“Oh. Are you off? Goodbye.”
And then Jean was hurrying down the hill to the station in her smart shoes that pinched, a brisk wind whipping the fallen leaves around her ankles and tugging at the flaps of her drab raincoat, which was shielding the claret-colored dress from the threat of showers.
Howard was in his workshop when she arrived. Through the shop window she could see him in profile framed in the doorway. He was quite absorbed, applying solder to the sawn edges of a silver ring with pointed tweezers, biting his bottom lip with concentration.
It was less than five months since she had first set eyes on him here and yet she found it impossible to recapture the critical detachment of that meeting, when he was just an unremarkable, oldish man who meant nothing. Now, there was no one to compare to him; when he looked up from his work and broke into a smile of welcome it filled her with joy and wonder.
She had worried about this moment: the navigation of hellos and goodbyes was fraught with hazards. But with Howard there was nothing but warmth and kindness and the certainty of some feeling not yet declared, but even so accepted and returned.
“I’ve missed you,” he said simply when he stood beside her on the pavement, having shut up the shop and turned the sign to Closed.
“Likewise.”
“Are you hungry?”
“No. Not even slightly.”
“Me neither. But never mind. Let’s at least go somewhere we can sit and compare our symptoms. Come on.”
He walked briskly down Bedford Street, Jean just keeping up. After a few turns she was quite disoriented, with no idea where they were in relation to the shop or the Strand, or anywhere else. It was a strange and liberating experience to surrender all autonomy and be guided entirely by someone else.
Presently, he stopped outside a small Italian restaurant with pots of standard bay trees guarding the door. Its front window was no larger than that of the jeweler’s shop. Inside, however, was a mysteriously spacious dining room, lit by candles in wax-spattered wine bottles. Jean had the impression of polished wood and checked tablecloths and the lively clamor of lunchtime trade.
The proprietor greeted Howard with the familiarity due to a regular customer and showed them to a corner table. It was only on stopping to make way for what turned out to be her own advancing reflection that Jean realized that one whole wall was made of mirrors and that the restaurant was only half the size that she had first assumed. She was glad to take off her coat at last, but Howard was no more aware of her smart new dress than he had been of her dowdy raincoat. I could have worn anything, she thought, with dawning relief, and he wouldn’t have noticed or cared.
Without being asked, the waiter brought them a little dish of shiny green olives, a new experience for Jean, who discovered that she liked the idea of them much more than the flavor. They seemed to hail from the same world as Paul Temple and cocktails with Sir Graham and yet tasted like the smell of old gym shoes. More to her liking were the long twigs of salty bread in paper packets, which provided something to do with nervous hands while waiting for the menu.
They ordered minestrone soup and grilled sardines, which they agreed was enough for their impaired appetites, allowing for the possibility of dessert.
“Are you all right, Jean?” Howard asked as she shifted to one side and then the other.
“Yes. I’m just trying to avoid my reflection over your shoulder. It’s very disconcerting. I was trying to move so you’d block the view.”
Howard smiled at this, but obliged by adjusting his seat. “Some women would take it as an opportunity to preen.”
“My mother used to say the Devil would creep up behind me if I stared at myself for too long. I used to run past mirrors with my hands over my eyes.”
“The lies they told us.”
“I could never lie to a child like that,” Jean said with sudden warmth. “Could you?”
He considered. “I’m trying to remember whether I ever have. I don’t think so. Although recent conversations have certainly been testing.”
“Oh dear. How is Margaret? I often think of her.”
“It’s my day to see her tomorrow, so I’ll find out. I pick her up from Luna Street at ten and take her back at six, so the whole day is ours.”
“Have you been inside?”
“No, I prefer not to. But Gretchen comes to the door and it’s all very . . . cordial.”
His face clouded and Jean could tell that the maintenance of this civilized behavior was not without effort.
“What will you do tomorrow?” she asked, tearing open another packet of breadsticks, showering the table with crumbs.