CHAPTER 12

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“No, of course not. Don’t be silly. What would my parents be doing in the Left Luggage Office?” she said, rather taken aback by the suggestion.

“Well, I don’t know,” spluttered Arthur, “or rather. . . ”

“It was in the ticket queue.”

“The. . . ”

“The ticket queue. Or so they claim. They refuse to elaborate. They only say you wouldn’t believe how bored it is possible to get in the ticket queue at Fenchurch Street Station.”

She sipped demurely at her tomato juice and looked at her watch. Arthur continued to gurgle for a moment or two.

“I’m going to have to go in a minute or two,” said Fenchurch, “and you haven’t begun to tell me whatever this terrifically extraordinary thing is that you were so keen to get off your chest.”

“Why don’t you let me drive you to London?” said Arthur. “It’s Saturday, I’ve got nothing particular to do, I’d. . . ”

“No,” said Fenchurch, “thank you, it’s sweet of you, but no. I need to be by myself for a couple of days.” She smiled and shrugged.

“But. . . ”

“You can tell me another time. I’ll give you my number.”

Arthur’s heart went boom boom churn churn as she scribbled seven figures in pencil on a scrap of paper and handed it to him.

“Now we can relax,” she said with a slow smile which filled Arthur till he thought he would burst.

“Fenchurch,” he said, enjoying the name as he said it. “I –”

“A box,” said a trailing voice, “of cherry liqueurs, and also, and I know you’ll like this, a gramophone record of Scottish bagpipe music. . . ”

“Yes thank you, very nice,” insisted Arthur.

“I just thought I’d let you have a look at them,” said the permed woman,

“as you’re down from London. . . ”

She was holding them out proudly for Arthur too see. He could see that they were indeed a box of cherry brandy liqueurs and a record of bagpipe music. That was what they were.

“I’ll let you have your drink in peace now,” she said, patting Arthur lightly on his seething shoulder, “but I knew you’d like to see.”

Arthur re-engaged his eyes with Fenchurch’s once again, and suddenly was at a loss for something to say. A moment had come and gone between the two of them, but the whole rhythm of it had been wrecked by that stupid, blasted woman.

“Don’t worry,” said Fenchurch, looking at him steadily from over the top of her glass, “we will talk again.” She took a sip.

“Perhaps,” she added, “it wouldn’t have gone so well if it wasn’t for her.” She gave a wry little smile and dropped her hair forward over her face again.

It was perfectly true.

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