fault,’ Alexander says.
    ‘Perhaps she’s the doctor who looked after his wife. She’s very smart. Maybe she’s developed a good relationship with James... maybe she’s the only person he trusts...’
    She stops, aware that she’s creating an episode of Casualty out of one glimpsed greeting.
    ‘James?’
    ‘The little boy’s called James.’
    ‘You really are unbelievable,’ Alexander says, smiling at her, and she feels the colour rush to her cheeks because he looks like he’s really fond of her.
    ‘So how long’s it going to take you to save the money?’ he asks.
    ‘What money?’
    ‘For going round the world.’
    She laughs because he says it as if it’s really going to happen. She wants to tell him: Nobody really believes I’m going to do it.
    He beckons. He’s going to tell her a secret. She leans across the table and puts her ear close to his lips.
    He says, ‘Why don’t we go right now?’
    He plants the briefest kiss on the tender skin beneath her ear. Such a soft, secret, sensual kiss, it’s almost unbearably pleasurable. Her shoulders hunch up to protect her neck from further touching, as if she’s being tickled.
    ‘Stop!’ she whispers, unconvincingly.
    ‘Come,’ he says, standing up, stretching out his hand.
    ‘Where?’ She remains sitting.
    He sits down again, leans across the table, conspiratorially. He doesn’t want anyone else to hear.
    ‘If we hurry, we’ll get a flight tonight,’ he says quietly.
    ‘A flight?’ Her voice comes out unexpectedly loud. She laughs to try to cover it.
    ‘Where to?’ She too leans forward, whispering, joining in the game.
    It is a game, isn’t it?
    ‘Does it matter?’
    He’s not really asking her to just get on an aeroplane with him? Can you do that? Can you just go to an airport and step onto a plane like it’s a bus or something?
    ‘We’ll get the first one and go wherever it takes us...’ he suggests.
    Is he crazy? Mad? Has she fallen madly in love, literally?
    ‘Why?’ she asks incredulously.
    ‘I want to wake up tomorrow morning with you beside me. I really don’t care where...’
    ‘You are crazy!’ she says.
    ‘Am I? I thought you believed in possibility,’ he says.
    It’s weird when he quotes her own words back at her, like that. Most of her really likes it, but there’s a tiny part of her that doesn’t. Like a warning. Her brain repeats everything he’s said over and over, searching for misunderstanding.
    ‘You’re joking, right?’
    ‘I’m not joking.’
    He is Sasha. He is asking her to ride on his magic carpet.
    ‘OK, then, let’s go!’ she says, as if it’s a dare.
    He stands up.
    So she stands up.
    They look at each other as if each is challenging the other to sit down again.
    Then he smiles, the brilliant smile that makes you think that it’s enough just to look at him and do nothing else for the rest of your life.
    He offers his hand. She takes it. He pulls her through the crowded pub. Outside, they’re both running and laughing, like teenagers who’ve eaten in a restaurant and left without paying the bill.

Twenty-six

    The sound of tyres on gravel wakes Lucy up as the car turns into the drive.
    ‘Is it snowing, Mummy?’ she asks.
    ‘No, it’s just the blossom from the trees,’ Nell says, watching the bright white petals dance in the headlights. She switches off the ignition. For a moment, it’s so dark she can’t see the house, then her eyes adjust. As she gets out of the car she sees that there’s a dart of sky that’s still palely gold, like a glimpse of yellow sugar paper that’s escaped the determined black strokes of a child’s painting of night.
    ‘Is Daddy home?’ Lucy asks as she scrambles out of her seat.
    ‘I don’t think so,’ Nell says. ‘Not yet.’
    Inside, the house is just as they left it. Nell picks up the phone, listens to the dialling tone, then puts it down again. Then she dials 1471. The number is familiar to