Ben.’
She took off the jacket, and he noticed she was wearing the same crisp white blouse she’d been wearing when he’d first met her. ‘Been working late?’ he said.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Tell me about it.’
He was about to reply when the musicians walked out onto the stage, carrying their instruments. There was a smatter of applause from the small audience as the two violinists, viola player and cellist settled themselves into their seats. They took up their bows, nodding to one another. Then the playing began.
As the edgy music filled the room, Ben became aware of Lucy’s perfume. From time to time she shifted in her seat and he felt her knee brush his lightly. He idly wondered why she’d wanted to sit next to him when the place was half empty. She seemed pleasant enough. He didn’t mind the company.
Sunset was falling as they left the Holywell and walked up the narrow street.
‘I enjoyed that,’ Lucy said.
‘Relaxing,’ he answered.
‘You think? It’s pretty intense.’
‘That’s what I find relaxing.’
‘Fancy a drink?’ she said.
‘Why not?’
The Turf was just nearby, a pub he remembered from years ago. They crossed the road and headed towards the sound of music and laughter. The interior was traditional – low ceilings, exposed beams, with a pitted wooden bar that looked at least two centuries old. The place was heaving with people. A contingent of Italian tourists were taking up several tables, making too much noise. Ben bought a double Scotch and a glass of white wine, and he and Lucy took their drinks out to a tranquil corner of the beer garden surrounded by old stone walls and climbing plants. The air was thick with the scent of honeysuckle.
Ben took out his cigarettes. ‘You mind?’
‘I’ll join you,’ she said. He gave her a light, and they clinked glasses. It seemed a little strange to him to be sitting there with her, yet at the same time she was easy to be with.
‘Great concert,’ she said. ‘Shame about the audience.’
‘I guess Bartók’s an acquired taste.’
‘If it had been Chopin’s greatest hits, or some frilly baroque thing, the place would have been packed out.’ She smiled. ‘So, Ben, are you a postgrad or what?’
‘Undergrad. Waiting to start my final year at Christ Church.’
She seemed surprised.
‘I know,’ he said, catching her look. ‘I’m old.’
‘You’re not old.’
I feel old, he thought. And tired. ‘I took some time out,’ he explained. ‘Did two years of my theology degree, long ago. Too long ago. Now they’ve let me back in to finish it.’
‘Career change?’
‘Definitely.’
‘What did you do before?’
He thought for a moment. Even thought about telling her the truth – then decided against it. ‘I was self-employed. Kind of a freelance consultant. Troubleshooter. Specialist stuff. I travelled around a lot.’
It was meaningless, the vaguest answer he could think of, but she seemed satisfied with it. ‘Career change would suit me too,’ she said.
‘You don’t like working at the library?’
‘It’s OK. But I want to paint. I’m an artist. The Bodleian job’s only a few hours a week, to help with bills. I’d go full time with the art if I could make a living out of it. But things are tight.’
‘Tough business,’ he said. ‘I hope you succeed. What kind of art do you do?’
She chuckled. ‘Oh, you wouldn’t be interested.’
‘No, I am interested.’
She reached into her bag and brought out a business card. On one side was printed LUCY WILDE, FINE ART PAINTER and a phone number and website address. Ben flipped it over. The back of the card was printed with an abstract design, clean and geometric, a style that reminded him of Kandinsky. ‘This is one of yours?’
She nodded.
‘I like it. You’re pretty good. I hope you do well with this stuff.’ He made to hand her back the card.
‘Keep it,’ she said. He smiled and slipped the card into his pocket.
There was silence between them for a few moments. He twirled the glass on the tabletop, then glanced at his watch. ‘Maybe I should be going.’ He drained the last of his drink.
‘Where do you live?’ she asked.
‘North Oxford. Woodstock Road. What about you?’
‘Up in Jericho.’
‘I’d offer you a lift,’ he said. ‘But I’m on foot.’
‘Same here. But you’re going my way, as far as St Giles. Walk with me?’
He nodded. She smiled, and they left together. They didn’t talk much as they walked back along the narrow street. Their footsteps echoed up the pitted old walls of college buildings as they made their way back towards the centre of town. A crowd had spilled out of the New Theatre and the kebab vans were busy, filling the warm night air with the smell of grilled meat. Past St John’s College, up the broad St Giles. The streets were quieter there, and the streetlights cast off a dim amber glow.
Lucy stopped. ‘I go this way,’ she said, pointing to a sidestreet. ‘So I’ll see you sometime? The library?’
‘I suppose so.’ He was about to turn to walk away.
‘Ben?’
‘What?’
Her voice was hesitant. ‘I was thinking – would you like to go to see a film with me tomorrow night?’
He said nothing.
‘It’s a movie about Goya,’ she said nervously. ‘The artist.’
‘I know who Goya was.’ He hated the abrupt way it came out.
‘I don’t know if it’ll be any good. But I thought you might like –’ Her voice trailed off. She shuffled a little, looked down at her feet, fiddled with her bag.
He hesitated. ‘Sorry, Lucy. I don’t think I can make that. I’m busy.’
‘What about some other night? Maybe a drink?’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
She looked flustered. ‘OK, I understand. See you round, then.’ She turned to go, and he watched her walk away. She didn’t look back. He carried on up the street.
After about a hundred yards he slowed his step. Stopped. Stood under the amber lights and shook his head. What an arsehole, the voice in his head told him. He’d handled that all wrong. Stupid and clumsy and callous. She obviously wasn’t the kind of woman who asked men out on dates every day. It had been an effort for her to come out with it, but he’d stepped on her like an insect. She deserved better than that. He needed to go back and explain the situation. That he liked her, but just couldn’t see much of her. How he could never possibly be attracted to anyone, not for a long time and maybe never again. That it wasn’t personal – it was just him and his problems. That he was sorry.
He turned and strode back to the cobbled side-street where he’d watched Lucy walk away from him. It was poorly lit and narrow, and the high buildings either side threw long black shadows across the cobbles. Little more than a long alleyway. There was nobody around.
Just Lucy and the three guys.
They