Free A City of Strangers by Robert Barnard Page B

showed up. She smiled at him briskly, cast an eye over the plates of food on offer behind glass on the counter, and came over.
    â€œI’ll have the vegetarian quiche and lots of that bean and pasta salad,” she said, sitting down. “I’m toying with vegetarianism, not very passionately. And a glass of orange juice. I don’t drink at lunchtime these days.”
    Steven bustled up, got a tray, and filled plates with this and that. He got orange juice for Margaret and a glass of wine for himself. He didn’t see why he shouldn’t drink at lunchtime. He wasn’t teaching again until three. He distributed things, got rid of the tray, and sat down, grinning tentatively at his former wife. What did one say on these occasions?
    â€œI went to buy you a record,” he began. “Then I remembered I’d got the stereo. What a stupid thing to forget.”
    â€œI’ve gone over to CD anyway,” she. said, beginning efficently on her salad. “I’ve only got a few records, but it means I don’t use them as aural wallpaper, as we used to.”
    â€œThat’s very wise. I hardly ever play anything now. . . . I thought CD was expensive?”
    â€œIt is rather.”
    Silence fell. She wasn’t helping him. But—fairness asserted itself—why should she?
    â€œI thought we should get together,” he said, repressing the awkwardness he felt and putting on what came out as a puppyish ingratiatingness. “Toosilly if we can’t be friends. No avoiding the fact that we’ve spent most of our lives together.”
    â€œNo-o.”
    â€œHave you seen anything of the children recently?”
    â€œNot since summer. I went down to Peter’s, and Susan came to Sleate with the family. But, of course, you know. She went to see you.”
    â€œYes. . . . And how have you been, then? Getting along? It’s difficult for a single woman, isn’t it?”
    â€œYes. But perhaps not so much as it used to be.” A smile wafted briefly over her intelligent middle-aged face. “There are a lot of us around.”
    â€œAh—you get together, do you? Supportive groups, and all that? Lunches together?”
    â€œWell, no, actually.” She had raised her eyebrows and now looked at her watch. “Not as far as I’m concerned. I haven’t much time for that sort of thing. I’m a working woman.”
    â€œAre you?” Steven felt rather foolish. “I hadn’t any idea. Where are you working?”
    â€œWest Yorkshire Police HQ, actually. Prosecutions. I’m just an administrative assistant, but it’s interesting work, as work goes.” She dived into the remains of her salad and quiche, and felt she ought to reciprocate with an interest in him—something which in truth she hardly felt. “What about you? What are you doing these days?”
    â€œOh—you know: usual stuff. I’ve got a new project about old age in the contemporary novel.”
    â€œOh, good. Does that mean that your male domination thing has been taken?”
    â€œWell, no, actually. But it’s with Cambridge U.P. at the moment, and I’m very hopeful. Potentially it’s very topical.”
    â€œWhat about the house? What’s it called—Ashdene? Is it satisfactory?”
    â€œOh, very. Real character. . . . Mind you, we’re under threat at the moment.”
    â€œThreat? Some sort of redevelopment, do you mean?”
    â€œNo—an appalling family from the council estate threatening to move in two doors down. The Phelans. Real slum-dwellers, something out of Dickens. Seems they’ve had a big win on the pools. You know me, I’m no snob, but just to see the front garden of their present house is enough to tell you you wouldn’t want them as neighbors. The girl’s on the streets, the eldest boy’s had a set-to with . . . someone I know, and the man!