I imagine I must now look vapid

I turn and stare across the park, wondering what to say to this. Is she flirting with me? Is she really flirting with me? Sunlight flashes off the windscreens of cars as they barrel along in the distance. I check my watch with as casual a glance as I can manage – I have time, time to do pretty much whatever this woman has in mind, and still meet Jenny at half past seven.

I decide on what to say. It’s a line, I know, an awful line, something that Alan would say to one of the office girls after one too many drinks on a night out. But I feel bold. She’s flirting with me. I can flirt right back, and then some. Despite this bravado, I still have to clear my throat before I can say anything though, and give a light cough; then, without turning back towards this mystery woman, I try my blatant line.

Sometimes it’s fun to go deep though, wouldn’t you say?

The reply is not what I’m expecting.

I’m sorry, what? Are you talking to me?

I fight the urge to say well I’m the only one here, and instead turn to face her with what I hope is an obvious look on my face.

She is sat primly on the end of the bench, as she was when she first arrived. She’s still holding the book open on her lap. Her skirt is not rumpled up her thighs, nor is it especially short. She is achingly beautiful, I got that much right at least... but what about all the rest? The obvious look falls from my face, and I imagine I must now look vapid.

You said something, she says. Were you talking to me?

I look again at the book – it isn’t even Vox. I can’t see the whole title but it’s something something and Molecular Biology. A textbook.

That – I point – looks pretty deep.

Oh. Not really. It’s an introductory text. Stuff I’m supposed to know already.

Right.

I try to think of something else to say, something that might make me look less like an old man trying to pick up girls half his age in public parks. I fail, and say nothing. She turns back to her book and, it may only be my imagination but I don’t think so, she pivots slightly on the bench so that her back is more towards me.

I check my watch again, this time more deliberately, making a show of having somewhere else to go.

This won’t do, I say to no-one in particular and, with an equally deliberate exhalation and blowing out of my cheeks, stand up. She doesn’t look up, so I just walk away, careful not to go around her end of the bench.

By the time I’ve walked to Cena, I feel decidedly grey. Tiredness, the relic of last night’s hangover, and the displacement of an encounter in the park that, if I’m honest with myself, simply didn’t happen... put it this way, I’m early but am happy to wait at the bar because it means I can legitimately have a stiff drink. I order a vodka and lime on the basis that it looks innocuous. Besides, I really don’t need the caffeine that comes with having coke as a mixer.

At 7:40 Jenny arrives, laden with shopping. Her carrier bags proclaim boutique names that I have never heard. I am at the tail end of my second vodka and, after a perfunctory swill of ice at the bottom of the glass, polish it off. I place my glass delicately down on the bar, holding the rim between my thumb and the tip of my middle finger as I do so.

You’re late, I begin.

She laughs, and deposits the bags unceremoniously.

Only a couple of minutes. We said seven thirty-ish anyway, and it’s still ish. Come on, buy me a drink.

I do, a double vodka and coke and another with lime for me. When Jen balks slightly at her double I explain that she has some catching up to do.

An annoyingly handsome waiter in a crisp black shirt appears and informs us that our table is ready, if we’d like just like to follow him. I’m about to do just that when Jen places a hand on my arm. I almost shrug it off. She gestures to the floor.

I could use a little help with these?

Right, I say, but before I can pick up the shopping Annoyingly Handsome has dived in with an oh please, allow me. The ‘s’ in please stretches out – perhaps he is Italian. Perhaps a cod-Italian accent generates more tips. Perhaps he has a lisp.

The three of us troop off to our table, which I am slightly dismayed to discover is right by the entrance. I feel somewhat exposed, sitting beneath the spotlessly clean picture window that opens onto the street, sitting here having an intimate dinner for two with someone else’s fiancée. Whilst Annoyingly is waiting to take our drinks order, I ask if there’s another table we can have. He tells me he is sorry (sssorry) but nothing else is free, they’re very busy tonight. In fact, he adds, we were fortunate to get anything, booking so late.

Aren’t we the lucky ones? Jen adds, helpfully.

I mumble and, without consulting Jen, order a bottle of valpolicella.

Vox

The day passes unremarkably. As the clock hands drag each other around, I start to feel a little better, a little bit more like myself. By lunchtime I’m fit to stagger out into the sunshine and walk slowly to the newsagent’s on the corner for a lunch of crisps and chocolate. It’s a balanced diet, I know.

During the afternoon, Pinstripes appears in the open plan. Yellow and blue today. He settles himself down at a hot-desk on the far side of the floor, produces an expensive looking leather-bound file from somewhere and starts writing in it. Next time I look, he’s typing rapidly at the hot-desk PC. He doesn’t seem to make many mistakes either, judging by how rarely he stabs at the backspace key. At about four o’clock, he shuts the computer down, gathers up his file and pen and walks over to Alan’s office. He enters without knocking and closes the door behind him.

You know who that is chief?

Seems I’m not the only one who’s been watching our pinstriped colleague.

No, Craig, haven’t got a clue.

He’s here a lot lately, and he’s in with Alan a lot too.

Well maybe we can prise it out of Big Al then?

Or, Jenny pipes up, you could just talk to the guy? Introduce yourselves?

Yeah, thanks Jen. I’d never have thought of that. After you.

Oh no Craig, after you, I insist.

They banter on for a bit like this and I can’t help but smile, our little team: three wildly different people, all damaged in their own ways, who come together five days a week and somehow rub along, and somehow get the work done. Not that there’s much of that at the moment.

I hear Craig speculate that Pinstripes might be over from Boston. That makes sense – since none of us recognise him, he is unlikely to be from either of the UK offices. It’s not uncommon to get visitors over from FUA headquarters, though with videoconferencing it’s not as frequent an occurrence as it was a few years ago. We usually get introduced to such visitors too.

As 5:30 rolls around, Craig is, as always, champing at the bit to leave, his PC already shut down, a cigarette behind his ear. But what he says next is a break from the norm.

Fancy a swifty in the Bells, chief?

I’m so surprised, I almost say yes, but just in time I remember my evening is already accounted for.

Ah, another time mate, I sigh, I need to stay on a bit, make up for getting in late this morning.

The mate is a nice touch, I think. It doesn’t stop Craig looking a bit crestfallen.

Jen?

Oh, not for me, Craig, thanks. Another time, maybe?

Alright then losers, see you tomorrow.

Crestfallen, maybe, but still Craig.

Once he’s gone, I lean around the dividing screen to talk to Jenny.

So where does madame fancy for dinner?

Mademoiselle fancies Italian. How about Cena?

Cena is an excellent choice, if a little on the expensive side for my taste – I’d expect a main course for what a starter costs there. I took Emma there for a birthday treat, the year before she got pregnant. It put a serious dent in my credit card, but it was one of the best meals we had together, a leisurely, meandering evening. She loved me that night, I’m sure.

Cena? Really? Isn’t that a bit... I haven’t been there for a long time, is it still any good?

Best Italian in town.

Oh.

Do you really have to stay on a bit, because if you do I might just nip into the city first, do a bit of late-night shopping, meet you there at, what, seven thirty-ish?

I find myself nodding.

Great, she says, and then she’s up, scooping things off her desk into a tiny handbag.

Call them though, book a table. Cena will be busy, even early on a sleepy Thursday.

Right. See you half seven then.

She walks off backwards, smiles at me and gives an awkward wave with the hand that isn’t holding her bag, then pivots on her heels and is gone.

Silence falls over the third floor. At 5:45 even the whisper of the air-conditioning stops – a recently-introduced cost-saving innovation. The lights go out too, so I stand up and waves my arms around until the motion-detecting sensors register me and turn them back on. I call Cena, and book a table.

At five to six I hear the unmistakable schlup of the stairwell fire-door opening, and then Ruth appears. She walks into the open plan area, seemingly scanning the floor to see if anyone else is around. She registers me, and raises a hand in silent greeting, before heading over to Alan’s office. She knocks once, and goes in without waiting for an answer.

Trying not to think what the implications might be of HR and someone from head office having an after-hours meeting with Alan, I decide that I’ve made up my time, shut down my PC, and head for the door. I try to resist looking into Alan’s office as I walk past, because I know I won’t learn anything whatever I see, but still I glimpse. The three of them are clustered around one side of Al’s desk, all looking at something in Pinstripes’ leather-bound file. A diagram of some sort? Interconnected boxes? Maybe, but hard to tell from a snatched glance.

I drive slowly into the city, and park as close as I can to Cena. It’s only a quarter past six and I have time to kill, so I find a free bench and watch students criss-crossing Parker’s Piece, some on bikes, some walking, none hurried. All so young.

I’m so detached I don’t notice at first when she sits down at the other end of the bench. It’s not until I turn to glance at my watch that I see her – an ash-blonde of heart-stopping beauty in a white blouse with a square neckline. Stunning is an overused word these days, but I am stunned, and maybe staring. She looks up from her book. Hello, I say. She smiles back in a way that I struggle to describe – some hybrid of shyly, awkwardly, uncomfortably. Or somethine else?

Good book? I find myself saying.

Sorry?

The book – is it good?

She holds it up to show me the cover – it is a dog-eared copy of Vox by Nicholson Baker. I soldier on.

Enjoying it?

You’ve read it?

Her voice is soft, clear, refined. Unaccented.

Yes, a long time ago.

And did you enjoy it?

Yes.

I think most men do.

Probably. We’re a very shallow species, we men.

This gets a smile, revealing perfectly even, square white teeth. She closes the book, sets it down on the bench between us, and rests her hands on her lap. She is wearing a denim skirt that finishes just above the knee. Slowly, using the palms of her hands, she rumples the skirt slightly up, allowing her legs to part a little further, and I wonder if she has any underwear on.

We women, she says in that completely neutral voice. We’re not always so deep you know.