the scooter, meanwhile, responds to my anguished cry by taking one hand off his handlebars and waving at me. What am I supposed to do? Move Chopper out of the way?
Much too late to do anything at all.
Chopper is lumbering up the hill, greeting the scooter as if it’s another dog out to play. I can hardly bear to look … a millisecond before impact, the idiot dodges Chopper with the insouciant panache of a slalom skier, only to careen head-first into a tree trunk on the other side of the path.
I sprint towards his body. ‘Are you okay?’ I yell.
Serves him right if he’s not.
The scooter has come to rest on the grass, wheels still spinning. Its owner is picking himself up off the ground, and brushing grass from his skinny jeans. He runs an index finger along one of his cheekbones to wipe away a trail of dirt, then rotates his shoulder blades, as if to check nothing’s broken. He looks vaguely familiar, although I can’t imagine why.
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ he says. ‘Just a bit winded. Sorry if I scared you.’
The idiot’s pleasantly deep voice and immediate contrition catches me off-guard. I’d been all set to tell him off for dangerous driving. But that was when I’d assumed he was a teenage boy, rather than the man of about my own age who is now stroking Chopper.
‘She’s right,’ he tells the dog. ‘I was going much too fast. But it’s such a wonderful feeling. Like flying.’ Then he looks up at me. ‘Buy you a quick coffee, by way of apology?’
I mean to say no. But the idiot is in possession of a mischievous smile, sparkling grey eyes, and a T-shirt that says, Honk if You’re About to Run Me Over.
It’s not as if I need to get to work on time to begin another soul-destroying day of no clients, so thirty minutes later we’re still sitting outside at one of the cafés on the high street, across the road from Happy Endings. Chopper is refuelling on ice-cold water from a bucket-sized bowl. I’m on my second latte, wishing I’d followed suit when the idiot ordered himself a breakfast butty that overflows with dripping butter, bacon and HP sauce. It smells delicious.
‘Okay if I give some to Chopper?’ The idiot breaks off a generous portion of his breakfast and lobs it in Chopper’s direction. The dog rises with gravity-defying grace, captures the snack before it hits the ground, and proceeds to chew daintily.
I sit and salivate, trying – and failing – to look elsewhere as the final sliver of buttery bacon disappears. He’s got nice hands, the idiot. It’s one of the things I always notice about a man. Assessing their suitability to carry a coffin. These are strong, capable hands. Well-manicured, too.
The idiot evidently cares about his appearance and if I’m not mistaken he’s even wearing a splash of cologne, fresh and spicy, with a hint of fir. Doesn’t smell as good as the bacon, but not a bad second.
‘So do you live around here?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘Professional dog walker?’
‘Still no.’ I’m not meaning to be unfriendly so I say it with a smile. ‘How about you?’
‘Oh, my dad’s got a house up the road, and I was just popping in. I work for the family business. Property management mostly, and boring stuff involving corporate law. We’ve been doing a lot of insolvencies lately.’
He says this as though it’s a good thing and I can’t help but think of Gloria. If she were with us now, she’d say, ‘You’re the type of lawyer who makes rich people richer. The type of lawyer I never want to be.’
Disloyally, I realise the idiot would most likely scrub up pretty well if he swapped his jeans and T-shirt for a business suit.
‘Do you like it?’ he’s asking me.
‘Pardon?’
‘My T-shirt. You were staring at it.’ Before I can apologise he continues, ‘I got a brilliant one yesterday. Going paintballing next week, and I came across one in Camden Market that says, Why Should You Date a Paintballer?’
He leaves the question hanging.
‘Go on, then,’ I encourage him. ‘Tell me why I should date a paintballer?’
‘Because we’ve got a lot of balls. That’s what’s written on the back. Convincing, huh?’
There’s something about the guileless way he says it that makes me laugh. His company is an unexpected treat on what’s bound to turn out to be another lonely day.
‘I’m in desperate need of another bacon butty and more coffee. Say yes this time?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes please.’
Just as our refills arrive, something slots into place. ‘Haven’t I seen you before?’ I ask.
‘Is that the best you’ve got?’
‘Pardon?’
‘You’re flirting with me, right?’
‘Me? No! Of course not. I have seen you before. On rollerblades. Going past my shop.’
‘Which shop would that be?’
‘Over there.’ I point towards Happy Endings, sit back and wait for the inevitable response.
But the idiot proves the exception to the rule. ‘Noggsie’s old shop, right?’ he says pleasantly. ‘So how’s business?’
‘Okay.’ I’m not about to confess it’s non-existent. I pause for a strategic mouthful of bacon butty, while I attempt to swallow the accusation of flirting. He’s sort of right. I’m definitely enjoying his company. Since that night with Jason, I’ve started noticing men again. There’ve been one or two who I – admit it, Nina – actually fancied.
And the idiot makes three.
‘I’d better go to work,’ I say.
‘Why? Are there some dead people I don’t know about? Did I miss the news story about the avalanche in Tufnell Park last night?’
‘You’re a very bad man.’ It’s the sort of remark I’d expect from a colleague rather than a civilian, and the mock shock-horror way he says it is actually quite funny.
‘I try not to be. Stay a while.’ The idiot brushes my wrist with his fingers. ‘More coffee?’
Last time I drank four lattes for breakfast I was still awake at two o’clock the following morning.
‘Go on then,’ I say. ‘And why don’t you tell me about the paintballing?’
He needs no second invitation. ‘There’s this huge woodland site between Edinburgh and Glasgow,’ he begins. ‘All sorts of scenarios. The village hostage rescue looks the most fun. That’s where you get to use the paint thrower.’ He sees my puzzled expression and clarifies, ‘It’s basically a huge water cannon filled with paint. The ordinary paintballs are a mixture of oil, gelatine and dye,
