He had gone into his study to make the phone call, Sophie said, and emerged with the news that there had been a mix-up, and that now there wouldn't be another cab for at least an hour and a half. The next day, when she thought it through, she wondered whether he'd phoned at all. Perhaps there never had been another cab. Perhaps Larry and Berenice had planned what happened next, which was that Graham offered to run her home, and, in the absence of alternative transport, it seemed best to accept.
'Well, that's not so bad,' I said as the waitress plonked a plate of grilled feta pouffe down in front of me.
'Wait,' said Sophie. 'It gets worse.'
Graham lived off the North End Road, which in itself was enough to take him out of the running as far as Sophie was concerned. He had turned into Hampshire Place and dropped her off right outside number nine. She clambered out of his Y-registration Fiesta (another strike against him) and turned to peck him chastely on the cheek and thank him for the lift.
'I wonder if you'd mind waiting till I'm inside,' she said. Sophie always said this to cab drivers, and they usually obliged. But Graham had said, 'I'll do better than that, I'll escort you to your front door.' And before she'd had time to protest that it wasn't really necessary, he was out of the car and leading her by the elbow up the front steps.
'Thank you,' she said, unlocking the door. She pecked him on the cheek again. Talking about it to me, she was adamant that she in no way encouraged him.
'I could do with a coffee,' he said.
Sophie was tired. The long and fruitless wait for a cab had been the last straw in a pointless evening. She felt like going straight to bed, but didn't want to seem ungrateful.
'Yes, of course,' she said. 'Come in.'
Graham came bounding up the stairs behind her and followed her into the living-room. It was as though he were the wrong scale, she said. He wasn't touching her or anything, but all of a sudden the room, big as it was, seemed crowded.
'Nice place you've got here,' he said.
She apologized for the state of it. Dirk and Lemmy were still painting the woodwork, and the floor was covered in dustsheets. They had upended some of the empty packing cases to use as makeshift chairs on their frequent cigarette breaks. Sophie picked up the brimming ashtray and the two dainty cups (one of which was already missing a handle) and prepared to whisk them down into the kitchen.
The only item of proper furniture was the new sofa, which was still covered in protective plastic. Graham arranged himself right in the middle of it and smiled a self-satisfied smile.
'How about a drink?' he said.
'Coffee coming up,' said Sophie.
'I mean a nightcap.'
'You're driving,' she reminded him.
'Just one.'
'There's only wine,' she said.
'Wine's fine.'
So she poured him a glass of Sauvignon. 'Aren't you having one?' he asked. She shook her head, and stood and watched over him as he gulped the wine. He peered at her over the rim of his glass. 'Why don't you sit down?' he asked, patting the sofa beside him with his free hand.
Sophie didn't know how to refuse without seeming paranoid. She didn't want him to sense her nervousness, so obligingly sat down, but as far away from him as the size of the sofa would allow. They made small talk — about the dinner, about the flat, about West London in general. After what seemed like a lifetime. Graham finished his wine and held out his glass and asked, 'How about another?'
Sophie shook her head. 'I'd like to go to bed now.'
He raised an eyebrow. 'Me too.'
'Well, then,' said Sophie. She hadn't been single for a long time. She couldn't quite remember the accepted etiquette for this type of situation.
'You know,' said Graham, tilting towards her, 'you're a very beautiful woman. His leg crept sideways until it was nestling against hers and she had to shift away to break the contact. Oh God, she thought, here we go, and decided on the direct approach, so there could be no misunderstanding.
'I think you're very nice,' she said, 'but I don't want to sleep with you.' Only the first part of the statement was a lie. She was conscious that her body language had locked into defensive mode: knees tightly together and pointing away from him, arms folded tightly across her chest, shoulders hunched, as though she were about to roll up like a hedgehog.
He smiled and placed his hand on her thigh. She smiled back and tried to prise it off, but it clung there like a limpet.
'I think you'd better leave,' she said.
'Hey,' he said. 'You were the one who brought up the subject of us sleeping together.'
'I want you to leave,' she said. 'Now.'
And then he said something strange. 'Lady,' he said, 'I live here.'
It threw her off balance. 'I beg your pardon?'
'Look on this as a preliminary expedition,' he said, and then he was all over her, groping her breasts and thighs. It was so unreal that she didn't panic. She opened her mouth to protest, only to have it immediately stoppered by his tongue, which was bloated and slimy and seemed much too big.
This couldn't be happening. Only a couple of hours ago, this man had been wittering on about the rights of women and now here he was, forcing himself on to her. She plucked feebly at his hands, but there seemed to be more than two of them; it was like wrestling with an octopus.
At last, she managed to unplug her mouth. In the process of propelling herself away from him, out of range, she brought her knees up and, more by accident than design, one of them connected with his groin.
The breath whistled out of his chest — more breath than any one person should have had in his lungs. He brought his own knees up and rocked back and forth on the sofa, hissing angrily. The sound frightened her, but as soon as it stopped the silence frightened her even more. Perhaps she'd done him serious damage.
'Bastard tried to rape me,' Sophie said, shaking her head in disbelief at the memory, 'and there I was, worried in case he was hurt.'
She continued to back away and, to her horror, heard herself apologizing. What was the matter with her? Why should she have to apologize, for Heaven's sake? But eventually she managed to get her mouth around the words she'd been wanting to say all along. 'Get out!'
Graham was slumped forward. Slowly he raised his head and looked at her. His face had turned grey, and the whites of his eyes were tinged with red. 'So you want to play it the hard way,' he whispered.
'Get out,' she said again, but the command didn't sound quite so steady this time. Thinking she might burst into tears if she opened her mouth to say any more, she instead pointed firmly at the door, a gesture which struck her as absurdly melodramatic, like something more appropriate to a stern Victorian patriarch ordering a pregnant maidservant out into the snow.
Graham coughed, as though he'd been swallowing seawater. Colour was seeping back into his face. 'Look,' he spluttered, 'I was only trying to…'
That Graham was so obviously his usual weedy self gave her fresh confidence. 'Out!' she yelled, 'or I'll call the police!' Her words rang out through the night, and she instantly regretted their loudness. What if the neighbours had heard? Noisy arguments were such bad form, and she knew the house was badly sound-proofed, because sometimes she could hear the man upstairs on his typewriter, or Marsha vacuuming in the flat below. She prayed they weren't lying awake in their beds and listening to her now.
But Graham's nerve had been booted out of him along with his breath. He was smaller and frailer now; she couldn't understand how someone only a couple of inches taller than she had managed to be so intimidating. He hauled himself up and hobbled painfully towards the door.