Read Another Country for Free Online Page A

both cheeks, and said, ‘Bye. It’s been a horrible day, but it’s over now. Just forget it.’
    How does she know? Leela wondered, then remembered her earlier story. Oh yes. ‘Thanks,’ she managed.
    Patrick patted her on the shoulder. ‘Bye Leela. Call me, or I’ll call you.’
    â€˜Sure.’
    â€˜Goodnight!’
    â€˜Goodnight!’
    â€˜Goodnight!’
    Leela looked back. The figures of Patrick and Stella, seen from behind, were far away, self-contained as though in a painting. A fine drizzle began to fall, giving the air a lovely indeterminacy.
    â€˜Brr!’
    Leela smiled. She pulled her thin jacket around her. They carried on walking, away from the others and into the pools of light under streetlamps. And now, nagged a voice inside her, now what will you do? She ignored it.
    The pavement glittered with moisture.
    Simon put a hand on her shoulder; she tried not to jump. He smiled. ‘What were we talking about, anyway, before we were so rudely thrown out of that bar?’ He released her shoulder, but not before his hand had been there long enough to signal deliberateness. It was a charming gesture, and made her nervous. She took refuge in seriousness.
    â€˜I guess the waiting staff wanted to go home …’
    He shrugged. ‘Oh well. It’s not like we didn’t leave in time.’
    â€˜No.’
    They walked on. She made an effort. ‘You were telling me about when you lived in Dublin. What were you doing when you were there?’
    He smiled. ‘Work, for the company before this one. I do some consultancy, you know. It’s business development essentially. Boring, boring –’ He waved it away. Leela was still examining him; it struck her there was something grave, disciplined about him, perhaps also something adamantine. She scolded herself: there was no need to narrate the experience before it happened. Her feet, in sandals, were cold; she stumbled. Simon put out a hand and caught her elbow. The hand rubbed her back between the shoulder blades, rested on one shoulder. He was good at doing this, she noted – touching in an exploratory fashion that managed to seem merely friendly. Perhaps, argued her brain, it is merely friendly. ‘Dublin,’ he said. The hand cupped her scapula and smoothed it out, let it go, rested warm and innocuous on the muscles aside it. ‘It’s a great city, we had some really good times there.’
    â€˜Where else have you lived?’
    The hand smoothed the side of her upper arm.
    â€˜Lisbon for a bit – a long time ago. South America for a while.’
    â€˜Where?’
    â€˜Rio … Here.’ They turned up the rue Vieille du Temple. It was late, a weekday evening, and the bars and cafés whose life bloomed onto the narrow street in the day were shut now, pulled into themselves. The pavements were clear, only lamplight shattering on damp macadam. She followed its Deco starbursts. They passed the café called Les Philosophes, and another place she and Nina had once gone, an odd little bar with sun lamps, where Belgian white beer was served in litre tankards.
    â€˜You’re quiet,’ Simon said. ‘Here, we should take another right. I’ll show you where I live, then you can drop in if you’re passing.’
    Up a silent street, where old buildings leaned into the darkened road. They passed massive doors. Simon paused outside one. A traffic sign, a white circle ringed in red, said ACCÈS with a red diagonal crossing it.
    Simon wasn’t holding her arm any more. He stood in the street, not far away, his face more than half in shadow, and his voice slightly nervous. ‘Come in for a drink?’ he said. ‘See the flat?’
    She hesitated, but the next day was a respite without classes; she always timed a weekly adventure or crisis for this night, and slept half the free day away, as though from nerves, or loneliness. ‘Sure,’