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Two-and-a-half seconds later I was doing sixty, and two-and-a-half seconds after that the
street lamps were melting into one, and I d forgotten what the Rover driver looked like. Giare
was a surprisingly cheerful place, with white walls and an echoing tile floor that turned every
whisper into a shout and every smile into a howling belly-laugh.
A Ralph Lauren blonde with huge eyes took my helmet and showed me to a table by the
window, where I ordered a tonic water for myself and a large vodka for the pain in my armpit.
To pass the time before Woolf arrived, I had a choice between Ewan s guide-book or the
menu. The menu looked slightly longer, so I started on that.
The first item was fighting under the name  Crostini of Mealed Tarroce, with Benatore
Potatoes and weighed in at an impressive twelve pounds sixty-five. The Ralph Lauren blonde
came over and asked me if I needed any help with the menu, and I asked her to explain what
potatoes were. She didn t laugh.
I d just started to unravel the description of the second dish, which could have been
poached Marx Brother for all I know, when I caught sight of the Woolf at the door, clinging
determinedly to a briefcase while a waiter peeled off his coat.
And then, at exactly the same moment that I noticed our table was laid for three, I saw
Sarah Woolf step out from behind him.
She looked - and I hate to say this - sensational. Absolutely sensational. I know it s a
cliché, but there are times when you realise why clichés become clichés. She wore a plain-cut
dress in green silk, and it hung on her in a way that all dresses would like to hang if they got
the chance - staying still at the bits where it ought to have stayed still, and moving at the bits
where movement was exactly what you wanted. Just about everybody watched her travel to
the table, and there was a hush in the room while Woolf pushed the chair in behind her as she
sat down.
 Mr Lang, said Woolf major,  good of you to come. I nodded at him.  You know my
daughter?
I glanced across at Sarah, and she was looking down at her napkin, frowning. Even her
napkin looked better than anyone else s.
 Yes of course, I said.  Now let me see. Wimbledon? Henley? Dick Cavendish s
wedding? No, I ve got it. Down the barrel of a gun, that s where we last met. How nice to see
you again.
It was supposed to be friendly, a joke even, but when she still didn t look at me, the line
seemed to curdle into something aggressive, and I wished I d shut up and just smiled. Sarah
adjusted the cutlery into what she obviously thought was a more pleasing formation.
 Mr Lang, she said,  I ve come here at my father s suggestion to say that I m sorry. Not
because I think I did anything wrong, but because you got hurt and you shouldn t have. And
I m sorry for that.
Woolf and I waited for her to go on, but it seemed as if that was all we were going to get
for now. She just sat there, rummaging in her bag for a reason not to look at me. Apparently
she found several, which was odd, because it was quite a small bag.
Woolf gestured for a waiter, and turned to me.  Had a chance to look at the menu yet?
 Glanced at it, I said.  I hear that whatever you re having is excellent.
The waiter arrived and Woolf loosened his tie a little.  Two martinis, he said,  very dry,
and. . .
He looked at me and I nodded.
 Vodka martini, I said.  Incredibly dry. Powdered, if you ve got it.
The waiter pushed off, and Sarah started looking round the place, as if she was bored
already. The tendons in her neck were beautiful.
 So, Thomas, said Woolf.  Mind if I call you Thomas?
 Okay with me, I said.  It s my first name, after all.
 Good. Thomas. First of all, how s your shoulder?
 Fine, I said, and he looked relieved.  A lot better than my armpit, which is where I got
shot.
At last, at long last, she turned her head and looked at me. Her eyes were much softer than
the rest of her pretended to be. She bowed her head slightly, and her voice was low and
cracked.
 I told you, I m sorry, she said.
I wanted desperately to say something back, something nice, and gentle, but I came up
empty-headed. There was a pause, which might somehow have turned nasty if she hadn t
smiled. But she did smile, and a lot of blood suddenly seemed to be crashing about in my ears,
dropping things and falling over. I smiled back, and we kept on looking at each other.
 I suppose we have to say it could have been worse, she said.
 Of course it could, I said.  If I was an international armpit model, I d be off work for
months.
This time she laughed, actually laughed, and I felt like I d won every Olympic medal that
had ever been struck.
We started with some soup, which came in a bowl about the size of my flat and tasted
delicious. The talk was small. It turned out that Woolf was also a fan of the turf, and that I d
been watching one of his horses race at Doncaster that afternoon, so we chatted a little about
racing. By the time the second course arrived, we were putting the finishing touches to a
nicely-rounded three-minuter on the unpredictability of the English climate. Woolf took a
mouthful of something meaty and sauce-covered, and then dabbed his mouth.
 So, Thomas, he said,  I guess there are one or two things you d like to ask me?
 Well, yes. I dabbed my mouth in return.  I hate to be predictable, but what the fuck do
you think you re doing? There was an intake of breath from a nearby table, but Woolf didn t
flinch and neither did Sarah.
 Right, he said, nodding.  Fair question. First of all, in spite of whatever you may have [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]