Perfect Day

He realizes he has not said goodbye to Mel and Joe, but he cannot face going back in.
    He walks away from the pub quickly, determinedly not looking back, as if he has committed some petty crime there. The street he is on is quiet but as it meets Oxford Street the roar of city noise blasts him again, and subsides as he crosses into the relative tranquillity of Soho Square . His shoulders relax. He looks again at his bare wrist. He feels very thirsty.
    He’s drawn into the bar by the football match on the television. The old man behind the chrome counter hands him a tall glass of water and sets about making the espresso he asks for. Out go the old grounds with a sharp tap, in twists the dry coffee, and whoosh goes the steam. It’s an extraordinarily labour-intensive process for such a tiny amount of thick, dark coffee. As the little white cup is placed before him Alexander looks up at the young woman who has come in just after him and settled herself a few barstools down.
    ‘Hi, Marco,’ she says to the bartender.
    She gives a quick sideways smile to Alexander acknowledging his presence. There are only the three of them in the bar.
    There’s something familiar about her. Black hair cut short like a boy’s at the back with a long fringe flopping over her dark eyes. She’s wearing a pink T-shirt that looks as if it’s been washed a lot, black trousers that are a bit short and big clompy black boots.
    He inclines his head in a tacit question. She shrugs. Then she says in a strong Northern accent, ‘You’re not a film star, are you?’
    ‘No,’ he says, cautiously.
    ‘I said hello to Tom Cruise the other day. He was coming out of this club in Greek Street and I thought I knew him, you know, like he was a friend, or something? He probably gets it all the time. He smiled at me — you know how his eyes go crinkly and then there’s that flash of really white teeth? — and then I realized and I said, “Oh sorry!” He ducked into this car that was waiting for him. And I spent the rest of the afternoon, telling people, “When I met Tom Cruise earlier... ”, you know?’
    He smiles. He thinks it’s her way of saying that she thinks his face is familiar too.
    ‘...when I was speaking to Tom Cruise earlier,’ she says, repeating the joke, ‘you know?’
    ‘You like Tom Cruise, do you?’
    Alexander doesn’t know what else to say.
    ‘I do fancy him,’ she tells him, giving his question due consideration, ‘but I couldn’t put up with all that Scientology stuff, you know? Not that we’ll ever meet again anyway,’ she adds quickly, in case he should think she’s taking her crush too seriously.
    On the television above the bar, a goal is scored. It’s an Italian game and the commentator goes wild.
    The young woman laughs, then claps her hand over her mouth, as if she’s made too much noise. Alexander stares at her fingernails, each painted a different sparkly shade.
    ‘You’re the waitress,’ he says.
    ‘Yes? Oh, right!’ She recognizes him now. ‘Did you enjoy your pizza? Four Seasons, was it?’
    ‘American Hot,’ he says, wondering why it should bother him even for half a second that she doesn’t remember what he ordered.
    ‘Who’s playing?’ he asks the bartender.
    ‘Lazio v. Roma.’
    ‘Local derby, then.’
    ‘You know Roma?’ The bartender’s old eyes shine a little brighter.
    ‘I lived in Italy for a while.’
    ‘You like Italy ?’
    ‘I love Italy .’ Alexander turns and looks directly at the young woman. ‘Very good pizza,’ he says.
    He’s touched to see that she blushes; alarmed to discover that he’s flirting.
    ‘You’ve been to Italy , have you?’ she says.
    ‘A while back.’
    ‘What’s it like?’
    His eyes travel round the gleaming chrome bar, the football flags on the walls, the sunshine in the street outside where other customers are sitting at pavement tables. ‘It’s a lot like this,’ he says.
    ‘I’ve only been abroad once,’ she says. ‘Coach trip to Lourdes with my nan . I’m from Lancashire .’
    ‘I never would have guessed.’
    She looks momentarily surprised, then sees that he’s teasing.
    ‘I’ve lived abroad most of my life,’ he volunteers, ‘for work.’
    ‘What do you do, then?’
    ‘I teach English as a foreign language.’
    ‘So what are you doing in London ?’
    ‘Good question,’ he says.
    When he trained to be an English teacher, it was a means to an end. He wanted to travel. It was a way of paying his way. He’s