LITMIR.BIZ

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It could of course be foolish, but I had no social life anyway. The weather was still cold and I wrapped my heavy overcoat round me as I walked out to my car, which started perfectly.

      I got there at seven fifteen. The restaurant was empty except for Gino and a man in a white coat and a blue and white apron who I knew was the chef. They were sitting side by side at a table near the kitchen with a crossword between them.

      ‘Signora, so lovely to see you. How many you are? A bottle of vino tinto red?’

      ‘Gino,’ I said carefully, drawing him over to the bar area, ‘I don’t know if I’m staying and I don’t know if I’m meeting anyone.’

      ‘Si, signora, yes, of course,’ he said with concern. ‘So you would like just a glass of red for the meanwhile and you sit at the bar, yes?’

      I smiled at him gratefully and eased myself on to a stool. Gino bustled round behind the bar. I could see his grey roots as he bent his head to pour the glass of wine.

      ‘Gino,’ I began slowly, ‘have you seen a woman with spiky blonde hair, taller than me, wearing … I don’t know, possibly a rather nice grey denim shirt, in the last day or two?’

      ‘I have seen you in the last day or two, signora. You didn’t see her yourself?’

      ‘No, I didn’t. But then it might not be her I’m expecting,’ I murmured, partly to myself.

      Gino placed the glass of wine in front of me with a flourish. ‘What are imitation germs?’ he asked. ‘Five letters. P something S something something.’

      ‘Pests?’ I suggested.

      ‘It’s paste,’ the chef growled. ‘It was imitation gems, not germs.’

      ‘Oh, you English,’ Gino twinkled and went to welcome some new arrivals.

      I sat at the bar with my back to the restaurant watching in the reflection of the peach-tinted mirror as the restaurant began to fill up. I had almost finished my glass of wine when he walked in. It was the man with the brown shoes from the magistrates’ court.

      I watched Gino hurry over to him and greet him like an old friend, like he greeted everyone. He showed the man to a table and came back to the bar. The man looked at the clock on the wall which stood permanently at half past nine and then at his watch.

      I checked my watch. It was seven twenty-five. Gino was popping the lid from a bottle of mineral water.

      ‘Gino, has that man been in here before?’ I asked casually, out of the corner of my mouth.

      Gino threw me a look.

      ‘Si, signora, he was here last night, about this time, and, maybe, the night before, I think.’ He creased his face in concentration. ‘He did not stay long. He too is waiting for someone. Is he waiting for you? Is it a Blind Date?’ he asked eagerly.

      ‘No, no,’ I said, shocked. ‘Not with those shoes.’

      Gino placed the mineral water in front of the man and hurried away to greet some newcomers. The man followed Gino with his eyes, then looked at his watch again.

      In the subdued lighting of the restaurant, it was hard to get a clear picture of him in reverse. I noticed that the rosy sheen of the mirror made me look very well and I couldn’t be sure whether the man was young and attractive, as it appeared in the reflection, or mean and nasty. I didn’t want to turn round in case he recognised me. He took off his beige raincoat. He was wearing a grey sweater with a short zip at the neck. With tan shoes! Extraordinary.

      Gino came back to the bar and opened two bottles of wine. He looked quizzically from me to the man but said nothing.

      The man reached into the pocket of his mac and drew out a folded copy of the Daily Telegraph. I’m always surprised when people, especially people under forty, read the Daily Telegraph. All the news of a tabloid with the disadvantage of the size of a broadsheet.

      What would Saskia be doing, knowing someone like that, I wondered.

      He was reading the sports pages. Each time the door opened he half-closed the paper and looked up expectantly. It was ten to eight.

      Gino had just poured me another glass of wine. ‘I’ll charge you for the bottle,’ he said, pushing a packet of bread sticks under my nose, when the man began elaborately to fold the newspaper and gestured towards the bar for his bill.

      ‘Gino, see if you can find out his name,’ I hissed, cramming three inches of bread stick into my mouth. I realised I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Edmonton didn’t have much to offer if you didn’t want to eat at McDonald’s, and, as a gesture of solidarity with Saskia, I hadn’t.

      I watched Gino’s dark head bobbing in conversation. A look of confusion passed over the man’s face and then he drew out a credit card. Gino bounced back to the bar and spoke to me from the corner of his mouth as he fiddled with the clumsy machine.

      ‘His name is P. J. Kramer,’ he murmured excitedly.

      ‘He doesn’t look old enough,’ I muttered back.

      Gino’s eyebrows rose. ‘P. J. Kramer,’ he enunciated slowly.

      ‘I thought you said Billy J. Kramer,’ I said and snorted with laughter. Oh God, I was not sober. I shoved another bread stick into my mouth.

      The man was putting on gloves.

      Casually I shrugged into my coat and put a £10 note on the counter.

      He was leaving the restaurant.

      I slid off the stool and then froze as he stopped at the door, adjusting the newspaper in his pocket. He went out into the street, leaving the door of the restaurant open to the cold night air, and turned sharply left. I followed him and closed the door.

      He was about five foot nine and skinny but looked strong. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do. Physically, I knew I was no match for him. What was I doing even thinking about the possibility of physical confrontation? I am five foot five but slight. I once did a six-week self-defence course and I could probably still do the moves and the shouting, but any real possibility of a physical exchange was bound to end in tears. Mine. At best.

      He was getting into a car; not the dark saloon but an old Ford. It was parked two cars away from mine, facing in the opposite direction. I shrugged down into my coat to hurry past him and jumped into my car. As his headlights came on, I fumbled with the key, turning it in the ignition. The engine whined in a tired unhappy way, like an exhausted wasp, then was silent. ‘Come on!’ I pleaded, breathing deeply but casually, trying not to let my car know I was questioning its continued existence in the world. ‘Oh God,’ I muttered as the man started doing a three-point turn. In Upper Street. He had to be mad. Or desperate. ‘I don’t really want a new car,’ I whispered faithlessly to the dashboard as the Ford lurched unhappily backwards and forwards in the middle of two opposing lines of traffic. I turned the key again. The engine coughed and purred into life. Now what was I going to do?

      I followed him. He drove to Highbury Corner, turned into Holloway Road towards Archway and then up Highgate Hill. Then a Pizza Hut moped rider overtook me and I lost sight of the Ford. I was looking around for the car when I turned and found myself staring him in the face. I hadn’t noticed that he had pulled in to the side of the road, and now I was driving past him. He had parked outside the little house in Waterlow Park where on summer nights people have parties. But now it was dark and cold, cheerless and threatening and he seemed to be speaking angrily on a mobile phone.

      I drove on, casually slowing down, throwing anxious glances in my rear-view mirror. Headlights were coming up behind me and I couldn’t make out if it was his car. As the lights drew closer I was dazzled and quickly looked away. Suddenly there was a bang and I shot forward. My seat belt clicked firmly and thrust me back. I could hear the revving of an engine very close behind me. Something large had made damaging, buckling contact with the back of my car. Automatically, I switched off my engine. I had no fear, just an enormous sense of fury and protectiveness

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