she concluded. I should have worn slacks.
Determined that she would not have him up for a drink, she grabbed the receiver and shouted, “Be right down!” and clattered out the door.
Out front, Ramsey stood propped against his opalescent-green Jaguar XKE, smoking a cigarette. Irina wouldn’t, of course, encourage anyone to smoke, but the habit suited him. On the phone his silences gaped, but in person he could fill the gaps with reflective exhalations. Leaning but perfectly straight, Ramsey himself resembled a snooker cue set against the car; his limbs reiterated the same attenuated taper. Saying nothing—what was wrong with the man?—he took her in as she strode from the step, inhaling the image along with a last drag. Flicking the half-smoked fag to the gutter, he sidled beside her without a word, ushering her to the passenger seat. His hand hovered near the small of her back but never quite touched her waist, as a parent keeps an arm at the ready with an unsteady toddler who wants to cross the room without help.
Nestled into the bucket seat not even having said hello either, Irina was visited by a sensation that she’d first experienced in high school, after her mother—grudgingly—had acceded to braces, and the hateful hardware had come off. It had taken a long time for it to sink in that boys suddenly seemed to find her a draw, and in truth this elevation of status from over twenty-five years ago had still not sunken in. Still, there had been certain evenings like this one, when she would be ushered into a young man’s car. The feeling was not of being attractive precisely, but rather of not having to entertain. It was breathtaking: to be ensconced in another person’s company, yet to be relieved of the relentless minute-by-minute obligation to redeem one’s existence—for there is some sense in which socially we are all on the Late Show, grinning, throwing off nervous witticisms, and crossing our legs, as a big hook behind the curtains lurks in the wings. Hands clasped calmly in her lap as the Jaguar surged from the kerb, staring serenely ahead as it lurched to a stop at the light, Irina realized that right at this moment the fact of her presence alone was its own redemption. Though she’d agonized over how to carry a conversation with Ramsey Acton, he was already exuding the purr of the supremely contented, giving every indication that he would remain just as contented for the rest of the night should she continue to say nothing.
“Sushi?” he asked by the third intersection.
“Yes.” It was marvellous: she needn’t defer graciously to whatever plans he had made, or effuse about how Japanese was just the thing. Yes would suffice.
As the Jaguar thrummed over Blackfriars Bridge, Irina unwound her window. The air was the temperature of bathwater whose heat was beginning to fade, but still warm enough for a lingering soak. The midsummer evening was light. Lambent vermilion flared in the windows of tall buildings and made the whole city look on fire. Stained glass flamed in St. Paul’s, as if the Nazis had successfully bombed the cathedral after all. Sheets of incendiary sunlight flashed across the Thames, like an oil slick to which some rascal had touched a match. Meanwhile, the Jaguar communicated every little bit of gravel to the bucket seat like a pea to a princess.
“These days, everyone wants to drive so high up,” she said at last. “Those SUVs. When I was growing up, all the cool people tucked down as close to the road as possible.”
“I’m yesterday’s man in every way,” said Ramsey, “if you believe my press.”
“If they mean your taste in cars, I’m all for it.”
Commonly she didn’t give two hoots about cars. But she liked this one—that it was a classic from 1965, but unrestored, with its leather upholstery well worn; that it was valuable rather than merely expensive. Ramsey’s driving was aggressive, full of accelerating thrusts and sudden downshifts. In contrast to the delicate articulation of his body, a refinement in his face, a social deference or even shyness, and a conspicuous fluidity of motion, all of which legislated toward a subtle collective effeminacy, Ramsey drove like a man. Although his rash weavings in and out of lane and close shaves with adjacent bumpers would ordinarily have made her edgy, the manoeuvrings were precise, boldness twinned with calculation perfectly replicating the authority with which he negotiated a snooker table. She trusted him. Besides, if Irina theoretically believed that modern women should be independent and forceful, all that, the truth was that old-fashioned passivity could be sumptuous. Total abnegation of responsibility presented the same appeal of sleep, and the ecstasy of surrender helped to explain why once a year, for fifteen minutes a go, Irina fell in love with her dentist. If the active deliciousness of being ferried about and paid for was little observed of late and potentially on the way to extinction, it was all the more intoxicating for being retrograde.
“So what you done today?” asked Ramsey.
“I made pies,” said Irina festively. “They’re therapeutic.”
“Why’d you need therapy?”
“When Lawrence is away … I can get a bit out of kilter. You wouldn’t think it, but I have another side, and—it has to be controlled.”
“What happens when it ain’t?”
Silence best implied that they were both better off not finding out. “So what did you do today?”
“I practised a bit, but mostly agonized all afternoon over where to take you to dinner.” From most men this would have been flattering horseshit, but Ramsey had a funny naïveté about him, and was probably telling the truth.
“Are you satisfied with your decision?”
“I’m never satisfied.” As he tossed his keys to a parking attend ant, Irina waited for Ramsey to open her door. The queen-bee routine wasn’t like her, but sometimes acting out of character was like breaking out of jail.
The Japanese would put the emphasis of Omen on the second syllable, but the name of the restaurant still exuded a foreboding. Omen was small and exclusive-looking, their table more exclusive still, up a few steps at the back and on its own. If Irina had dreaded being cooped up with Ramsey in the mortifying coziness of her own flat, Omen’s premiere seating was no less claustrophobic. When Ramsey reached to pull the curtain, Irina asked could he please keep it open, “for air.” With an expression of perplexity, he obliged. They’d only read through the starters when a young man skipped up the stairs to their table, clutching a menu.
“Oi, Ramsey!” the young man whispered, as one feels compelled to in Japanese restaurants. “Could you give us an autograph? That’s right, just across the top there, like.” He had slid his menu beside Ramsey’s chopsticks.
“No problem, mate.” Ramsey withdrew a slender gold ballpoint from his inside pocket; everything he owned seemed to reiterate the taut, sleek design of his body, and the signature itself was spidery, like his fingers.
“Blinding! Pity about that kick in the Embassy,” the fan commiserated. Given Ramsey’s involuntary wince, the “kick” must have been in the teeth. Leave it to strangers to blunder across your raw nerve. “Would’ve had the frame and match as well!”
“Everybody gets kicks,” said Ramsey, shrugging fatalistically about the tiny grains of chalk that can send the cue ball veering off its trajectory. What an odd profession, in which one can be undone by a speck.
“Cheers, mate!” The fan waved his menu, which Omen would now forgo, and nodded cockily at Irina. “You snooker blokes get all the lookers! What’s left for us?”
“That’s why you wanted to close the curtain,” said Irina. This wasn’t the first time that Ramsey had been hit up for an autograph when they’d been on the town, and
