He had told her that he would be wearing a light-coloured suit and carrying a copy of the Telegraph. Oh yes, Bridie thought, the Telegraph. He's definitely a doctor. “Light-coloured suit”, she liked the sound of that. Clearly this was a man of style and taste. She tried to contain herself as she walked in, not get too excited. Tried not to imagine herself swanning into his surgery with two Harrods bags swinging under her arms, or sitting in a fancy restaurant ordering hors-d'oeuvres, or arranging her porcelain figurines on his mantelpiece. Trinkets to remind her of her past life. The dull thud of loneliness as she woke to face each hollow day in Kingsbury. The empty fear of growing old and unlovely, alone.
He had asked what she would be wearing and she said, “A Jaeger suit – beige.” It was good to get the Jaeger bit in, let him know what kind of a woman she was. Clothes said so much about a person, she thought.
“That sounds nice, Bridie.”
Polite, gentlemanly, nothing nasty or smutty in his tone. He had used her name. That was a good sign.
She had asked him what his name was.
“Pat,” he said. No surnames yet. That was informal, friendly – although he hadn't sounded Irish. His accent had been rather marked in its Englishness.
Bridie looked around. The bar was almost empty, early Wednesday evening was not a busy time, but the bar was nice, it felt safe enough, not like some of the noisy pubs in Cricklewood and Kilburn where she had spent so many of her early years in London. There was lots of wood and old artefacts, and artificial orange trees in large wooden boxes at each side of the door. Very elegant, Bridie thought. There were two young women sitting at the bar, and a few couples scattered around the place. In one corner was a group of young men in suits – talking business she supposed, and next to them in the corner was a little Indian man reading the paper. It was unusual to see an Indian in a pub, she thought. But then, they were everywhere these days.