“She didn’t hear what he was saying, just his voice, his real living voice, around the iron pillar of a glossily overrestored late-Victorian pub off Fleet Street. She called out to him, “John,” before she saw him. The room full of lunching account execs—lunching on pints, that is—and he there, no fuller or realer than ever, banter to the bartender on his lips—then he was turning to Winnie. Apology and defense and, was it, a sort of mock inquisitiveness in his features. Cataloging these emotional... stances helped her ignore things like the diverting color of his eyes, the killer-lover haircut, et cetera. “Who could ever have guessed all this,” he said to her, and leaned forward. She was impatient with relief and anger, and so full of contradictions that her embrace in return felt like a kind of whiplash. She stiffened and yielded simultaneously. “It’s far too noisy here,” she said. “Since when have pubs become so upmarket?” “The rah-rah nineties. Have a quick bottoms-up and we’ll find someplace else.”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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