Chapter 8

This time I chose the venue and, I supposed, this time I actually chose to meet. So, rather than a flash restaurant in Islington, this time Ruth and I would be chatting in a decaying dive of a boozer in darkest Leytonstone. Which suited me, partly because I liked the beer they brewed, partly because I was secretly hoping that the woman wouldn't be able to find the place. That, or take one look at the furnishings – let alone the alleged carpet – and bugger off back whence she came, designer couture unsullied. I had even contemplated bringing Tim along – just to reinforce the sense of decay and dissolution – but Maggie had rather firmly objected to that idea. And, I mused, finding myself a corner to lurk in which was even gloomier than the rest of the bar, it wouldn't have been in accordance with what I supposed I'd have to describe as my 'agreement' with Ruth.

And so I waited, nursing a pint of a rather splendid chilli beer, and wondered what on earth I was letting myself in for. I mean, I'd had a virtual come-on from Ruth before and turned it down as politely as I could, but here I was again. Apparently, I had to show sufficient 'interest' in her to ... To what? Justify her doing the dirty on the beloved parent? What the hell could she want from me that would cause her to do that? I mean, I'd made it pretty clear that I wasn't interested in a relationship – with or without the capital 'R' – and ... casual sex? I smiled into my beer at the thought. I was hardly much of a catch at the best of times and a woman with her looks – and her father's money – could have her pick, so ... I was still smiling at the idea when my reverie was abruptly interrupted.

"Well, you look amused," said Ruth, unceremoniously appearing at my side. "Care to share the joke? No? Well, how about you recommend a beer? There seems to be quite a range..."

Which, of course, was true – microbreweries can err on the side of the experimental, at times – but it was also, in retrospect, just about the best thing she could have said to put me at my ease. Or, at least, back into some sort of comfort zone. I admit it, y'r honour, I'm a beer bore. Well, not a bore, exactly, but something of an expert, if I say so myself. By the time I'd run through the options – luckily, there were only eight beers on tap, at the time – and she'd gone off to the bar to order, I was feeling almost myself.

And relaxed enough to realise, belatedly, how Ruth just sort of fitted. I mean, she was dressed for the occasion, no doubt about it – faded jeans and a sweatshirt, hair loosely tied back and minimal, if any, make-up – but it was more than that. She just seemed at home – neatly sidestepping the drooling regulars hunched around the bar, even getting a smile from Paddy the landlord – and, yes, now I came to look more closely, those clothes seemed natural, too. Which is to say, the jeans appeared to have faded through wear, not at the behest of some arsehole designer, while the sweatshirt was actually fraying in places, that sort of thing. So maybe she'd bought the things second hand – I could imagine there being terribly chi-chi boutiques that catered for that sort of thing – but I had to admit that she looked good in the result. Or maybe the Family Research had been so extensive that it had uncovered my long-standing aversion to cosmetics and such like artifice. But, no ... along that line of thought only madness lay...

I politely kicked a chair away from the table, allowing her to place the pints she'd brought on its slightly wobbly surface and sit down simultaneously – its more difficult to do that you'd think – and then she turned that 24-carat smile on me again.

"Well," she said, "now that you've got me here, what are you going to do with me?"

I think its some time since I spent a Friday evening in a pub and left quite so sober. Not even the impact of the unseasonably chilly air as we left challenged my untoward togetherness. And, yes, we left together, given that we both needed to get the same tube home – somehow it didn't seem appropriate to ask whether the chauffeur would be appearing – and, well, that was that. A North Londoner, I got off first, of course – and got a brief touch on the hand as I did so – and then I was out on the street on my own and reeling. Not from the alcohol, but from events.

Whatever I'd expected of the evening, I thought, it surely hadn't been that. Which meant that, as I let myself into my flat, made some coffee and vaguely headed in the general direction of bed, I knew that I had even more to think about...

Next morning, I felt odd. It being Saturday, I had nothing much to do beyond shoving some clothes into the washing machine but, still, I moped. I sat for a while over breakfast – coffee and toast, this time – and more or less failed to eat. I put some music on, picked up a book I'd been meaning to read, but I didn't hear any of it and my eyes kept skittering off the page.