‘That’s true,’ I admitted, after a moment’s reflection. ‘I apologize. I’m very tired, and I’m halfway through a stressful journey. I didn’t mean anything by it.’
She thought about this, before saying: ‘OK,’ in an uncertain tone of voice. ‘And you don’t work … for the airport, or anything like that?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t work for the airport.’
She nodded, apparently satisfied. Then, just before turning away, she added: ‘I’m not doing anything illegal, you know.’
Again, her tone was tentative, as if she didn’t really know whether this was true or not. I tried to reassure her by saying: ‘That had never occurred to me.’ I was trying to see what she had hidden beneath her jacket, where I could see a distinct bulge, but it was impossible to tell. She was on the point of turning away again, but something still seemed to be holding her back. It occurred to me that she was tired and might like to sit down.
‘Can I get you a coffee?’ I asked.
Immediately she thudded down into the seat beside me. ‘That would be great,’ she said. ‘I’m bushed.’
‘What sort?’
She asked for a skinny latte with a shot of maple syrup and I went to buy it for her. When I got back to the table with our coffees her jacket was no longer bulging. Whatever had been under there she had now transferred to her handbag, which was a loose, roomy affair she was just in the process of zipping up – again, with that slightly furtive air which seemed to characterize all her movements.
I decided not to reveal my curiosity, in any case, and confined our conversation to small talk.
‘My name’s Max,’ I said. ‘Maxwell Sim. Sim, like the …’ (I glanced at her, and hesitated) ‘… like the card you put in a mobile phone.’
She finished zipping up her bag and held out her hand. ‘Poppy,’ she said. ‘Where are you headed?’
‘Back to London,’ I said. ‘Just a quick stopover here. Couple of hours. Should be at Heathrow first thing in the morning. On my way back from Australia.’
‘Long trip, then. Business? Pleasure?’
‘Pleasure. Theoretically.’ I took a sip of coffee, and muttered, ‘Bestlaid plans, and all that,’ into the froth. ‘How about you?’
‘No, this is a working trip for me.’
‘Really?’ I tried not to sound surprised. Now that we had started talking, she seemed even younger than I’d first thought – not much more than student age – and I found it hard to imagine her as a business traveller. She didn’t look the part at all.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I travel a lot in my line of work. In fact that’s pretty much what it consists of. Travelling.’
‘Were you … working just now?’ I asked, for some reason. I suppose it was an impertinent question, but she didn’t seem to take it that way.
‘While you were watching me?’
I nodded.
‘Well yes, I was, as a matter of fact.’
It seemed as if she wasn’t going to tell me any more.
‘Of course,’ I said, ‘it’s none of my business what you do for a living.’
‘It certainly isn’t,’ said Poppy. ‘After all, we’ve only just met. I don’t know anything about you.’
‘Well,’ I began, ‘I work –’
‘Don’t tell me.’ Poppy held up her hand. ‘Give me three guesses.’
‘OK.’
She sat back, arms folded, and looked at me with an appraising but also mischievous gleam in her eye.
‘You write software for a computer game company with a reputation for horrific misogynistic violence.’
‘No, not at all. You’re miles off.’
‘All right then. You breed organic chickens on a smallholding in the Cotswolds.’
‘Not that.’
‘You’re a celebrity hairdresser. You do Keira Knightley’s highlights.’
‘’Fraid not.’
‘You work in a gentlemen’s outfitters in Cheltenham. Bespoke three-piece suits and frighteningly accurate leg measurements.’
‘No, and that’s four guesses. But you’re getting closer.’
‘One more then?’
‘OK.’
‘Well, how about … Senior Lecturer in Contemporary Fashion at the University of Ashby-de-la-Zouch.’
Actually I do consider myself quite a smart dresser, and since she made this suggestion with a lingering glance at my Lacoste shirt and Hugo Boss jeans, I was rather flattered. Even so, I shook my head. ‘So, do you give up?’
