Part 17 (1/2)

'Anyway, that was quite a big...set-back. I had to adjust.'

I felt that I could look at his hands openly, now that he was talking about them. I wanted to take them in mine, and stroke them and make them better.

'I'm so sorry,' I murmured. I'm so, so sorry.

'Don't worry,' he said. 'I mean, it's not your fault.' But it is my fault. 'They're not very pretty,' he went on, 'but at least they work. I hope it doesn't, well...bother you,' he added. Yes, it does bother me.

'No, of course not,' I said.

'Anyway, it was ages ago now.'

'Sixteen years.'

He blinked. 'You're good at maths.' I looked at him, shocked. 'You worked that out quickly.'

'Oh...well...you said you were halfway through university, so you must have been about twenty then,' I said, my heart banging, 'and you said on Tuesday that you're thirty-six.'

'Did I?' He looked puzzled. 'I don't remember telling you that.'

'Yes, I think you did... I'm pretty...sure that you did...' Shut up, Miranda!

'Well, I must have done. Anyway, I took some time off to convalesce. And I went to San Francisco to stay with this friend of mine whose parents had moved there-I told you we lived in the States when I was a kid?' I nodded. 'And this guy's big sister was a photographer on the San Francisco Examiner. And I remember how amazing I thought she was. She'd go out and get these incredible photos, and she'd work half the night to develop them-she was so pa.s.sionate about it-then we'd see them in the paper the next day. And I had time to kill, so she showed me how the camera worked, and she'd let me come into the dark room and watch her develop them, and so, to cut a long story short, I got the bug. So I decided to leave Cambridge...'

'What a pity,' I said. 'You left Cambridge early.'

'Well, there was no point in going back. So I went to the City Poly to study photography, and luckily my hands were healing by then. And I got some financial compensation for my injuries, a sort of insurance payout. So I bought this really good second-hand Leica-the one I used to take your photo the other day. And, luckily, I was fine holding it. The grip on the left hand's not great-there was tendon damage-but it's the right one that matters more. I don't think I could have done it-at least not then-if I'd had problems with the focussing and winding on. Anyway, I got my diploma, then I became an a.s.sistant photographer for a couple of years, then I got taken on at Reuters, which was a really good break.'

'So you became a photojournalist?' I said. 'Why didn't you want to be, say, a landscape photographer, or a fas.h.i.+on photographer?'

'Well, I do love taking landscapes actually, and I did wonder about doing that; but the fact is I'd suddenly become more interested in politics. I wasn't before, when I was a teenager, but in my early twenties, I became...' he shrugged, '...more politicized, I guess.' I knew exactly why that was. 'You know, you're so easy to talk to,' he said, with an air of surprise. 'I'm usually a pretty poor conversationalist, but I feel I could talk to you for hours-I'm not sure why. I think it's because you seem to be a very sympathetic person.'

'Do I?'

'Yes. You seem to be very...compa.s.sionate. I mean, the way you reacted just now when I told you about my...accident. I found that very touching.' And I was just wondering what on earth to say, when the waiter appeared and took our plates. 'I wasn't sure that you'd agree to come out this evening,' David added. 'I was worried that you thought I was rude.'

'I was worried that you thought I was mad.'

'We did get off on the wrong foot, didn't we?' I nodded. Then a silence descended. 'Shall I tell you why I asked you out?' he said suddenly. I looked into his eyes, and noticed that they had amber and green flecks.

'Okay,' I murmured. 'Why did you?'

'Because you looked so crestfallen when I couldn't stay for a beer.' He fiddled with his spoon. 'It was really sweet. Your expression. You seemed so...disappointed, if I'm not flattering myself, which I probably am. In fact, you looked quite upset. And I was really touched by that, so I decided that I'd ask you.' He suddenly smiled. And as he did so the tiny crescent-moon-shaped scar-which I had almost certainly caused too-disappeared in his laughter lines.

Now, over the main course, the conversation became more personal. And I realized with happiness, and a kind of horror, that he liked me-he wouldn't for long. He told me that he was divorced.

'How long were you married?' I asked disingenuously.

'Just over a year.'

'Not long then.'

He shook his head. 'It was a mistake. We didn't have enough in common,' he went on. 'Plus I travelled a h.e.l.l of a lot, and so did she.'

'What did she do?' I asked innocently.

'She's a model. Lots of photographers date models,' he said. 'We seem to move in the same circles so it's easy to meet, and we both have these high pressure lives. And Katya and I were very attracted to each other, but we made the mistake of getting married when it should only have been a fling.'

'Did you break up with her?'

'No. She left me. She said I didn't treat her well, which is probably true. She said I didn't talk to her enough and that I was selfish-which I guess I am. Photographers often are selfish, because we're so driven.' He poured me some more wine. 'And what about you, Miranda? You're single, aren't you?' I nodded. 'And has there ever been a Mr Miranda?'

'No. Or rather, not...quite.'

'Not quite?'

I fiddled with my winegla.s.s. 'I was engaged for a while.'

'Really? When?'

'It ended in May.'

'Not long ago then. I'm sorry. That must have been very hard.'

'It was. It still is, actually.' I chewed on my lip. 'But I know it's for the best.'

'Why? Was he...?'

'Unfaithful? No.' I absently smoothed my napkin. 'He wasn't.'

'Were you...incompatible then?'

I shook my head. 'We got on incredibly well.'

'So what was the problem-if you don't mind my asking-which you probably do.'

I looked at him. 'He...behaved badly towards me.'

'Was he aggressive?'

'Aggressive?' I smiled. 'Oh no. He just...did something that I couldn't forgive. But I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind, because I don't even like thinking about it.'

'Of course. I understand. It's a recent hurt. Maybe that's why I found you a little strained when I first met you on Tuesday.'

No-it's got nothing to do with it. I fiddled with my pudding fork. 'Yes. Maybe.'

'Now,' David said as the waiter appeared again. 'Would you like a dessert?'

'I don't think I could. But I don't suppose they do pet.i.ts fours with the coffee, do they?'

'I'm not sure. I don't think so. But I tell you what-I've got some Belgian chocolates at home, so if you felt brave enough to come back with me, we could have coffee there. It's only two minutes away and I promise you I'm not going to show you my portfolio!' I smiled. Coffee and chocolates? In his flat? Yes. Then maybe I could say what I needed to say. I glanced at the other diners, chatting in low tones. It would certainly be much easier than doing it here. 'Would you like to do that?'