Chapter Two

I met Samantha while I was working at the Evening Standard. I’d started a couple of years after university as a junior reporter, and been there for ten years already. I don’t suppose I’d ever planned to stay that long, but, having worked my way up to the role of features editor, I was comfortable in my job and saw no real reason to leave. Looking back now, I can see that I settled for something less than I wanted. But aren’t we all guilty of that in some sense?

On the November afternoon that Samantha and I met, I’d left the office at three o’clock to catch the half-past three overhead to Streatham. I’d been suffering all week with toothache and had managed to get a dental appointment in the afternoon.

Outside, the air was a cold winter crisp and I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my duffel coat, lowering my head against the bracing wind.

As I walked, I glanced into frosted shop windows in which Christmas lights blinked and reindeer, snowmen, crackers, beautifully wrapped gifts took centre stage.
Passing Hamleys, I remembered one Christmas when I was about eight or nine and my father gave me a Meccano set that was far too advanced for my age.

I'd said thank you, of course, but put it aside for the rest of the day while I read the Beano annual my mother had given me. Presents were always from one or the other, never both. Though we all lived under the same roof, they spoke so little to one another that conferring about gifts for their son was at the bottom of their list of priorities.

Later in the afternoon, my father asked why I hadn't even opened the Meccano box.

I'd shrugged and said it looked too difficult.

'Don't be silly,' he said, and sat down with me to start
work on the crane the set made. 'Nothing's too difficult if you set you mind to it.'

‘He doesn’t want it,’ my mother shouted. ‘Leave him alone.’

‘I do want it,’ I cried, reluctant to be the reason for another argument. ‘I do.’

And so my father and I sat there on the living room floor in front of the open fireplace, passing cold pieces of metal between one another until, three hours later, the crane was complete. It was more his toy than mine.

There was a point when I was growing up in which I
thought that my father was right: that nothing was too difficult if you set your mind to it. And perhaps that's true for some things - exams, tests, interviews - but for others, it's just not possible. It doesn't matter how hard you try, because you'll never succeed. I’d thought that with enough effort I could make my marriage to Samantha work, that her happiness would in turn make me happy. Only it didn’t work like that. And it took years to realize.

I glanced at my watch as I made my way towards the train station. I only had ten minutes to make it, and berated myself for not leaving the office sooner.

When I heard a scream, I looked ahead and saw a woman fall to the ground as a man ran away with what looked to be a handbag.

I quickened my step.

‘Are you okay?’ I asked, stupidly, when I reached her.
She pushed herself up and I saw that her hands were grazed, her front damp from the wet pavement.

‘He took my bag,’ she said, pointing in the distance the mugger had run in, now nowhere to be seen. ‘The bastard.’

‘Did you get a look at him?’

She shook her head and her thick blond hair shuffled on
her shoulders.

‘It was too quick.’

We stood awkwardly for a moment as people passed us by, some taking second glances at us: me in a suit, she shaken and stained.

‘Can I get you anything?’ I asked. ‘A coffee? A cup of tea? You must be in shock. Are you?’

Rubbing her hands together, she shrugged. ‘I suppose I am.’ Then, ‘A coffee would be nice, actually.’

‘I know somewhere we can go,’ I said.

We walked in silence for the couple of minutes it took us to reach The Citrus Café where I sometimes stopped on my way home from work.

It was empty aside from a man sitting on a stool by the window. A woman was wiping Formica tables, singing to herself. As she turned, she saw us, smiled, and walked behind the counter.

‘What can I get you?’ she asked, drying her hands on a tea-towel.

'A camomile tea, please,' I said, then asked Samantha, 'And for you?'

‘Can I have a hot chocolate, please?’

‘Cream?’ The waitress asked.

Samantha smiled. ‘Lots, please. And a flake, too, if you’ve got one.’

‘That’s 20p more,’ the waitress said.

Samantha looked at me. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘20p. Is that going to be okay?’

I frowned. ‘Of course.’

‘I was joking,’ she said, laughing.

‘Oh.’ I smiled a smile that felt false. ‘Yes, of course.’

After I paid, Samantha led us to a table in the middle of the room. I’d never sat there before. Whenever I went in, I sat along the sides, facing the wall, a book or a paper to keep me occupied.

‘How do you feel?’ I asked.

She took a sip of her hot chocolate, then stirred in two sugar cubes from a bowl in the middle of the table. ‘Okay. I just wish I’d got a look at him. Do you think I should go to the police?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Definitely.’

A shot of pain struck my gum as if to remind me of my appointment. I glanced at my watch. If I left in five minutes and ran to the station, I could still make the train.

‘I got divorced today,’ Samantha said abrubtly. ‘I signed the papers. They were in my handbag. Not that they'll be much use to anyone else.’

I leant back and my gaze fell on her wedding ring.

‘Oh, I know,’ she said, sliding the ring up and down her finger. ‘I only wear it to stop blokes making passes.’

I didn’t know what to say and there was an awkward silence between us. I checked the time again. Three minutes, then I’d make my excuses and leave. She seemed fine. She’d be okay.

She shook her head. ‘Sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have told you that,’ she said. ‘I don’t even know you. Sorry.’

‘That’s okay.’

She tapped her nails on her cup. ‘So, what do you do when you’re not saving women from muggers?’

‘I hardly saved you.’

‘Well, picked me up off the floor, then.’

‘That’s more like it.’ I smiled, warming to her open nature. ‘I’m an editor. For the Evening Standard.’

She cocked her head to one side and
nodded. ‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘Do you enjoy it?’

I nodded, shrugged. ‘I’ve been there for ten years.’ A pause, then, ‘And you? What do you do?’

‘I’m a copywriter.’ She bit a piece of flake, brushed the crumbs from her painted lips. ‘Freelance. Not that I’ve got much coming in at the moment.’

‘Well, it sounds like you’ve had a tough time of it.’

She frowned. ‘The mugging?’

‘No,’ I said, then quieter, ‘the divorce.’

‘Oh. That. To be honest, the divorce wasn’t the problem. The marriage was the problem. It had been for years’ She shook her head and hands at the same time. ‘But I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve been talking about it for months. I’m sorry I brought it up. Let’s just forget about it.’

I checked the time again - two minutes left - and took a large gulp of my tea.

Am I keeping you?’ Samantha asked. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t be. You’re busy. In fact, why aren’t you in work?’
‘I have a toothache.’

She winced. ‘Ouch.’

‘I’m meant to be at the dentist’s at half-past three.’
 pushed back the sleeve of her coat and checked her watch.

‘Where’s the surgery?’

I told her.

'Will you make it?'

'I don't know.'

I looked out of the large window. It had started to rain heavily and I imagined running to the station. I’d be soaked by the time I got there and, even if I made the appointment, I’d no doubt end up with a cold in place of a toothache.

‘I have an umbrella,’ Samantha said. ‘I can walk with you down to the station if you like.’
 
She left half of her hot chocolate and we walked out into the rain, close to one another to keep under the shelter of her umbrella.

Avoiding huge puddles as we made our way to the station, Samantha pointed out places that she liked to eat and drink.

'That place does the best chicken korma,' she said, pointing to a small curry house beside a XXX video shop. 'And there,' she said, 'is the best place if you like Thai food. Do you like Thai food?'

'I haven't eaten much of it,' I said.

'You'd love it. I defy anyone to say they don't.'

And it was this kind of conversation that we made as we walked in time with each other's footsteps. With each minute that passed, it became more and more clear that whereas she was cultural in her tastes of food, music, art, I was linear and predictable. I hadn't even noticed half of the places she was pointing out to me before. I had wandered around from familiar place to familiar place: restaurants, fish and chip shops, cafes. And all the time on my own.

I'd been living in London for ten years by that point and, at thirty five, was comfortable in my own company. There were colleagues at work I’d sometimes go for a drink after work with. But that was all it was, polite chit-chat They weren't people I would arrange to see on a weekend. They weren't people I would call friends.
Before I'd moved to London, I'd imagined it to be the sort of place where, as soon as I walked out of my front door, I would meet someone who would want to talk. Coming from a small town in Manchester where everyone knew everyone else's business, the anonymity of the big city was a shock.

I remember being surprised that despite going in the local shop three or four times a week and saying 'hello' to the owner, he never once seemed to recognise me. Each time, it was as if I were just a new customer.

For months, I thought that was just the way he was. After all, how many faces must he see in one day?
But one Sunday morning, I was in the queue behind a woman buying bacon and eggs and he greeted her with a warm welcome. He asked after her children and her husband and they laughed at the fact that, every Sunday, she was in the shop buying the same things.

When I took my newspaper to the till and smiled, said 'hello,' he said nothing. Simply nodded. As if he'd never seen me before. As if I'd been invisible.
 
Under the shelter of the train station, Samantha put down her umbrella and shook it against the wall.

'Well,' she said. 'Thank you for being so kind.'

'You're welcome,' I said, taking out my wallet. 'Do you need some money to get home? I can give you some if you need it.'

'No, no,' she said. 'It's fine. I can walk from here. It's not far.'

And then I saw a tear roll down her cheek to her lip. She wiped her eyes and forced a smile.

'Are you sure you're okay?' I asked as a train approached.

'I think it's all just sunk in,' she said, tears coming more steadily now. 'What am I going to do?'

I stood woodenly for a moment before saying, 'I don't want to leave you like this. You're upset.'

'I'm fine.'

'No. No, you're not.' I put my wallet away. 'Come on,
I'll walk with you to the police station.'

'But what about your appointment?'

'I can make another one.'

‘Are you sure?’

‘I can’t leave you like this.’

We walked out of the station onto the street where the rain had stopped and the sky was beginning to clear.
 
As Samantha reported the mugging, I sat in the white walled waiting area in an uncomfortable plastic chair.
We were the only two people there, and I watched Samantha at the front desk as she reported what had happened to a policeman.

Every so often, she would glance in my direction and roll her eyes, mouthing, 'sorry.' And I shook my head, hoping she understood that I meant, 'It doesn't matter.'
Perhaps it sounds strange, but as I watched her there, I felt as if I were seeing her for the first time and it struck me how at ease she seemed in such a stressful situation. Her gestures, when she made them, were elaborate and detailed, and she nodded intently whenever she was asked a question, tucking her hair behind her ear in what I'd already noticed to be a habit of hers.
She was pretty, too. Slender, she had a simple beauty of perfectly clear skin and grass green eyes. I could find her attractive, I thought. I could make myself attracted to her.

And then I glanced at the policeman with whom she was speaking: broad shoulders, dark stubble, strong arms. His masculinity at once aroused and repulsed me and I made myself look away at the white wall in front of me. Back at nothing.

When we'd arrived at the station, he'd mistaken me for being Samantha's husband.

'Sorry,' he said when she corrected him. 'I just assumed.'

And I realized It was as easy as that. A man and a woman together. They had to be married.

Though I'm sure that the mistake embarrassed Samantha since she flushed and let out a little laugh) I found it in some way comforting. It was as if I were on stage, in costume, playing the convincing role of the doting husband.

'He wants to speak to you,' Samantha said, walking over and folding a piece of paper in half. 'I think he wants a witness statement.'

'Okay,' I said, standing up, assuming she would leave now that she'd reported the crime.

But instead she sat in the seat I'd been in, crossed her legs and said, 'I'll wait for you.'

As I walked over to the front desk, the absurdity of the whole situation struck me. Here I was, in a police station, with a woman I'd only known for an hour waiting for me to give a witness statement. And yet, I felt calm, relaxed. Comfortable. Was that her influence?

'Name?' the policeman asked.

'Daniel Stone.'

He wrote my name in neat, black block capitals in a form and I noticed that each of his fingernails was bitten in a jagged line.

'Date of birth?'

'18th November 1953.'

When he asked, I gave him my statement of what I'd seen: a man in black jeans, white trainers and a baseball cap running in the direction of the tube station. Was he alone? Yes, I said, I thought so. Age? Mid-twenties. Race? White. Yes, definitely white. Would I recognise
him again? Possibly.

And all the while, he probably thought I was as guilty as the man I was describing since I wouldn't, I couldn't meet his eye.

There had been times like this before, when I'd felt that way for a man and been unable to maintain eye contact. Because I knew they'd see the clear lust, the transparent attraction in my stare, and I'd see disgust in their reaction. Disgust that I shared.

'All done?' Samantha asked when I walked back to the waiting area.

I nodded. 'All done.'

'You know, I don't even know your name,' she said.

'Daniel,' I said. 'Daniel Stone.'

'Samantha Divine,' she said, putting out her hand as if we were just meeting. 'As of today. I need to get used to saying that again now we’re divorced.'

We walked out of the police station and into the darkening winter evening.

Under a flickering streetlight, we spoke about the chances of the mugger being caught, her bag being returned.

'I don't think it's very likely,' she said. He probably just took the money and chucked it.'

'Did it have any sentimental value?'

'Not anymore.' She tucked her hair behind her ear. 'My husband – my ex-husband – gave it to me for my birthday a couple of years ago.'

'Oh,' I said, 'I'm sorry.'

'Please, don't be. Maybe it's time I started afresh.'

We stood for a moment, and in that moment I questioned whether what I was about to do was right or wrong. She was a nice woman, a nice, vulnerable woman, and I was, well, I knew what I was. But didn't she need someone to talk to? Someone to listen? Just one dinner, then we would go our separate ways and she would remember me as nothing more than the kind stranger on Tottenham Court Road. And if it seemed as if it would be anything more than the one dinner, then I would say that, as much as I enjoyed her company, I wouldn't be able to see her again. It would be as simple as that. I was doing the right thing.

'I'll understand if you don't want to,' I said. 'I mean, you don't even know me very well, so I won't be offended if you say no, but, well, would you like to go for dinner? With me?'

She smiled, her rosy cheeks dimpling. 'That would be lovely,' she said. 'But one condition. I choose the restaurant.'
 
The Golden Flower was a busy, cosy Chinese restaurant on the outskirts of Soho with paneled wooden walls, closely arranged tables and chairs, and steamed up windows.  

'I love it here,' Samantha said, breaking her chopsticks in half and rubbing them together. 'Do you like crispy duck?' She picked up the menu. 'They do the best crispy duck.'

'I've never had it before.'

'Really?'

'Really.'

'Then you must have it here. It's just perfect.'

A young waitress with a wide smile on her face came to take our drink order and Samantha asked me, 'Are you okay with red wine?'

I nodded, and she ordered a bottle of house red and prawn crackers to share.

As the waitress walked away, Samantha whispered, 'I'm just going to the ladies,' and reached down the side of her chair. 'I'm so stupid,' she said, shaking her head. 'I kept forgetting I've had my handbag pinched.'

As she walked to the back of the restaurant, I picked up my own set of chopsticks, broke them in half as Samantha had done, and rubbed them together. I hoped that I would be able to use them properly, that I wouldn't draw attention to myself.

Turning my head, I watched the rain begin to fall again outside and people rushing along the pavement with ducked heads and raised umbrellas. I read 'The Golden Flower' backwards on the window, and tried to work out the reversed telephone number.

Feeling eyes upon me, I looked back at Samantha's empty seat and, out of the corner of my eye, saw a man at a table on my left staring at me.

About my own age with a thin moustache, perhaps a couple of years younger, he was wearing a pair of tight stone-washed jeans and sat back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest.

I caught his gaze for a moment and he smiled. A smile that meant he knew. I looked away, back out at the rain and saw his reflection in the window, still felt his eyes upon me.

How could he tell? I wondered. Wasn't I just like any other man out for a meal with his girlfriend? Wife? Was there something about the way I spoke? The gestures I used? How was it possible for something I kept so deep within me to be so obvious?

The waitress returned with the bottle of wine and a basket of prawn crackers. She filled the two glasses, then walked away.

As I brought the glass to my lips, my hand was shaking.

'Are you okay?' Samantha asked as she sat back at the table and pulled her chair in. 'You look like you've seen a ghost.'

'I'm fine,' I said, too quickly to be believed. 'Fine.'

I looked down at the menu, aware that the man was still looking at me, that same thin smile on his lips.

When the waitress came back to the table and flicked open her pad, I took Samantha's recommendation and ordered the crispy duck while she ordered a dish she’d never had before.

I saw the man beside us raise his hand for the bill and felt my body relax. He would be gone soon, and my fear would subside.

When he left a few minutes later, he glanced over his shoulder and looked at me again before stepping out into the rain.

'Are you sure you're okay?' Samantha asked. 'You seem distracted.'

'No, no,' I said, taking a sip of wine. 'I'm fine. I'm fine now.'

When our main courses arrived, we began to talk about our jobs, about the things we liked and the things we didn't like about them.

'I like working on my own,' I said. 'I like it when I've got a story to write and I can just get on with it.'

'Oh, no,' Samantha said. 'I'm completely the opposite. 'I love working in a team, listening to ideas, all that kind of thing. In fact, I think that's when I work best.'

'Well,' I said, smiling. 'Aren't we different?'

Samantha raised her glass and looked me in the eye as our glasses chimed over the table. 'You know what they say,' she said, 'opposites attract.'

At the end of the meal, the waitress brought us the bill and two fortune cookies.

Samantha cracked hers in half, read the message and laughed.           

''Let your heart make decisions,’’ she read aloud, ‘’it does not get as confused as your head’’, that’s rather nice isn’t it? What does yours say?’

I opened the red plastic wrapper and, copying Samantha, broke the cookie in half. I shook both ends and no slip of paper fell out.

‘You can’t have no fortune,’ Samantha said. ‘Let’s get you another one.’

She turned round to call the waitress.

‘It’s fine,’ I said, ‘let’s just get the bill.’

‘Are you sure?’

I nodded. ‘I don’t believe in all that anyway.’
           
After I’d paid, we walked out of the restaurant into the cool of the evening, pulling out coats tight around our necks.

The pavement was still wet from the rain, and cars splashed through the puddles by the kerb.

‘Can I walk you home?’ I asked.

‘It’s not far,’ Samantha said.

‘But I’d like to.’

She nodded and we started walking down the road under the glow of streetlights.         

‘Thank you for dinner,’ Samantha said. ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

‘Well, you were hardly going to pay, were you?’

She looked at me and, seeing my smile, laughed. ‘I’d have been washing up till the morning.’

‘Maybe even till the afternoon.’

We both laughed and, since I drank so rarely back then, I felt the warming affect of the wine.

A few minutes later, we were outside the door to Samantha’s flat, the second floor of a grand Victorian building.

‘So,’ she said, ‘this is me.’

‘It looks nice.’

She sighed. ‘It’s okay. I mean, it’s just a temporary thing while I get myself sorted out. We’re selling the house, so once that’s sorted, I can move out. But at the moment it’s nice to be around people.’

She hadn’t mentioned this, and my surprise must have shown, because she said, ‘I share with a friend of mine, Abigail. She had a spare room, so-,’ She walked the couple of steps to the door and turned the key in the lock. ‘I’d ask you in, but she might be asleep. She’s a nurse, works shifts.’

I stood on the step for a moment, looking up at her, wondering whether or not I should kiss her. It had been so long since I’d been in that same situation that I didn’t know what to do.

But she took the matter out of my hands when she stepped down to me and kissed me on the cheek, her hands on my shoulders.

As she pulled away, I noticed the curtain twitch out of the corner of my eye. Her flat-mate must have been up.

‘Thank you for saving me,’ she said. ‘And for dinner too. I should get mugged more often.’ She flashed a wicked smile and I laughed.

‘Maybe we could meet again,’ I said. ‘On purpose I mean.’

‘A date?’

‘I think that’s what they’re calling them these days.’

‘That would be lovely. What are you doing Saturday night? I know a jazz bar round the corner. It’s amazing.’ She cocked her head to one side, frowned. ‘Am I coming on too strong?’

‘No, not at all,’ I said.

I never accepted invitations immediately, nor do I still, but there was something about Samantha that made her hard to refuse. And so I said yes, that I’d pick her up at eight.