The Dead Ex(62)

I’m itching to take a picture but instead I feel bound, out of politeness, to read the menu. ‘When I say I’m vegetarian,’ I say, ‘it means I usually eat baked beans for dinner.’

‘I remember those days.’

‘Really?’

‘Why do you look surprised?’

‘Because you seem like a man who has been used to luxury all his life.’

He gives a half-laugh. ‘I come from a tough background. My dad was a labourer till he joined the army. I had a spell in the forces myself for a few years, but shooting people wasn’t for me. So I went back to Civvy Street. Tell me, how old are you?’

I am pretty sure he’s pretending not to know. ‘Didn’t you read my CV?’

‘No. Not the first or the second. You rather put me on the spot, if you remember, by telling me that I’d ignored your email in front of that journalist.’

‘At least you’re honest.’

‘Only sometimes.’ His eyes go hard again. ‘I suspect that you’re the same, Helen.’

I don’t know what to say. Luckily, the waiter comes to take our order.

David senses my hesitation. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but would you like me to choose for you? I don’t know why they have to use such fancy descriptions. No one knows what they mean – they just pretend to.’

Usually I’d have taken offence at this. But he says it in such a gentlemanly way, blaming the menu rather than my own inadequacy, that I agree.

While we wait, he makes small talk. It’s very different from that terse conversation in the office about the picture on his desk. ‘So, what got you interested in photography in the first place?’ he asks, topping up my glass.

That was easy. ‘An art teacher at school.’ I smile at the memory. ‘I was hopeless at anything academic so I used to skive in the art block. I wasn’t that good at drawing or painting but then Miss Hughes joined. She’d actually had stuff published in a magazine. I was so overawed.’

He is smiling as if he understands.

‘Then I found that taking photographs helped me get into another world.’

David nods. ‘And maybe disguise your shyness?’

‘You said I asked too many questions before.’

‘That’s a sign of shyness too. You create a veneer to disguise what you see as failings. It’s all right, Helen. I get it. A lot of people are the same. I find it rather endearing, actually.’ He takes a sip from his glass. ‘Now I’m going to ask the same question you put to me earlier. What do you like doing in your spare time?’

‘Walking. I love London. There’s so much to see and photograph.’

‘You grew up here?’

‘No. I was brought up in the country but …’

A cheese soufflé arrives with a fancy sauce which melts in my mouth even though nerves have dulled my appetite. He has chosen the same dish. I wonder if he did that to put me at my ease. Is this a game on his part or is David Goudman genuinely nicer than I’d given him credit for?

Then his phone goes. He makes an ‘excuse me’ sign and turns to one side. His voice is hard. ‘Just sort it, will you.’

Then he turns back to me. ‘So sorry.’

I was wrong just now. I mustn’t underestimate this man. He is a pro. And what’s more, I’m pretty sure he knows I’m out for something. Hopefully, he just thinks it’s his money.

‘You were telling me about growing up in the country. Was it boring?’

‘Not at all.’ I close my eyes. I imagine the green fields and …

‘Fuck,’ he says suddenly.

‘Are you OK?’

He’s staring through the window. Outside is a woman. Medium height. Medium build. But it’s her hair that stands out. A mass of red corkscrew curls. She is staring back.

Clearly they know each other.

He leaps up. ‘Back in a minute.’

I watch them through the glass. Suddenly he grabs one of her arms, but she shakes him off, waving her finger at him. Looks like she hates his guts. Swiftly, hands shaking, I reach into my handbag for my phone.

When David returns to the table he is clearly edgy, rearranging the as-yet unused cutlery and making no apology for his absence. Nor does he explain who the woman was. Our next course arrives, and we each pick at our separate plates. ‘You’ve lost your appetite too,’ he comments drily.

I nod, not mentioning it had never been there.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ I gaze around the restaurant with its crisp white tablecloths and fancy napkins in fan-shapes, trying to stay calm. ‘It’s an amazing experience. I’ve never been anywhere like this before. And I probably won’t again.’

‘I very much doubt that.’ He is looking at me once more. Not the dark suspicious look. The other, kinder one. ‘How about coffee? I make a great cappuccino.’

What a sleazeball. I’ve met men like David before. They are never happy with what they have. Instead, they are constantly trying to prove themselves by going one better or, in my case, one younger. I swallow my mouthful. ‘Don’t you need to get home to your wife?’

‘She’s in our Kingston house tonight. I have another place round the corner from the office for when I work late. We can chat properly there.’