Free That Man Simon by Anne Weale

armchairs.
    Simon steered Jenny to a sofa near the velvet-draped windows, and put her basket down between them.
    Immediately, a waiter came to take his order.
    ‘I’d better make that phone call. I won’t be long,’ Simon said, rising again.
    While he was away, Jenny quickly powdered her nose and retouched her lipstick. Then she relaxed against the soft brocade cushions, enjoying the unwonted luxury of her surroundings.

    ‘All’s well. Your grandmother seems quite confident that I’ll look after you properly,’ Simon told her, when he came back.
    His mouth had a quirk at one corner, but she no longer minded that look. It sent an odd little tremor of excitement through her.
    ‘What do you like to read?’ He took two of the books out of her basket to see the titles. ‘Travels in Spain and’ - his eyebrows shot up - ‘Twentieth-Century Architecture.’
    ‘Well, you’ve got me interested,’ she said hastily.
    At that point the waiter returned. Simon had asked for
    ‘Tea, and something to eat, please.’
    The ‘something to eat’ made Jenny blink. There was a covered dish of hot buttered toast, another of scones, two kinds of jam, white sandwiches with chicken inside, brown sandwiches containing smoked salmon, and a dish of rich French pastries oozing with cream.
    ‘Heavens,’ she said faintly, when the man had gone.
    ‘You aren’t on a diet, are you?’ Simon asked, with an amused glance.
    She shook her head. ‘I was thinking how expensive this must be.’
    He smiled, and then a strange expression came into his face, a kind of veiled, withdrawn look which reminded her of their first encounter. She realized how gauche her remark had been.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said nervously. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.
    I’m afraid I’m not very ... sophisticated.’
    ‘No, you’re not, are you?’ he agreed, in a dry tone. And then he took one of her hands and gave it a little squeeze, and said, ‘Which is why I like you, as it happens. And don’t worry about the bill, because I’ve just been commissioned to design an enormous supermarket, so I’m feeling rather rich today.’
    On the way home, an hour later, Jenny saw James’s estate car coming towards them. He spotted her and she waved to him.
    ‘That was James Langdon. He’s the local vet. He and his mother live in one of those lovely Georgian houses on the green,’ she told Simon, after the two cars had passed each other.
    ‘Yes, I’ve seen him about the village. How did he come by that scar on his cheek?’ Simon asked.
    ‘He was gored by a bull,’ Jenny said, with a shiver. ‘It happened over at Bell’s farm, about three miles out of the village. The old cowman there, Charlie Rudd, had raised the bull from a calf. It was as tame as a dog with him. But a lot of the other cowmen thought he was a fool to trust it.
    You can never be sure of a bull, you see. They may seem as mild as lambs for years, and then suddenly - for no reason -
    they’ll turn nasty. Anyway, that was what happened with Charlie’s bull. He was out in a field with it one day, and it started pawing the ground and snorting. He couldn’t run because he had a bad hip, and there wasn’t a pitchfork or anything like that about. So he yelled for help.
    ‘James was passing in the lane, and he heard Charlie shout and saw the bull beginning to charge him. Charlie managed to dodge it the first time, and James tore across the field and deliberately drew it on himself to give Charlie a chance to get to the hedge. He played it like a matador does, and then just before help came he slipped on a cowpat and it got him.’ Jenny swallowed, her hands clenched into fists. ‘It tossed him three times before they drove it off. He was in hospital for eleven weeks.’
    ‘He’s a brave man,’ Simon said quietly.
    ‘Yes, he is - a wonderful person.’ She felt Simon glance at her, and added, without quite knowing why, ‘We all admire him very much, and he’s a first-class vet, too. Have