Desperately Seeking - By Evelyn Cosgrave Page 0,55

pleasant thoughts were swooshing about in my head as I walked the two blocks to work under a brilliant blue sky lightly studded with high cumulus clouds. I was already thinking about getting something new to wear – I hadn’t ventured back into Party Dress Land since my last abortive attempt. Lucy might come with me: we could make a day of it.

And so my morning continued. Now that I was leaving, I was finding work pleasant. I even seemed to be manoeuvring my desk-top with improved efficiency and there was a feeling in the air that I might, at any moment, do or say something very clever indeed. However, by lunchtime I needed to get out of there.

One of the things I’d always enjoyed about my job was lunchtime. Because so many of my colleagues’ lunches involved taking clients to restaurants, there was a long-lunch tradition. I wasn’t usually involved in the client lunches so often I’d slip out to the local Spar, buy a sandwich and stroll up to the People’s Park. It was one of my favourite things – I loved to sit there in the middle of all that lush greenery, nodding conspiratorially to refugees from other offices. It was a great way to decompress after a stressful morning.

I had just reached the top of the queue with my Hawaiian chicken sandwich and a bottle of water when I noticed that Mike was at the top of the adjacent queue.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I thought you had your lunch specially prepared by a team of imported chefs.’

‘Oh, I give them the day off on Wednesdays.’ He paused. ‘Are you in a hurry to get back?’

‘Me? No way. I was on my way up to the park. Care to join me? Or are you in a hurry?’ I added quickly.

‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I was going to take a leisurely lunch at home. Would you… like to stroll up and see the house? It’s still a bit of a mess but…’

I’d heard from Jean that he’d bought a small mews house on Charlotte Avenue just off O’Connell Avenue, only up the road from me. I’d been dying to call but somehow it didn’t seem appropriate with Jean living at my flat.

‘I’d love to,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard loads about it.’

‘Well, great then, let’s go.’

We walked up the remainder of O’Connell Street, through The Crescent and on into O’Connell Avenue. He made a point of walking on the outside and each time we crossed the road his hand, unconsciously, I presume, went up as if to prevent me running straight across. I am the world’s worst jay-walker; I’d forgotten what it’s like to stop and wait.

His house was on a cul-de-sac just off the main avenue. It was at the back of the row where you’d hardly see it from the road. A wrought-iron railing and gate enclosed a small but neat front garden and a winding paved path led to his front door.

‘Welcome to my new abode,’ he said, somewhat ornately, as he opened the gate for me. ‘Don’t be too harsh – it’s a work in progress.’

‘You’re forgetting who you’re talking to,’ I said. ‘You’ve seen my flat. I’ve been in it for years and it’s still the same as it was when I moved in.’

He was wearing khaki-coloured Wranglers, brown Dr Martens shoes and a loose-fitting off-white shirt. He was the essence of casual cool, but as he fumbled for his keys and struggled with the lock, he seemed nervous.

‘Voilà !’ he said, and waved an arm while letting me step into the house before him. It certainly was a work in progress: there were beams sticking out of places they couldn’t possibly be meant to stick out from; there was a workman’s bench covered with tools; plastic sheeting was strewn about the floor, which was being ripped apart to reveal what seemed to be original wooden boards. The place was a building site. The whole of the downstairs had been made open-plan and the remains of the walls that had been torn down lay everywhere. I couldn’t imagine how he was living in this mess.

‘You were going to have a leisurely lunch here?’ I asked, in not-quite-mock amazement.

‘Oh, it’s not that bad,’ he said, ‘or maybe I’ve got used to it. Upstairs is a lot better. I’m kind of living in one room at the moment.’

‘Can you even make me a cup of coffee?’ I asked, pretending to be