opportunities, most of them still open for business. She could get a Frappuccino and just hang. Wander round Anthropologie, on the lookout for gift ideas. Check the listening posts in B&N, in case they’d finally racked up something new. Even go sit in the Deli, and have a Cobb salad by herself. Basically, bottom line, simply make sure she was at theright place at the right time, and then—depending on what kind of mood he was in—either reveal that Sian hadn’t showed, or pretend everything had gone as usual.
She dialed Sian to make sure that this plan wouldn’t be undermined by Mrs. Williams calling her mother. She couldn’t get through, which probably meant the car was up and running again and out of radio contact in a canyon. Sarah was confident that if her mother had been contacted then she’d know all about it already. Helicopters would be circling overhead, Bruce Willis being lowered down toward her on a rope.
She left a message for Sian, then walked over and went into Starbucks. It had occurred to her that if she did go to the Deli she could have whatever she wanted, rather than ordering the Cobb salad because that’s what they always did, dieting twenty years before they needed to. She could have, of all things, a burger. A huge great big burger, rare, with cheese. And fries.
She was thinking that maybe this was what it was like to be a grown-up, and that it could work out kind of interesting.
SHE’D COME TO THE end of her Frap, and The Manics had bellowed their last this time around, when she saw a tall guy come out of the bookstore. He ambled a few yards, then stopped and peered up at the sky. It wasn’t yet dark, but it was getting past twilight. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and struggled to extricate one from the packet while juggling what was evidently a heavy bag of books. This went on for quite a few moments, the man completely unaware of Sarah’s amused scrutiny. She was thinking that in his position she might try putting the bag down, but this obviously hadn’t occurred to him.
Eventually, exasperated, he walked over to the fountainand stuck the bag down on the edge. Once he’d got the cigarette lit he put his hands on his hips, looking down the way, before glancing at her.
“Hello,” he said. His voice was soft and cheerful.
Now that he was closer she thought he was probably about forty, maybe a little less. She wasn’t sure how she knew this, as there was a lamp behind his head and his face was slightly difficult to see. He just had that kind of older guy thing.
“Say that again.”
He said: “Er, hello?”
She nodded sagely. “You’re English.”
“Oh, God. Is it that obvious?”
“Well, like, you have an English accent .”
“Oh. Of course.” He took another drag off his cigarette, and then looked at the bench. “Do you mind if I join you?”
Sarah shrugged. Shrugging was good. It didn’t say yes; it didn’t say no. Whatever. The bench was plenty wide. She was salad-bound within seconds anyway. Or burger-bound. Still undecided.
The man sat. He was wearing a pair of corduroys, not especially new, but a light jacket that looked well-made. He had big hands. His fair hair was blond—dyed, but expensively done—and neat, and his face worked pretty well. Like a hip science teacher, or maybe social studies. The kind that probably wouldn’t sleep with a student, but could if he wanted.
“So, are you an actor, or something?”
“Oh no. Nothing as grand as that. Just a tourist.”
“How long are you here for?”
“A couple of weeks.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small object, made of shiny chrome. He flipped the top off and revealed it to be a small portable ashtray.
Sarah watched this with great interest. “The English smoke a lot, don’t they?”
“Yes we do,” said the man, who wasn’t English. He stubbed out his cigarette and slipped the ashtray back in his pocket. “We are not afraid.”
They chatted
She dialed Sian to make sure that this plan wouldn’t be undermined by Mrs. Williams calling her mother. She couldn’t get through, which probably meant the car was up and running again and out of radio contact in a canyon. Sarah was confident that if her mother had been contacted then she’d know all about it already. Helicopters would be circling overhead, Bruce Willis being lowered down toward her on a rope.
She left a message for Sian, then walked over and went into Starbucks. It had occurred to her that if she did go to the Deli she could have whatever she wanted, rather than ordering the Cobb salad because that’s what they always did, dieting twenty years before they needed to. She could have, of all things, a burger. A huge great big burger, rare, with cheese. And fries.
She was thinking that maybe this was what it was like to be a grown-up, and that it could work out kind of interesting.
SHE’D COME TO THE end of her Frap, and The Manics had bellowed their last this time around, when she saw a tall guy come out of the bookstore. He ambled a few yards, then stopped and peered up at the sky. It wasn’t yet dark, but it was getting past twilight. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and struggled to extricate one from the packet while juggling what was evidently a heavy bag of books. This went on for quite a few moments, the man completely unaware of Sarah’s amused scrutiny. She was thinking that in his position she might try putting the bag down, but this obviously hadn’t occurred to him.
Eventually, exasperated, he walked over to the fountainand stuck the bag down on the edge. Once he’d got the cigarette lit he put his hands on his hips, looking down the way, before glancing at her.
“Hello,” he said. His voice was soft and cheerful.
Now that he was closer she thought he was probably about forty, maybe a little less. She wasn’t sure how she knew this, as there was a lamp behind his head and his face was slightly difficult to see. He just had that kind of older guy thing.
“Say that again.”
He said: “Er, hello?”
She nodded sagely. “You’re English.”
“Oh, God. Is it that obvious?”
“Well, like, you have an English accent .”
“Oh. Of course.” He took another drag off his cigarette, and then looked at the bench. “Do you mind if I join you?”
Sarah shrugged. Shrugging was good. It didn’t say yes; it didn’t say no. Whatever. The bench was plenty wide. She was salad-bound within seconds anyway. Or burger-bound. Still undecided.
The man sat. He was wearing a pair of corduroys, not especially new, but a light jacket that looked well-made. He had big hands. His fair hair was blond—dyed, but expensively done—and neat, and his face worked pretty well. Like a hip science teacher, or maybe social studies. The kind that probably wouldn’t sleep with a student, but could if he wanted.
“So, are you an actor, or something?”
“Oh no. Nothing as grand as that. Just a tourist.”
“How long are you here for?”
“A couple of weeks.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small object, made of shiny chrome. He flipped the top off and revealed it to be a small portable ashtray.
Sarah watched this with great interest. “The English smoke a lot, don’t they?”
“Yes we do,” said the man, who wasn’t English. He stubbed out his cigarette and slipped the ashtray back in his pocket. “We are not afraid.”
They chatted
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