screen, so he could see on the board outside that the film ended at 6:10. At 6:30, he heard Nessa’s key in the door.
“I thought we might see a film,” he said.
“Oh.”
“There’s a new Woody Allen on at the Chelsea—we could just catch the 6:45 performance—do you fancy it?”
“Why not?” Nessa said, her coat half off, slowly backtracking.
Henry did not follow her again. There was nothing new to discover. It was just a matter of waiting. A week later as he was leaving for the office, Nessa opened her study door.
“Can we have a cup of coffee before you go?”
They sat at the kitchen table. She was calm and prepared.
“I saw you last week. Your book had a red cover and it caught my eye as we came out of the flat. I knew you had followed us to the cinema.”
Henry grimaced.
“I’m sorry about that. It was cruel. The film wasn’t good enough to see twice.”
She looked up. “Do you think I saw it either time?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“He’s an actor, he did a commentary for me. I’ve been sleeping with him for three—no, it must be four months.”
Her precision, her belated need for honesty, undid him. Head bowed, he held back the tears.
“Oh, come on Henry, don’t get upset. It can stop. It doesn’t mean very much. I don’t really like him. It’s not the end of us. Don’t you want to know why I’ve been seeing him?”
“I’m not sure I do.”
She left the room on tiptoe, as if in the presence of the sick. She closed the door quietly behind her and he heard the clatter of her accelerated feet on the staircase. She could not wait to be gone. The real nastiness came later.
6
For a few days Henry stayed away from the brasserie. He went instead to a new coffee bar on the King’s Road, one of a chain much lauded by Tony Blair as an example of new-style enterprise. To Henry, familiar with the coffee bar boom of the sixties, there was little new about it, apart from the queues.
It seemed to him that the bar had been deliberately designed to encourage delays. It was created for a generation that needs the endorsement of the herd—the familiar logo on the polo shirt, trainers with the right tick, nightclubs with reassuring lines. How else could you explain the faulty logistics of the place?
The design was too inefficient to be accidental. To screw up on this scale takes planning. Why else the single serving station and solitary checkout? Why else the cluttered mix of eat-in and takeaway? Why the eclectic list of coffee options? (Guaranteed to cause dithering.) Why the novice on the till at the busiest times?
It was the formula of a genius. How long before a newly elevated Lord Coffee was summoned to Westminster to headup the prime minister’s latest task force on youth-focused enterprise?
Henry decided to breakfast again at the brasserie, but to go half an hour later. There would be a different crowd at 9:00 and by then the angry girl and her boyfriend should have left. The new routine had started well. Leaving the house he had met the postman at the gate. It seemed a good omen. Simply by starting half an hour later he had already changed the shape of his day. He had his letters in his hand hours before he normally saw them. Perhaps he would have been happier as a late starter. If he had found time to have breakfast at home with Nessa, maybe he would not be divorced and worrying about a girl he had stared at in the brasserie.
She was there with her boyfriend at a corner table, both amicable today. It was busy and he had trouble finding somewhere to sit. He had seen them in one of the mirrors and hoped that they had not seen him. He found a table at the rear of the room and ordered a coffee and croissant.
One of his letters was from Simon Alders, a publishing friend, who wanted Henry to write a short ABC of management, the more personal the better. It was for a series that Henry was familiar with and he was surprised by the invitation. He had known Simon for years. As young
“I thought we might see a film,” he said.
“Oh.”
“There’s a new Woody Allen on at the Chelsea—we could just catch the 6:45 performance—do you fancy it?”
“Why not?” Nessa said, her coat half off, slowly backtracking.
Henry did not follow her again. There was nothing new to discover. It was just a matter of waiting. A week later as he was leaving for the office, Nessa opened her study door.
“Can we have a cup of coffee before you go?”
They sat at the kitchen table. She was calm and prepared.
“I saw you last week. Your book had a red cover and it caught my eye as we came out of the flat. I knew you had followed us to the cinema.”
Henry grimaced.
“I’m sorry about that. It was cruel. The film wasn’t good enough to see twice.”
She looked up. “Do you think I saw it either time?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“He’s an actor, he did a commentary for me. I’ve been sleeping with him for three—no, it must be four months.”
Her precision, her belated need for honesty, undid him. Head bowed, he held back the tears.
“Oh, come on Henry, don’t get upset. It can stop. It doesn’t mean very much. I don’t really like him. It’s not the end of us. Don’t you want to know why I’ve been seeing him?”
“I’m not sure I do.”
She left the room on tiptoe, as if in the presence of the sick. She closed the door quietly behind her and he heard the clatter of her accelerated feet on the staircase. She could not wait to be gone. The real nastiness came later.
6
For a few days Henry stayed away from the brasserie. He went instead to a new coffee bar on the King’s Road, one of a chain much lauded by Tony Blair as an example of new-style enterprise. To Henry, familiar with the coffee bar boom of the sixties, there was little new about it, apart from the queues.
It seemed to him that the bar had been deliberately designed to encourage delays. It was created for a generation that needs the endorsement of the herd—the familiar logo on the polo shirt, trainers with the right tick, nightclubs with reassuring lines. How else could you explain the faulty logistics of the place?
The design was too inefficient to be accidental. To screw up on this scale takes planning. Why else the single serving station and solitary checkout? Why else the cluttered mix of eat-in and takeaway? Why the eclectic list of coffee options? (Guaranteed to cause dithering.) Why the novice on the till at the busiest times?
It was the formula of a genius. How long before a newly elevated Lord Coffee was summoned to Westminster to headup the prime minister’s latest task force on youth-focused enterprise?
Henry decided to breakfast again at the brasserie, but to go half an hour later. There would be a different crowd at 9:00 and by then the angry girl and her boyfriend should have left. The new routine had started well. Leaving the house he had met the postman at the gate. It seemed a good omen. Simply by starting half an hour later he had already changed the shape of his day. He had his letters in his hand hours before he normally saw them. Perhaps he would have been happier as a late starter. If he had found time to have breakfast at home with Nessa, maybe he would not be divorced and worrying about a girl he had stared at in the brasserie.
She was there with her boyfriend at a corner table, both amicable today. It was busy and he had trouble finding somewhere to sit. He had seen them in one of the mirrors and hoped that they had not seen him. He found a table at the rear of the room and ordered a coffee and croissant.
One of his letters was from Simon Alders, a publishing friend, who wanted Henry to write a short ABC of management, the more personal the better. It was for a series that Henry was familiar with and he was surprised by the invitation. He had known Simon for years. As young
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