through the bushes at the ducks on the lake, stamping his feet and slapping his gloved hands together. His breath was like a puff of smoke in the cold air. So was Bella’s, when she looked.
She pointed out, ‘Isn’t there a café by the lake? We could get a coffee.’
‘Won’t be open yet,’ he said firmly, though she had the impression that he would have said no anyway. ‘We just need to step out briskly. That’ll warm you up.’
And she was back to a straight choice between trotting to match his pace or breaking into a hop, skip and a jump to catch up with him every few yards. It was not conducive to conversation. And that stitch in her side was threatening again. She stopped dead.
‘Look,’ she said to his back, ‘I told you, I don’t jog. What’s the point of tearing round the place like this? Can’t we go somewhere and just, well, talk a bit?’
He turned those mask-like shades on her for a thoughtful moment. Then he said, ‘Talk? OK. Let’s go this way.’
Coffee, thought Bella. Maybe even hot buttered toast. She worked hard not to dribble at the prospect.
He turned out of the overgrown path, past a grove of what looked like giant banana plants, towards a big, open ride with a Dickensian lamp-post on one corner. There were more people here: mothers taking children to school and walking dogs at the same time; purposeful joggers; and even more purposeful people walking as part of their journey to work. You could tell them by the briefcases, headphones and grim jawlines. A couple of rollerbladers swooshed past, too fast for Bella to make out whether they had briefcases or, worse, school uniforms.
‘Here,’ he said.
And, grabbing her hand, he ran her through the pushchairs and dog walkers, up the long path, into the middle of the big central circle and then up the steps of the large, deserted bandstand.
The bandstand?
He dropped her hand and strode over to the wrought-iron railing, beaming. Bella took her sunglasses off and stared at him in disbelief.
He turned. ‘What?’ he said, plainly surprised. ‘You wanted to talk. You said you did.’
‘Not,’ said Bella with restraint, ‘to an assembled multitude. You look as if you’re about to make a speech.’
‘What do you mean?’
She gestured helplessly. A group of women with pushchairs stood talking at the end of one of the paths. The man with the flat cap was reading a park notice. Half a dozen rollerbladers were doing circuits of the bandstand, whooping and cheering each other on. A spaniel lolloped after them, barking, its curly ears flying wide. Bella swung round, watching it all until it made her dizzy, and then she fell back against the ironwork balustrade beside him. If he’d rung a handbell, she thought, they’d all have gathered round and listened.
‘I was sort of hoping for a table in a corner somewhere and something hot to drink.’
He didn’t seem to hear. He was drumming his fingers on the ironwork, scanning the park as if trying to commit it to memory.
‘I like this place. It’s so full of life. People going about their own business, in the same way as they have for a couple of hundred years. Reminds me of pictures in our old children’s books in the nursery.’
Nursery? thought Bella. Sounded a bit grand. Or possibly grand-in-the-past, fallen-on-hard-times way, like Granny Georgia. Though Silk Shirt didn’t look as if he had a problem paying his clothes bill. On the other hand, she herself had gone to that party looking like a million dollars and it was all borrowed or second-hand from Oxfam.
She said abruptly, ‘Who are you?’
He looked down at her then. He seemed startled.
At once, she was flustered. ‘I mean, where do I write my thank you note for returning my phone?’
‘Oh, that. Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad to have got it back to you.’ He added wickedly, ‘In fact, very glad. My friends were starting to comment on my having a pink phone that I kept checking.’
Did that mean he had wanted her to call? Wanted to meet her again? Bella looked at him doubtfully. She had to narrow her eyes against the low sun. He did not take off his shades. It was hopeless. She could not read him.
And he still had not told her his name. Lottie was probably right. The man probably fancied a mild flirtation; an assignation that couldn’t get too heavy. Oh, well. No harm done, and at least she’d