“Cheers,” I said.
“Cheers,” said Matt. “We could drink to Angus. We haven’t done that yet, have we?”
“No,” I said. Suddenly I felt near tears. I swallowed hard.
Matt reached for my hand. “I know you’re finding things a bit hard, lately,” he said. “You’re putting a brave face on it – for me, which I really appreciate – but you don’t fool me. I can see that it’s really affecting you.”
His fingers were cold at the tips from grasping his champagne glass. I looked down at my plate, feeling something akin to panic. You don’t fool me. What else could he see through? Was I fooling anyone? Even myself?
“Thanks,” I said in a watery voice. The waiter, thank God, brought our main courses and broke the tension between us. We ate in silence for a little while. I was trying to think of a new topic of conversation.
Perhaps it was time I told him of my problems of the past few weeks. Perhaps I should tell him how I’d been feeling and about the strange sightings I’d had of the thin blonde woman. I took a decisive sip of champagne and made up my mind.
“Matt.”
“Hmm?” he said, intent on his plate.
I took a deep breath. “Some strange things have been happening to me.” I never normally said things like this to anyone; I wanted to be thought of as sane, calm, normal. I attempted a light laugh. “I’ve been seeing – well, some odd things...”
I looked up, away from Matt’s face, my eyes drawn across the room by something, some movement or flicker of light. I felt as if I were plummeting floorwards, out of control in a runaway lift. The sounds of the restaurant faded away; the chime of cutlery on crockery and the hum of the other diners’ voices were sucked from me as if into a vacuum. The blonde woman was standing not ten feet from me. Our eyes met. She had the same frozen expression that she had worn the last time I’d seen her, concentrated emotion pouring from her eyes. I gasped. My champagne flute went flying, struck by my hand that flew out in an instinctive warding-off gesture. At the musical smash of glass, the woman wheeled around, her long black coat flaring out like a funereal flag. She walked quickly away and I heard the bang of the restaurant door as it slammed shut behind her.
I acted without thinking. I stood up and my chair fell backwards. I saw Matt’s face change, and then I was past him, running through the restaurant, slipping through the tables, my only goal to find the woman, to hunt her down until she told me what she wanted. I ran past the astonished maitre d’ and neatly sidestepped a couple that were just coming through the door. Then I was out in the street, the icy night air a shock of cold against my hot face. I paused for a second, looking left and right for my quarry. Way off down the street I caught sight of a gleam of blonde hair as she walked beneath a streetlight. She was moving at fast pace, her high heels ringing against the concrete of the pavement. I took a deep breath and ran after her.
I was almost hit by a car as I crossed West Street but I took no notice of the screech of brakes or the volley of obscenities. My whole being was concentrated on that distant halo of hair. I pounded down the street. Soon I was out of breath and holding my side. I passed hordes of people. Some of them shouted after me in derision or encouragement.
As I got within twenty yards of her, she looked round. Perhaps the thudding of my heart was audible. She looked at me – our eyes met – and, incredibly, I saw fear. She was scared of me. Her face contracted and she began to run herself, her coat flaring out behind her as she ran away from me.
“What do you want?” I shouted, voice raw in the icy night. The woman didn’t flinch; she never looked back. As I ran, I saw her turn the corner of a street, out of my view. Ten seconds later, I was there myself, bent double, gasping. I looked along the street, expecting to see a fleeing figure. Nothing. She was gone. I slowed and stopped, one hand pressed to my side, pulling in air in great, noisy gasps. Nothing. I felt a great surge of anger and frustration, strong enough to blur my vision with tears. I dug my fingernails into my thighs. Nothing. I balled my hand into a fist and hit my leg, hard on the thigh, once, twice. Fuck.
“What the hell were you doing? What’s wrong with you?”
I slipped back into my chair, my face throbbing. I tried smiling but it didn’t come out properly.
“It’s a long story.”
“Well, it had better be bloody worth it.” Matt’s eyebrows were low, his mouth turned down at the corners. I reached for my drink, remembered I’d smashed the glass on the floor and withdrew my hand. My fingers were trembling.
Matt’s voice was icy. “Maudie–”
I sighed. The waiter came up with another champagne flute. I wondered whether he’d mention my sudden flight from the restaurant and my sheepish return. Of course he didn’t; he’d been too well trained.
“Matt–”
“Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?”
I picked up my new glass and took a sip. Now my breathing had returning to normal, I was beginning to feel foolish. The shot of adrenaline that had propelled me down the street was ebbing away and in its place was only embarrassment. I had ruined our night out. I made up my mind not to make things worse.
“I’m sorry, darling,” I said, managing a real smile at last. I even laughed a little. “I just thought I saw someone I knew go past the restaurant. Someone from where I used to work.”
Matt looked unconvinced. “Who?”
“Katy,” I said, improvising wildly. “Actually, I still have a book of hers and I suddenly remembered that and thought I might just catch her and explain...” My voice trailed off into silence.
Matt made a sound of disbelief. “Sometimes I think you do it on purpose,” he said. I could see a muscle twitching in his jaw, almost hidden by his dark stubble.
I shook my head. “No, that’s not–”
Matt withdrew his hand and picked up his fork. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s leave it.”
“I’ll get dinner,” I said on impulse, hoping that would help.
“Thanks,” said Matt, grimly. He kept his eyes on his plate.
I nodded again and we sat in silence, until the waiter came with the bill for me to pay.
Chapter Nine
"You look fine," said Matt. "Stop fidgeting."
Immediately I put my hand back on my lap, having just reached for the windscreen visor mirror.
"I'm not."
Matt glanced over at me and smiled. "I don't know why you're so nervous. It's only a little gathering. A get-together to celebrate Bob’s book. That’s all."
"I'm not nervous."
"So why do you keep fidgeting?"
We were driving through an area of South London I didn’t recognise, somewhere beyond the borders of Brixton.
We drove in silence.
“What’s Bob’s book about?” I finally asked.
Matt breathed out sharply through his nose. “Semiotics.”
“Oh,” I said. I opened my mouth to say something of what I knew about semiotics, realised it was nothing, and shut it again.
“I’m surprised you don’t write a book,” I said, after a moment. “Why don’t you?”
Matt gave me a pained glance. “Because, Maudie...” he began and then sighed and didn’t say any more.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing.”
“No, what?”
“Oh, just leave it, for God’s sake. We’re here now, anyway.”
I’d been feeling anger, rather than anxiety, but at this announcement my heart rate leapt up a notch. I wasn’t very good with crowds of strangers. I’d managed to sink a couple of glasses of wine before we left the flat but it wasn’t enough; I could still feel everything. I needed more to drink. I needed numbness.