‘And you like to know what’s going on, do you, Sarah?’
‘Generally speaking.’
‘You don’t like stories?’
‘I don’t … follow.’
He patted the chair beside him and for some reason I didn’t think twice about going over there and sitting down.
‘Do you or don’t you? Like stories?’
‘Well, yes, I do.’
‘Do you always know what’s going on in a story?’
‘Sometimes. If it’s blatantly signposted, I suppose. More often not.’
‘It’s dull, isn’t it, when you know the ending.’
‘Not always.’ I had an idea what he might be driving at. ‘I can watch film versions of classic novels over and over, even though I know the ending.’
‘That’s a different kind of pleasure,’ he said.
‘Maybe.’
‘The thing is, Sarah, if you know the ending, you can’t explore any other possibilities. If you know what’s going on, you can’t be surprised. You can’t have your breath taken away. You miss all the best bits. Do you see?’
I swallowed. He was very close to me and I was intensely conscious of it. So intensely conscious that I was having some difficulty processing thought.
‘You’re very …’
He leaned closer.
‘Very what?’
‘Very … I don’t know.’
‘Don’t go, Sarah. If you don’t go, I’ll make you bacon and eggs.’
Breakfast. Probably a good idea.
‘That would be … acceptable,’ I said.
‘And I know you’re an accepting person,’ he said, rising and moving towards the cooker top. ‘An open-minded soul.’ He opened up a pack of bacon. ‘Incidentally, do you have my razor strop?’
Oh, God. I thought of it on my bedside table, still perfumed with essence de Sarah.
He turned around, my silence putting him on the scent.
‘Sarah?’
‘Oh. Yeah.’
‘You’re scarlet.’
‘Am I?’
‘Is there something you want to tell me?’ He threw the bacon in the pan, never taking his eyes from me.