Matthew needed taking in hand, Pat thought. He needed somebody to sit down with him who could tell him not to try so hard, who could tell him that all that was required was a little help with one or two matters and that for the rest he was perfectly all right. But who could do that? Could she?
Pat was thinking of that possibility when Matthew looked at his watch, rose to his feet, and remarked that they only had half an hour to get ready for dinner. Pat had forgotten, but now she remembered.
That night they were due to go out for dinner with Leonie, the architect, and her friend, Babs. She had been invited as well, on the insistence of Leonie, although Matthew seemed a little bit doubtful about this.
“She’s a rather unusual person,” he said hesitantly. “She has all these ideas about knocking down walls and open spaces. You know what architects are like. But I suspect that she’s a bit . . .
well, I suspect that she’s a bit intense.”
He paused, and looked up at the ceiling. “You may find that she’s a bit intense towards you. I don’t know. Maybe not. But you may find that.”
“Intense, in what way?” asked Pat.
“Just intense,” said Matthew. “You know what I mean.”
252
Pat shook her head.
“Well, anyway,” said Matthew. “I’m going to go and have a shower.”
Pat blushed.
The Caffe Sardi, an Italian restaurant on Forrest Road, was already quite busy when Pat and Matthew arrived for dinner.
He had chosen the restaurant, which he particularly liked, and had left a message on Leonie’s answering machine telling her where they would meet.
“I hope that she picked it up,” he said. “Some people don’t listen to their answering machines, you know.”
“I do,” said Pat. “I listen to my voicemail every day. Once in the morning and then again at night.”
Matthew looked thoughtful. “And do you get many messages?” he asked.
“Quite a few,” said Pat. “Most of them aren’t very important, you know. ‘Meet me at six.’ That sort of thing.”
“Meet whom?” he asked.
Pat shrugged. “Oh, nobody in particular. That’s just a for instance.”
“But sometimes there will be a message saying ‘Meet me’ or something like that?” persisted Matthew.
Pat thought that there was no real point to Matthew’s questions. Sometimes he surprised her, with his opaque remarks, or with those Macgregor undershorts. That was odd. She wondered whether he was wearing them now; it was a disconcerting thought. “Yes,” said Pat. “Sometimes people ask me to meet them.”
Matthew looked down at the tablecloth. He was about to say
“Who?” but at that moment they were joined by Leonie and her friend Babs.
“Have you guys been waiting long?” asked Leonie, as she
took off her jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. “Babs and me walked.”
Matthew thought: why can’t people distinguish between nominative and accusative any more? He wanted to say to Leonie: “Would you say me walked?” But he realised that he could not. People did not like being corrected, even when they were obviously wrong.
He looked at Babs, who was now being introduced by Leonie.
She was about the same age as Leonie, perhaps slightly older, but was more heavily-built. She had an open, rather flat face, but she was still attractive in an odd sort of way.
Babs shook hands with Matthew and Pat. “How are you doing?” she said, glancing first at Matthew and then at Pat. She was thinking of something, thought Matthew. She’s wondering whether Pat and I are together. That’s what people do when they meet others, he thought. There’s an instant judgment, an instant assessment. In this case, the question was: is he? Is she?
Perhaps I should say to her right now: “I’m not and she isn’t either.” What would be the result of that?
The waitress gave them menus and they looked at them closely.
“Babs doesn’t like anything with garlic in it,” said Leonie.
“And Leo doesn’t like anything with capers,” said Babs, staring at the menu as if scrutinising it for offending items. “Nor mashed potato nor veal. In fact, little Miss Fussy is just a little on the picky side.”
“Picky yourself,” retorted Leonie. “Oh, I like the look of that!
That’s what I’m going to have.”
Babs stared over Leonie’s shoulder. “Me too. Well spotted, Leo. And no garlic! No! No! No! Naughty garlic!”
“What about you, Pat?” asked Matthew. “Why don’t you have one of those nice pizzas?”
Leonie and Babs looked at Pat. Then Leonie turned to Matthew. “Let the poor girl choose,” she said in a mock- reproachful tone.
