what I need.’
What about the dinner? you said, and the man, Timou Lindstrom was his name, waved his hand, motioning the cab to leave.
‘I’ll go later,’ Timou Lindstrom said.
You walked. He walked. He told you stories about the other directors, some of them rude. He related an on-set anecdote from when he was a runner about an actress who asked him to help strap on her false breasts. You tried not to be anxious about the dinner: would you be blamed if he didn’t turn up? What would your boss say if there was an empty seat? Would he go to the dinner when you reached the other side of the Thames?
He showed no inclination to head to the restaurant. You reached Aldwych, you went past Holborn, you walked through Covent Garden. At Cambridge Circus you took the plunge and stopped. The restaurant is just up there, you said. You pointed. You smiled. You put out your hand for him to shake.
He looked at your hand and laughed. ‘You think I want to go to the dinner? You think that’s why I’m walking with you? I hate those dinners. I hate those guys. They drive me mad with all their narcissistic jabbering. I’m walking with you because I want you to have a drink with me.’
Oh, you said. Oh, I see.
You went for a drink. You were secretly proud that you knew of a place just round the corner, up some steps and along a corridor. A row of grimy fairy-lights framed each window. The table was unbalanced. Timou wedged it with a beer mat. You leant your elbows on it to test: it no longer rocked back and forth. Magic, you said.
He asked you about your job, about London, about where you came from. You told him about your English father and your French mother, how they were wildly incompatible but had somehow made it work, about how your father had died when you were a teenager, about how you and your brother hated your suburban comprehensive school and lived only for the holidays, when your mother would whisk you back to Paris. She was, you said, the only mother who came to parents’ evenings dressed in Chanel.
As you spoke, his eyes roamed over your face, as if he was collating information about you that he might use later, as if he was thinking up his next question, his next line of enquiry. Tell me more, he said, while you were talking about the car ferry to France, about growing up bilingual; what kind of things did she wear, he said, when you were describing your mother walking into the school hall.
Timou told you about the script he was writing. It was about a group of friends who take a trip to a remote Swedish island. It unfolded in real time, he said, and he was just in the middle of describing the technical challenge of this, when he said, ‘Have you ever acted?’
You were so surprised that for a moment you said nothing. Then you shook your head, laughing a little, saying, no, never, maybe once or twice at school, but really not at all.
‘Look …’ he began, then grinned. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name. What is your name?’
Claudette, you said.
‘Claudette,’ he repeated, took your hand and shook it; he was holding a drink with his right hand so he shook with his left. It had a strangely unbalanced, one-sided feel. ‘I am pleased to meet you. Very pleased.’ He kept your hand in his for a moment longer than necessary. ‘I’ve never met anyone whose name suits them so perfectly.’
You withdrew your hand. You took a swig of your drink. You weren’t sure whether whatever was happening here – if anything was happening – was a good idea. Would it be embarrassing at work if you slept with this man? You hadn’t been in the office long enough to judge. Did you even want to sleep with him? You’d never been with someone like him – your boyfriends, to date, had been students, as you had so recently been. You’d never slept with a grown-up. You felt you needed to decide where you stood in the next few minutes because things seemed to be moving quite fast. It wasn’t right to lead
What about the dinner? you said, and the man, Timou Lindstrom was his name, waved his hand, motioning the cab to leave.
‘I’ll go later,’ Timou Lindstrom said.
You walked. He walked. He told you stories about the other directors, some of them rude. He related an on-set anecdote from when he was a runner about an actress who asked him to help strap on her false breasts. You tried not to be anxious about the dinner: would you be blamed if he didn’t turn up? What would your boss say if there was an empty seat? Would he go to the dinner when you reached the other side of the Thames?
He showed no inclination to head to the restaurant. You reached Aldwych, you went past Holborn, you walked through Covent Garden. At Cambridge Circus you took the plunge and stopped. The restaurant is just up there, you said. You pointed. You smiled. You put out your hand for him to shake.
He looked at your hand and laughed. ‘You think I want to go to the dinner? You think that’s why I’m walking with you? I hate those dinners. I hate those guys. They drive me mad with all their narcissistic jabbering. I’m walking with you because I want you to have a drink with me.’
Oh, you said. Oh, I see.
You went for a drink. You were secretly proud that you knew of a place just round the corner, up some steps and along a corridor. A row of grimy fairy-lights framed each window. The table was unbalanced. Timou wedged it with a beer mat. You leant your elbows on it to test: it no longer rocked back and forth. Magic, you said.
He asked you about your job, about London, about where you came from. You told him about your English father and your French mother, how they were wildly incompatible but had somehow made it work, about how your father had died when you were a teenager, about how you and your brother hated your suburban comprehensive school and lived only for the holidays, when your mother would whisk you back to Paris. She was, you said, the only mother who came to parents’ evenings dressed in Chanel.
As you spoke, his eyes roamed over your face, as if he was collating information about you that he might use later, as if he was thinking up his next question, his next line of enquiry. Tell me more, he said, while you were talking about the car ferry to France, about growing up bilingual; what kind of things did she wear, he said, when you were describing your mother walking into the school hall.
Timou told you about the script he was writing. It was about a group of friends who take a trip to a remote Swedish island. It unfolded in real time, he said, and he was just in the middle of describing the technical challenge of this, when he said, ‘Have you ever acted?’
You were so surprised that for a moment you said nothing. Then you shook your head, laughing a little, saying, no, never, maybe once or twice at school, but really not at all.
‘Look …’ he began, then grinned. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name. What is your name?’
Claudette, you said.
‘Claudette,’ he repeated, took your hand and shook it; he was holding a drink with his right hand so he shook with his left. It had a strangely unbalanced, one-sided feel. ‘I am pleased to meet you. Very pleased.’ He kept your hand in his for a moment longer than necessary. ‘I’ve never met anyone whose name suits them so perfectly.’
You withdrew your hand. You took a swig of your drink. You weren’t sure whether whatever was happening here – if anything was happening – was a good idea. Would it be embarrassing at work if you slept with this man? You hadn’t been in the office long enough to judge. Did you even want to sleep with him? You’d never been with someone like him – your boyfriends, to date, had been students, as you had so recently been. You’d never slept with a grown-up. You felt you needed to decide where you stood in the next few minutes because things seemed to be moving quite fast. It wasn’t right to lead
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