The Immaculate by Mark Morris Page B

of food in her mouth. Chewing, she said, “I’ll tell you what my mental image of you was, shall I?”
    â€œOh God, this’ll depress me.”
    â€œNo, it won’t. Don’t put yourself down so much.”
    Jack pushed his plate aside, folded his arms on the table and leaned forward. “Sorry,” he said. “Go on then. I’m listening.”
    The woman smiled. “Okay.” She looked thoughtful for a moment and then said, “I thought you’d be taller.”
    â€œOh dear.”
    She ignored the interruption. “I thought you’d be . . . gangly, with short blond hair receding at the front, a thin face, little round glasses. I thought you’d dress more formally than you do. I thought you’d be . . . quietly confident, intellectual, very sensitive, very aloof. I even had a feeling you might be gay.”
    â€œReally?” said Jack, breaking into a grin. “Why?”
    She thoughtfully drew back her lips and licked her upper teeth. Jack thought again how gorgeous she was. He could quite happily stay here all afternoon talking to this woman. He was beginning to feel very relaxed, very comfortable, in her presence.
    â€œBecause of the sensuality, the sensitivity, in your work. Despite some of the nasty stuff that happens, your good characters are very gentle, very caring. Through your work I imagined you having this shell around you, keeping publicity at arm’s length, but inside I thought you’d be like your good characters—very tender, very, very gentle.”
    She’d cupped her hands while saying this and brought them up to her chest as though she was holding this inner core of gentleness in the form of a delicate flower. Jack felt strangely moved. He wanted to reach across the table and hug her.
    â€œSorry to shatter your illusions,” he said, smiling to show he was only half-serious.
    She raised her eyes heavenward. “There you go, putting yourself down again. You may not be how I imagined, but that doesn’t mean I’m disappointed.”
    â€œDoesn’t it?”
    â€œOf course not. You’re hunkier looking for a start, and you’re much friendlier and more approachable than I thought you’d be.”
    Jack gave his soppiest grin. “Shucks, thanks.”
    â€œBut don’t take that as a chat-up line,” she warned him. “I’m not some fame-hungry groupie, you know.”
    Jack laughed and she laughed along with him, causing a few people to turn and look at her. Jack hoped they thought she was his girlfriend or wife. He hoped they were envious.
    â€œHey,” he said suddenly, “I don’t even know your name.”
    â€œGail,” she said and held out her hand for him to shake. “Gail Reeves.”
    Jack took the hand. Her skin was smooth and as warm as it looked. He would have liked to have maintained this contact for a while, but he released the hand almost as soon as he had touched it, as if concerned his desire would somehow translate itself to her.
    â€œVery pleased to meet you,” he said with mock formality. “Would you care to join me in a cup of coffee?”
    â€œDo you think there’ll be room for both of us?”
    â€œOh God, I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.”
    She laughed and apologised. Over coffee Gail asked Jack more questions about his work. She was intelligent and witty and genuinely interested without being overawed, and he found after a while that he was actually enjoying talking about himself. He asked her about herself, too, and discovered she owned a flat in Tottenham, five minutes walk from Seven Sisters tube station. She was twenty-eight years old, had been a relief teacher for four years, was an avid cinema-goer, loved reading though was so busy she only managed one book a month (though she had read
Song of Flesh
in less than a week!), and ate out more than she could really afford to. Jack wondered if she had a