London Love Story

Chapter 2

Today, in London

Corinne blanked out the conversation around her. The lunch table consisted of her friends, or at least what Jacques called her friends, although she wondered about that. Friends. How did one define a friend?

She pondered the thought, both her hands cupping the goblet of red wine to her lips as she leaned on the table. Holding her wine glass in front of her mouth had become a defence, a barrier between her mouth and the others who sat around the table. It stopped her screaming.

They sat at a window table, which enabled her to gaze at the world outside the restaurant. People passed by: strollers and walkers, a variety of business guys in suits, or couples visiting London. She tried to imagine where they came from or what sort of job they had.

Jacques helped himself to some more red wine without offering it to anyone else. He seemed, as always, to take no care in pouring the mature wine; he slopped it into his glass before taking a gulp. Every time, he insisted on choosing an expensive wine, even though it was she who paid for it. He would say, 'I want Corinne to have the best, only the best,' as he gushed the liquid into his oversized goblet. Even more annoying, observed Corinne, was his habit of pulling out a paper tissue, blowing his nose, and stuffing the spent tissue into the front of his shirt, which he maintained was more hygienic, although she'd never understood why.

A man sauntered up to the restaurant to read the menu pinned to the notice board outside on the brick wall. He wore a dark crumpled linen jacket, casual blue jeans, and sunglasses. She guessed he might be unfamiliar with this part of London and watched him take his time, undecided whether or not to come in for lunch. The way he held his hands reminded her of someone. It was familiar. Then he was gone.

The conversation at her table droned on. The people in her entourage were boring.

Corinne reflected back to the handsome guy she had just seen outside and when she'd last seen that movement of the right hand, his fingers scratching through his hair, followed by a slow sweep of his hand from the back of his neck around to his chin and then across his mouth, as he used his fingers to stroke his lips. It was as if he needed to do that to make a decision. What other man had the same mannerism? she pondered and delved deeper into her memory. She'd been on a mountain the last time she had seen someone use the same gesture, the same motion, to help express a thought—a man figuring out a situation, while doing the same reflex movement, before he'd said, 'What the fuck are you doing here?'

The wine spilled as she slammed her glass down and scrabbled under the table to slip on her shoes. She cursed Jacques for always insisting she take them off. In three seconds she headed for the door, ignoring the shout from Jacques. She ran in the direction the man had gone, along the pavement, weaving past other people. But there were too many men wearing jackets. At the junction of Blenheim Street and New Bond Street she stopped, out of breath and angry as well as disappointed. The feeling of frustration and sadness stayed with her. Twice she shouted Harry's name as loudly as she could at the moving pedestrians around her, but nobody turned round. Perhaps she'd been mistaken, she reflected as she ambled back to the restaurant. The memory of him—whose ski jacket was still hanging in her wardrobe—the person who'd saved her life, caused her now to wipe away a tear.

Passing by a café, she noticed someone sitting outside at a small round bistro table, a coffee in front of him. He still had his dark glasses on, which seemed to emphasise the expensive cut of his hair, something she always noticed about people. No longer sure he was even the same man, she approached him and asked, 'Are you Harry Smith?'

He took a long look at her. 'Might be.' He slowly took off his sunglasses.

'Oh my God, it's you! You're Harry.'