There’s a small beer in front of me, I don’t know where it came from, and she says, ‘Well then … Cheers,’ and I nod and says, ‘Cheers,’ and we clink glasses.
We put our glasses down almost simultaneously. She’s drinking a dark red cocktail, blood orange or something like that, and there’s a stripe of the stuff above her top lip. I try not to look her in the eye for too long, running my finger across my mouth a couple of times. She smiles, takes a serviette and wipes the red stripe away. I take a sip of beer and look into my glass. I hear her drinking too, I hear her coughing, then only the music and the quiet buzz of conversation from the other tables.
I put my fingertips on my beer glass and stroke across the curve and the long, thin stalk it stands on. It’s one of those small glasses we used to call ‘tulips’ back then, but I haven’t heard that for a long time now.
‘Have you been in town a lot the last few years?’
‘No,’ I say, without looking up.
‘Only on business then.’ She laughs, and I don’t know why, and that scares me, and I ask, ‘Why are you laughing?’ and she laughs, and I look at her top front teeth, the two in the middle a tiny bit longer than the ones next to them, but only a tiny little bit, and I see her laughing and her teeth even though she’s so far away, she’s walking across the sports hall with the other girls, but all I see is her and I lean my forehead against the glass.
‘I’m just imagining,’ she says, still laughing, ‘I can’t imagine it, you know, you in a suit …’
I nod. ‘I couldn’t imagine it either, back then.’
She stops laughing. ‘Sorry,’ she says.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Don’t be.’
‘No, I’m glad.’ She leans forward, and her face is quite close to mine. ‘Glad you’re doing well. I sometimes thought, over the years …’
‘What did you think, over the years?’
‘Well, you know.’ She leans even further forward, and I feel a tiny drop of her somewhere below my cheekbone. ‘I was so mean to you, back then, and I’m sorry.’
‘No,’ I say. ‘Don’t be,’ and I can still feel the little drop and I tilt my head and wipe it away with my shoulder.
‘I,’ she says, ‘I …’ She reaches for the dark red cocktail, takes out the straw and puts it on the table, then she drinks a couple of mouthfuls, holding onto the glass with two hands. ‘Maybe … I guess I wasn’t ready, back then.’
‘Why — why are you saying that?’ I down my beer in one draft and slam the glass on the table. No, I’ve got everything under control and I put it down carefully on the coaster. ‘After all these years …’
‘I haven’t … haven’t seen you for so long,’ she says, ‘and now … and now, don’t get me wrong …’
‘No, no,’ I say. ‘I understand. I understood you back then as well.’ I put the empty glass to my mouth again, feeling the tiny leftover of beer on my lip, and then I say, ‘Sorry.’
‘No,’ she says, and the little table moves because she’s moving too. ‘Don’t be.’
We look at each other, I nod, she smiles, I turn around and gesture for the waiter. The guy looks pretty gay in his skin-tight lilac shirt, and I smile at him the way I want to smile at her. ‘Hey, faggot,’ I say. ‘Lonely, are you?’ No, I just think it and order a small beer. ‘Do you want anything else?’ I ask her, and she shakes her head. The waiter takes my empty glass and scuttles off to the bar.
‘And you really want to stay in town?’ She rests her chin on both hands, and I nod and try to smile and say, ‘We’ll see.’
‘And your business?’
‘Oh yeah,’ I say. ‘It’s going … going pretty well. Can’t complain.’
‘That’s a nice hotel you’re staying at.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s not bad, it’s really not … but in the long term …’
‘True,’ she says. ‘You could get a flat, I know someone … I mean, if you want …’
‘We’ll see,’ I say, and then my beer comes at last, and I pick up the glass and drink and think about the hotel and the flat and her, about meeting her three days ago, even though she’s sitting right in front of me, think about her teacup still standing in the room that’s not mine, standing on the table for three days now. Rosehip tea. I don’t know anyone else who drinks that kind of thing, and the teabag’s still next to the cup, small, brown and shrivelled. I put the empty beer glass on the table and get up. ‘Got to go to the little boy’s room.’ I walk around between the tables looking for the toilet, a woman and a man, at four or five little tables, all with a candle on them, just like ours, woman — woman — woman, two men alone at one table, with a candle as well, but nobody all on their own, the gay waiter standing behind the bar and flirting with a woman, and suddenly he doesn’t look gay at all, and then I spot the toilet doors at last in an alcove beside the bar. A man on the left, a woman on the right, and I stumble into the door, and before I open it I turn around again. Our table is a long way off now; she’s sitting with her back to me, resting her chin on both arms, and not moving.
I stand at the wash-basin, the cold water running out of my hair and over my face. I look in the mirror. I’m wearing a white shirt I bought this morning. I never usually wear white shirts or suits either, and now the water’s dripping out of my hair and off my face onto the shirt, making tiny stains on the material. I see my pale face and try to smile and support myself on the edge of the basin.
‘Am I on my own, you mean?’ I nod. ‘No wife, no children. Just … just business, you know …’
‘And …’
‘Do I ever think about it, you want to know? Yes, sometimes.’ I look at the cup between us on the table in the hotel room. I ordered a whisky, I’ve been holding the glass in my right hand for ten minutes, and the three ice cubes are getting smaller and smaller. Rosehip tea. I don’t know anyone who drinks that kind of thing, and then the cup’s suddenly empty, and the teabag’s on the table next to the cup, small, brown and shrivelled.
‘Am I on my own?’ I grin at the mirror and say, ‘Not yet, but I soon will be,’ and when the door opens and closes again and there’s some guy behind me I turn around, grab him by the throat with my left hand, push him against the wall and press his head up against the tiles. ‘Keep your hands off her, you bastard, you keep your fucking hands off her.’
He wants to say something but I’m holding him so tightly by the throat that only his lips move, and I put my right hand over his mouth and press his head even harder against the wall. ‘Don’t touch her.’ I whisper in his ear. ‘You keep your fucking hands off her.’ He’s quiet now, not moving, breathing in and out again very quickly, and I feel his breath on my hand. I let him go. I turn around and look at him in the mirror. He’s pale and silent.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s nothing to do with you, you bastard.’
I dry my face on a paper towel. I’m scared someone will come through the door — I want to be with her just a little bit longer. I open the door and see her far away at our table, pushing the candle to and fro, and I can tell she must be smiling. I go to the bar and pay our bill, and then I’m back with her. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ I say, putting my hand on her shoulder very carefully. ‘Let’s go somewhere else. Please.’ Her shoulder moves, and I take my hand away again.
‘Are you not feeling well?’ She gets up, and I take a few steps back.
‘No, no, I’m fine.’ I see someone going to the toilets, but it’s a woman. ‘I just need a bit of fresh air. Let’s go somewhere else. Pool — can you play pool?’
‘A little bit,’ she says, and then we walk past all the tables and candles and go outside.