'I could cone to dinner '
He brightened at once.
'Oh, good! That's fine. Where shall we go?'
'I know a place.'
'All right. Then when shall we meet?'
'Eight o'clock at the pub opposite Joe's.' Now that she had made up her mind to go out with him she was taking charge of the outing. George didn't care. He had won his point about paying for the outing or at least he thought it was going to be all right—and if she wanted to say where they were to meet and where they were to dine, it was all right with him.
'That's fine,' he said. 'I say, Cora—I'm looking forward . . .' but the telephone was dead. She had hung up.
Even that didn't detract from his happiness. At last!
After all those beastly hours, trying . . . trying . . . trying to get her, he had finally succeeded, and she was coming out with him again!
He drew a deep breath and came out into the fresh air, feeling fine.
10
Cora, with George tagging along a step behind, turned off the main road into a narrow street, lined on one side by hacks of shops, and on the other side by a brick wall, along the top of which bristled pieces of broken glass, set in cement. At the end of this street she turned the corner and walked down an even more sordid street of small, shabby shops. A group of dark-skinned, hare-headed men stood at the corner; they glanced at George, and then concentrated on Cora. They stopped talking and eyed her, their faces expressionless, their eyes hot and intent. Cora went on her way, her small head held high, unaware of their interest.
They came to a double-fronted shop, the big windows hung with yellow muslin curtains. The glass panel of the door was painted green. Gilt letters, 'Restaurant', crawled diagonally across the green expanse.
Without pausing, Cora pushed open the door and went in. George followed her.
The room in which they found themselves was long and narrow. Tables lined each side of it, and vast mirrors, flyblown and yellowing with age, hung from the walls. Red- shaded lamps stood on each table.
A big woman, her hair straggling and untidy, as if someone had upset custard over her head, sat at the cash desk. Behind the bar near the door was a tall, elderly Hebrew in a dirty white coat. Two waiters stood idly at the end of the room. There were only a few people at the tables: bright-eyed women, hatless and bold; darkskinned men, immaculately dressed, middle-aged and wooden.
Cora sat down at a table with her hack to the wall. George, following her, felt the woman in the cash desk examining him closely. Somehow, he didn't quite know why, the atmosphere in this dimly lit, gaudy room made him uneasy.
He was aware, too, that the men at the tables paused in their eating and watched Cora furtively, under lowered eyelids: their eyes on her slim hips and the shameless movement under her woollen sweater.
She was wearing the same outfit, and the red bone bangle, as she had worn when they first met. Their meeting tonight wasn't at all how George had planned it to be. He had arrived at the pub at a few minutes to eight to find Cora already there. She was drinking a whisky and water, and she seemed peevish. Of course, he hadn't kissed her. Even if they had been in the bar on their own, he wouldn't have had the courage, now that he was once more face to face with her. He really marvelled that he had kissed her the other night. That had, of course, only happened because it had been dark.
As soon as Cora saw him she finished her whisky and came to meet him.
'Come on,' she said shortly, without even a smile of greeting, 'I'm hungry,' and she walked right out of the pub without giving him even a second glance, and went off down the street.
George, bewildered and a little hurt, hurried after her. She kept on, a scowl on her face, and George followed her. He decided not to speak to her. He could not think of anything to say, anyway, that wouldn't irritate her, so he kept behind her until they reached this little Soho restaurant.
He had an uneasy presentiment that the evening wasn't going to be a success.
He sat down opposite her, his hack to the room. She looked past him at the waiter, a bent, elderly man who came over to them with a bored, tired look in his eyes.
George was about to ask her what she would like, but, still ignoring him, she said to the waiter, 'Oysters, grilled steaks, salad and ice-cream. Two bottles of yin rouge: and let's have some service.'
The waiter went away without saying anything, but by the way he flicked his soiled napkin, he managed to express his contempt for them.
Two bottles of wine! Oysters! My word! George thought, she knows what she wants all right.
Well, he couldn't just sit there and say nothing. He hadn't said a word since they met in the pub.
'It's lovely to see you again, Cora . . .' he began, wondering if he was going to set her off.
She seemed suddenly to realize that he was in the room.
'I'm bad tempered,' she said, resting her chin on the back of her hand. 'I'll be all right in a moment.'
That's better, George thought. As if I didn't know she was in a temper. Well, so long as she admits it, she may get over it soon.
Feeling that he must add something to the meal—Cora ordering everything had rather deflated him—he beckoned a waiter and ordered two large dry martinis.
'Nothing like a cocktail to cheer you up,' he said, smiling. 'I've been in the dumps myself today.'
She didn't say anything. He noticed she was staring across the room at a table in the far corner. There was
