Dead Romantic by Simon Brett Page B

would just ensure that it wasn’t more than a cuddle.
    â€˜So what are you drinking?’
    â€˜I’ll have a bitter lemon, thank you, Paul.’
    â€˜Oh, come on. Have a gin in it.’
    Another warning sign. ‘A bitter lemon, thank you, Paul,’ she repeated, with some asperity. ‘On its own.’
    He couldn’t argue further. She went to find a seat in one of the booths along the walls, while he ordered the drinks. He got her bitter lemon and, rather than his usual light ale, a whisky for himself. He didn’t like the taste much, but he thought he might need a bit of bolstering that evening. When it was put down on the counter, the whisky looked very small, so he asked for a double. That still looked small, so he drowned it in water. He was surprised how much it cost.
    â€˜What’s that you’re drinking?’ Sharon asked suspiciously as he sat down.
    â€˜Whisky,’ he replied with some bravado.
    â€˜I see,’ she said, recognising a third warning sign. But she did not stop him from taking her hand.
    â€˜You’re nice,’ he said, still stuck for a development of the compliment.
    This time she didn’t reciprocate, but that didn’t worry him. His confidence was overweeningly high. It was going to work. He would just be firm and it would happen.
    There was silence between them. Silence never worried Sharon. In fact, very little worried Sharon. There were things in life which she recognised to be annoyances, but she knew how to deal with them.
    Into their silence came conversation from the invisible occupants of the adjoining booth. A man’s voice. ‘Yes, it is sad, but one learns to accept it. One learns to accept everything, I suppose, after a time. I suppose that’s what happened with my marriage. I’ve just accepted that there’s something that used to be in my life and is no longer there. Nothing good seems to last.’
    A woman’s voice. ‘ “Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, Bidding adieu.” ’
    Paul was electrified. Sharon winced at the involuntary squeeze he gave to her hand. ‘What’s the matter?’
    But he only had ears for the conversation behind him. He took a gulp of the watery whisky.
    â€˜Yes,’ said the man’s voice. ‘Love can die. Or be killed by external circumstances.’
    â€˜Or’, said Madeleine’s voice, thick with emotion, ‘the one you love can die, and the love itself can stay alive.’
    â€˜And never be transferred to someone else?’
    â€˜It would take a long time. And maybe it would not be the same love.’
    â€˜No. Maybe not.’ But the man’s voice sounded happy rather than sad.
    They sank into their own silence. ‘What is the matter with you?’ asked Sharon, breaking the other silence.
    â€˜Nothing. I just think. . . You’d really like to see that movie, wouldn’t you?’
    â€˜Well, yes, but if you’d rather
    â€˜Let’s go.’ Paul rose abruptly. ‘We’ll just get there if we. . .’
    His voice trailed away as he heard Madeleine’s saying, ‘I’ll get us another drink. No, really, it is my turn.’
    There was no escape. He stood transfixed as she rounded the corner of the booth. She looked to him more beautiful than ever, the wonderful hair loose, a heightened flush on the cheeks beneath those violet-blue eyes.
    â€˜Paul. Hello. What a surprise.’
    He mouthed hopelessly.
    â€˜Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’
    â€˜We, er, were just going.’
    Madeleine looked at him quizzically, demanding a response.
    â€˜Yes. Right. This is Sharon. Sharon Wilkinson. Sharon – Miss Severn, my, er . . . my teacher.’
    â€˜Pleased to meet you,’ said Sharon, with a common little nod.
    â€˜Where are you two off to?’ Madeleine didn’t mean it to sound patronising, but it made Paul feel about eleven. He looked at