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her.
She crossed the bridge and went down the steps into the Embankment tube station. I went after her,
wondering which line she would take.
But she didn’t get on the tube. Instead she walked straight through the station and out the other
side. She continued walking toward Charing Cross Road. I followed. I stood a few steps behind her at the traffic lights. We crossed Charing Cross Road and headed into Soho. I followed her along the narrow streets. She took a right turn, a left, another right. Then she abruptly stopped. She stood on the corner of Lexington Street. And waited.
So this was the meeting place. A good spot—central, busy, anonymous. I hesitated and slipped into a pub on the corner. I positioned myself at the bar. It offered a clear view through the window of Kathy across the road. The barman, bored, with an unruly beard, glanced at me. “Yeah?”
“A pint. Guinness.”
He yawned and went to the other side of the bar to pour the pint. I kept my eyes on Kathy. I was pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to see me through the window even if she looked in this direction. At one point Kathy did look over—straight at me. My heart stopped for a second—I was sure she had noticed me—but no, her gaze drifted on.
The minutes passed, and still Kathy waited. So did I. I sipped my pint slowly, watching. He was taking his time, whoever he was. She wouldn’t like that. Kathy didn’t like to be kept waiting—even though she was perpetually late. I could see she was getting annoyed, frowning and checking her watch.
A man crossed the road toward her. In the few seconds he took to cross the street, I had already assessed him. He was well built. He had shoulder-length fair hair, which surprised me, as Kathy always said she only went for men with dark hair and eyes like mine—unless that was another lie.
But the man walked right by her. She didn’t even look at him. Soon he was out of sight. So it wasn’t him. I wondered if Kathy and I were both thinking the same thing—had she been stood up?
Then her eyes widened. She smiled. She waved across the street—at someone out of sight. At last, I thought. It’s him. I craned my neck to see—
To my surprise, a tarty-looking blonde, about thirty, wearing an impossibly short skirt and improbably high heels, tottered over to Kathy. I recognized her at once. Nicole. They greeted each other with hugs and kisses. They walked off, talking and laughing, arm in arm. So Kathy hadn’t been lying about meeting Nicole.
I registered my emotions with shock—I ought to have been hugely relieved that Kathy had been telling the truth. I ought to have been grateful. But I wasn’t.
I was disappointed.