this time round, when she saw a tall guy come out of the bookstore. He ambled a few yards, then stopped and peered up at the sky. It wasn’t yet dark, but it was getting past twilight. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and struggled to extricate one from the packet while juggling what was evidently a heavy bag of books. This went on for quite a few moments, the man completely unaware of Sarah’s amused scrutiny. She was thinking that in his position she might try putting the bag down, but this obviously hadn’t occurred to him.
Eventually, exasperated, he walked over to the fountain and stuck the bag down on the edge. Once he’d got the cigarette lit he put his hands on his hips, looking down the way, before glancing at her.
‘Hello,’ he said. His voice was soft and cheerful.
Now that he was closer she thought he was probably about forty, maybe a little less. She wasn’t sure how she knew this, as there was a lamp behind his head and his face was slightly difficult to see. He just had that kind of older guy thing.
‘Say that again.’
He said: ‘Er, hello?’
She nodded sagely. ‘You’re English.’
‘Oh God. Is it that obvious?’
‘Well, like, you have an English accent.’
‘Oh. Of course.’ He took another drag of his cigarette, and then looked at the bench. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’
Sarah shrugged. Shrugging was good. It didn’t say yes, it didn’t say no. Whatever. The bench was plenty wide. She was salad-bound within seconds anyway. Or burger-bound. Still undecided.
The man sat. He was wearing a pair of corduroys, not especially new, but a light jacket that looked well-made. He had big, neat hands. His fair hair had been dyed a stronger blond, but expensively, and his face worked pretty well. Like a hip science teacher, or maybe social studies. The kind that probably wouldn’t sleep with a student, but could if he wanted.
‘So are you an actor, or something?’
‘Oh no. Nothing as grand as that. Just a tourist.’
‘How long are you here for?’
‘A couple of weeks.’ He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small object, made of shiny chrome. He flipped the top off and revealed it to be a small portable ashtray.
Sarah watched this with great interest. ‘The English smoke a lot, don’t they.’
‘We do,’ said the man, who wasn’t English. He stubbed out his cigarette and slipped the ashtray back in his pocket. ‘We are not afraid.’
They chatted for a little while. Sarah reminisced about London. The man was able to join in convincingly, as he had returned from the country only two days before. He did not reveal that the Barnes and Noble bag he was carrying was full of books he had owned for some years, nor that he had spent a full hour in the bookstore sitting in the Politics and Economics section, his face averted from the other customers, watching out of the window for Sarah to arrive. He instead asked for suggestions for what else he should see in the city. He listed the parts of Los Angeles he had already visited, a selection of the usual tourist traps.
Sarah, who took her responsibilities seriously, suggested the La Brea tar pit, Rodeo Drive, and the Watts Tower, which she felt would give a good span of where LA had come from, and where it was going. Plus, she thought privately, on Rodeo he could replace his corduroys with something a little more bon marché, as Sian – who’d vacationed in Antibes last year – was fond of saying.
Then the man went quiet for a moment. Sarah was thinking that it was time for her to windowshop her way down to dinner. She was gathering herself to say good night, when he turned and looked at her.
‘You’re very pretty,’ he said.
This might or might not be true – Sarah’s opinion was currently fiercely divided on the subject – but it was without question straight out of the ‘Watch out, a wacko’ box of conversational sallies.
‘Thanks,’ she said, bright-eyed with deflection. For a moment the evening seemed a little cooler, then steadied as she took control. ‘Anyway, nice talking to you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, quickly. ‘That’s rather an odd thing to say, I know. It’s just that you remind me of my own daughter. She’s about your age.’
‘Right,’ Sarah said. ‘Cool.’
‘She’s back in Blighty,’ the man went on, as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘With her mother. Looking forward to seeing them again, don’t you know. Top hole. Gor blimey. Princess Di, God rest ’er soul.’
His eyes flicked away from her then, took a quick glance around. Sarah assumed he was embarrassed. In reality he was estimating that in about twenty seconds all paths would converge to convenience him, the lines of sight all elsewhere. He was good at judging this kind of thing, at telling when he would be in vision, of seeing the small steps that would take him back out of sight. It was one of his special skills. He shifted a few inches closer to the girl, who stood up.
‘Anyway,’ Sarah said. ‘I got to go.’
The man laughed, as he felt the lines fall into place. He grabbed Sarah’s hand and tugged it with surprising force. She squawked quietly and fell back onto the bench, too shocked to resist.
‘Let go,’ she said, fighting to stay calm. The ground seemed to be falling away, a vertiginous, fluid feeling. She felt as if she had been caught cheating, or stealing.
‘Pretty girl.’ He gripped her hand more tightly. ‘A keeper.’
‘Please, let go of me.’
‘Oh shut up,’ he muttered, all pretence of an English accent gone. ‘You ludicrous little slut.’ His fist jackhammered up in a compact, short-armed punch, smashing straight into her face.
Sarah’s head jerked back, her eyes wide open and stunned. Oh no, she thought, the interior voice quiet and dismayed. Oh no.
‘Take a look, Sarah,’ the man said, his voice low and urgent. ‘Look at all the lucky people. The people who aren’t you.’
He nodded down the Promenade. Only a block down, the street was crowded. People going in and out of stores, taking exploratory looks at restaurant menus. Around Sarah and the man there was nobody to be seen.
‘Once there was just bush here, do you realize that? Ragged coastline, rocks, shells. A few tracks in the sand. If you’re quiet you can hear the way that it was, before any of this shit was here.’
Blinking against her watering eyes, Sarah tried to work out what he was getting at. Maybe there was something she could do, some unexpected final question in this test, some way of scraping a pass. ‘But people don’t see,’ he continued. ‘They don’t even look. Blind. Wilfully blind. Trapped in the machine.’
He grabbed her hair, turned her face so she could see into the Barnes and Noble. There were plenty of people in there, too. Reading. Standing. Chatting. Why would you look outside, when you’re in a bookstore at night? Even if you did, would you see more than a couple of dark figures on a bench? Why would that seem exceptional?
