The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. They both had things on their minds, and walking seemed to help the thinking process. Here, in the quiet and the dark, Milan and his woes seemed far away.
They passed under the shadow of St Paul’s and ended up on Southwark Bridge, looking upriver. Towers and peaks and spires and dozens upon dozens of cranes lit up the night sky.
“So, is your heart broken?” Von Ritter spoke at last, after a long stretch of communion with the vista before him.
“Broken? I wouldn’t say that. Battered, certainly. And bruised. But it isn’t broken.”
“That’s good.” He put his hand on her shoulder.
She realised she had missed the physical contact with him since he had unlinked their arms, and she shut her eyes and made the most of his palm’s weight and warmth.
“I suppose,” he continued, “you won’t be interested in anything romantic for a while.”
She turned to him, shivering a little, though it still wasn’t cold.
“What do you mean?”
“You know. You’ll want to lie in your room, eating ice cream, talking to your friends about how all men are bastards.”
Lydia laughed. “You’ve watched too many chick flicks. Funny, you don’t seem the type.”
“No? I don’t seem the type for chick flicks? What am I the type for, then? Tell me.”
“War films. Detective dramas. Mysteries. You know. Manly stuff.”
Von Ritter’s smile was broad and white in the darkness.
“You see me in a very masculine light.”
“Yes, I do. That straight back and no-nonsense manner you have.”
“Do you think it ridiculous?”
Lydia was surprised at the flash of vulnerability his words revealed.
“Gosh, no, not ridiculous. That’s definitely not the word I’d use.”
“So what word would you use?”
Attractive. Sexy.
“Er…interesting.”
Von Ritter leant down, his shoulder nudging hers, and spoke directly into her ear.
“What word would you really use?”
“Stop it. Stop being so… Argh! Stop trying to read my mind.”
“Oh, but I like reading your mind. It’s the best one I’ve had to work with for a long time. Come on. Look at me. Let me read it for you.”
Lydia turned her face away, but he waited with such patient self-assurance that she felt certain she would have to give in eventually. So she looked back at him, pursing her lips in defiance, daring him to do his worst.
“Now, let me see…” He put one finger beneath her chin, tilting it for the optimum view of her eyes. “She’s a little bit scared and a little bit excited. What is she thinking of?”
Lydia obstinately pictured a tin of pears in syrup she’d seen in her food cupboard earlier that evening.
“Is it…music?”