Broken Places

Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine
chapter ten
chapter eleven
chapter twelve
chapter thirteen
chapter fourteen
chapter fifteen
chapter sixteen
chapter seventeen
chapter eighteen
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty
chapter twenty-one
chapter twenty-two
chapter twenty-three
chapter twenty-four
chapter twenty-five
chapter twenty-six
chapter twenty-seven
acknowledgements
By the Same Author
Copyright

Eric chained his bike to the railings and struggled out of his waterproofs, indignant that the weather should have let him down so flagrantly on this all-important date. Having stuffed the soggy rainwear into his saddle-bag, he dived into McDonald’s – the only visible refuge from the downpour. Skulking past the counter, with its enticing smell of grilling meat, he headed for the gents, yet a brief glance in the mirror was enough to make him want to bolt for home. The wind had tousled his hair into the untidiest of birds’ nests, flushed his face an unattractive pink and, to cap it all, sneaky drops of water were trickling down his neck.

Switching on the hand-drier, he moved his head into the current of hot air, before beginning the usual tussle with the comb. His curly crop was obstinate; preferred to go its own wild way, rather than submit to any form of restraint. Red hair on men was very rarely flattering and his particular shade was, to say the least, unfortunate. But, short of shaving it off or investing in a hair-transplant, he was stuck with it until senescence, when, he hoped, it would fade to merciful grey. For the moment, though, if he wished to impress Olivia, he would have to rely on conversational skills. Fat chance! He was so nervous about meeting her, he would be lucky to string two words together.

He checked his watch. Still only 7.15. He was always early, for
everything
, but to turn up late required a degree of casual confidence he simply didn’t possess. If only confidence was sold in shops, he could buy a pound or two, along with milk and bread. Although a pound would hardly suffice tonight. He’d need a ton and more.

But he must concentrate on his good points, not give way to negativity. At least he
had
hair, unlike the naked-pated fellow who’d just barged into the gents. And at least he was slim and fit – no sign of any beer-gut yet, to rival the baldie’s paunch.

Heartened, he completed his wash-and-brush up; crunched three
extra-strong
peppermints, to ensure his breath was triple-fresh, then decided to brave the elements once more. He did his best to shelter under shop-fronts as he zigzagged the fifty yards to
Chez Guillaume
, having deliberately left his bike a safe distance from its vicinity, in case Olivia expected him to roar up in a Porsche. Bikes weren’t cool, especially not his third-hand Raleigh Shopper. But, early or no, he would wait for her in the restaurant, otherwise he would make a bad impression, with damp splodges on his suit. In any case, she might appreciate punctuality – and even the fact he’d worn a suit at all.

Thank God he
was
dressed up, he thought, as he came face-to-face with a liveried doorman, complete with a top hat – a figure as daunting as the place itself, which, rigged out in stylish green and grey, was flanked by two pretentious bay trees in important-looking tubs. Olivia had suggested the restaurant, as conveniently close to her Chelsea flat, as well as being
recommended
as a gourmet’s paradise. Any gourmet’s paradise was probably way beyond his means, but then a search for love was bound to involve some degree of financial sacrifice.

Racheting up his courage, he nodded to the doorman, who ushered him in with a sycophantic smile. His experience of doormen was sketchy in the extreme, so he had no idea whether to tip the guy or not. Fumbling in his pocket, he withdrew a cache of coins, only to realize they were mostly paltry 2ps. He quickly put them back again, trying to assume the air of someone so superior he never bothered with small change.

As he ventured in with an air of false bravado, the maître d’ approached, greeting him with such deference, he might have been Montgomery returning from El Alamein. He was escorted to his table with further bowing and scraping; his chair pulled out; the wine-list proffered – the latter bound in gold-tooled leather, not unlike a Bible. The table, he noticed to his chagrin, was opposite an elaborate gilt-framed mirror. The last thing he wanted was to study his reflection again.

‘May I get you a drink, sir?’ A waiter had swooped over and was also dancing attendance on him; kowtowing and salaaming in a manner that mixed swagger with servility.

‘I, er, think I’ll wait for my friend.’

‘Friend’ wasn’t strictly correct. As yet, he hadn’t set eyes on Olivia; seen nothing but a small photo of her face. And all he knew about her was the details on her profile in the
Guardian
Soulmates site (some of which she had 
deliberately left blank). The few texts they’d exchanged said nothing really meaningful and when, at last, he’d plucked up the courage to phone, he’d been so relieved to hear her voice – not estuary or shrill or pleb, but
well-modulated
and feminine – he had barely taken in a single word she said.

‘As you wish, sir.’

The waiter was dark and dashing, with an enviable thatch of straight, black, glossy hair. The lucky guy probably had women flocking round him in shoals and swarms and squads, and certainly wouldn’t be reduced to searching for females on the Internet. Even his eyebrows were
emphatically
dark and authoritative. Should he have dyed his own wishy-washy brows before embarking on a new love-life, he wondered anxiously – although why stop at eyebrow-dye, when a full-scale makeover might be more to the point?

A quick glance at the wine-list made him fear that this one dinner would swallow up a whole week’s salary. But it was worth it, wasn’t it? For an attractive woman, nine years younger, who, according to her profile, was ‘keenly interested in art and literature’? Even her name was a bonus – an elegant, Shakespearian name, which made his own ‘Eric’ seem definitely plebeian.

There was bound to be a catch, though. The photo showed her neck-up only, so she might be hugely fat, or missing some vital body-part, like an arm or leg or kidney. Or she could be a dating addict – the sort of woman who went through twenty men a month, just for the thrill of the chase, rejecting every one of them for some trifling reason like eye-colour.

Despite himself, he checked the mirror opposite. Blue eyes should be deep, dramatic and definite; not, like his, the colour of over-washed and faded denim jeans. Indeed, he could barely make them out at all in the stylish gloom of the restaurant, just the pale blur of his face, topped by his insolent hair.

He tried to distract himself by studying the other diners; most of them well-heeled, judging by their outfits and general air of sophistication. Would Olivia take one look at him and immediately make an excuse to leave? Well, he’d find out soon enough, since she was due in precisely eleven minutes.

No eleven minutes had ever seemed so long – except the
following
eleven, which appeared to take an hour to dawdle by. He mustn’t panic, though. She had mentioned in passing that her journey from work was complicated and, what with traffic snarl-ups and closures on the tube,
delays were more or less inevitable. Indeed, he himself had only chosen to cycle because his own tube-line was suspended.

He kept his gaze fixed on the door, checking every new arrival. As yet, he had seen no solo females, but, at this very moment, one was actually venturing in. Could that be Olivia? She was nothing like her picture: older and more lined, with a mousy bob, instead of honey-coloured tresses. But she might have airbrushed her photo; eradicated the wrinkles, lightened and lengthened her hair. Deception was rife on dating sites.

He studied her every movement, coiled like a spring in case she approached, but, having proceeded to the far end of the restaurant, she joined a slender, fair-haired chap, who sprang up to embrace her. Now, he was the only person sitting on his own; couples all around him; the pair at the adjoining table parading their togetherness by clasping hands,
interlocking
fingers and gazing raptly into each other’s eyes. He was also the only one with neither food nor drink – everybody else tucking in, with relish, and downing fancy wine. The buzz of conversation underlined his own tense circle of silence; the whiff of garlic butter and sizzling steak reminding him how empty he was. He’d been too uptight to eat much lunch, and breakfast had been one quick slice of toast.

Suppose she
didn’t
come? Red-haired men with freckles weren’t exactly sexy, nor, for that matter, were librarians. She had probably met a hunky City banker and was already in bed with the lout; all thought of dinner forgotten as they climaxed in mutual bliss. But if she had stood him up, what then? Did he brazen it out and eat here on his own, risking
bankruptcy
for no reason or reward, or sneak out of the restaurant to the sniggers of the staff?

He was overreacting – as usual. It was still only 8.04. Nineteen minutes late didn’t mean she had called it off. He must stop studying his watch and switch his mind to something more absorbing – for instance, his idea of using the music library for some sort of music therapy, as an extension of his existing poetry group. Trevor might dismiss it, of course, as a waste of time and resources, or issue gloomy warnings about the risk of anti-social behaviour from some of those attending, or claim it
interfered
with the core business of the service to provide books and information. Well, he’d simply have to stand his ground and stress his scheme’s advantages; emphasize its social value and the partnerships that might be formed with other community groups, bound to win approval from the council.

Soon, he had developed a creditable case. Indeed, Trevor had not only acquiesced, he was actually supportive and they were working on the project together, in (unusual) harmony. Unfortunately, however, there was still no sign of Olivia, nor any text or message on his mobile, which he’d been checking since he first arrived. Since she was more than half an hour late now, surely she should have got in touch – unless she’d been mugged at knifepoint, or blown up by a terrorist.

Images of bloody, mangled flesh tornadoed through his stomach. He needed a drink – a strong one. The waiter had glided back a couple of times, to see if he had changed his mind, but he’d repeated the same mantra about waiting for his friend. No point, however, in waiting for a woman who was a body on a mortuary slab.

‘A vodka and Coke, please,’ he blurted out, as the fellow approached for the third time. What the hell was he saying? Vodka and Coke was
Stella’s
tipple – he had never actually drunk it in his life. But Stella was on his mind, of course, since she it was who’d encouraged him to sign up for several dating-sites.

‘D’you realize, Eric, it’s ages since your divorce, and you haven’t so much as looked at another woman. It’s time you fixed yourself up with someone else.’

Fixed himself up. The phrase offended his romantic sense, but then the whole dating scene was a meat market. He should have put his foot down, right from the (unpromising) start. Only two of the women he’d emailed had bothered to respond. The first, still married, had spent an hour on the phone to him, slagging off her spouse. The second was seeking a companion to join her on a white-water-rafting excursion in deepest Ecuador.
White-water-rafting
, for heaven’s sake, when he couldn’t even swim.

All at once, his stomach rumbled – so loudly, so flamboyantly, the whole restaurant must have heard. Thank heavens for the waiter, who was just sauntering up with his drink. He gulped it quickly, in gratitude, although drinking spirits on an empty stomach was bound to end in disaster. He would probably start gabbling inanely, or even lose his balance and trip over his own feet when he rose to greet Olivia. Except she wasn’t coming, was she? Thirty-six minutes late now.

His age might be the problem. Stella had pressed him to say he was thirty-nine, instead of forty-four.

‘Even thirty-nine is
old
, Eric, when it comes to women’s preferences. Many fifty-something females still prefer a man of twenty-two or -three. I
suppose it’s a question of testosterone. Once a guy hits thirty, it’s downhill all the way.’

Despite her views (outrageous), he had stuck to the depressing truth; refusing to lie on principle. Figures were on his mind tonight. Not just his age, but the four-and-a-half and five-and-a-half inches respectively of his limp penis and his stiff one. Measuring both or either had never crossed his mind before, until Stella put him right.

‘You have to remember, Eric, all some women care about is ILBs.’

‘“Interesting Librarian Blokes”, you mean?’

‘No, you dolt. “Incredibly Large Bits”.’

Not much point in fretting about his bits when he’d be lucky to swallow a mouthful of dinner before the restaurant closed, let alone embark on an erotic encounter. Besides, where on earth could they
go
for the encounter? Bike-sheds were for teens – and not exactly common in Chelsea – yet he could hardly take her to his shabby basement flat. In his fantasies last night, the problem had solved itself, since she had invited him back to her
riverside
penthouse and, before they were barely inside, had changed into a skimpy négligé. Having whipped it off in a trice, he’d plunged with her on to the king-size bed, where they had remained the entire weekend, only emerging on Monday morning, exhausted but blissed-out; all thought of work or—

Oh my God, she’d come! Yes, she was really, truly here – just bursting through the door; every bit as gorgeous as her photo: not overweight, not missing arms or legs, not even lined or mousy, but radiant, fresh-faced and as near to blonde as dammit.

He leapt to his feet and swooped exuberantly towards her, barely able to believe his luck.

She, too, was smiling; displaying not a hint of disappointment. ‘Eric, I know it’s you – it
must
be! You simply couldn’t hide that fabulous auburn hair!’

He all but kissed her feet, just for the joy of the word ‘auburn’. Already, his four-and-a-half inches were stirring into majestic masthood.

‘Sorry I’m so late. This fearful crisis blew up at work and I just couldn’t get away. And, to top it all, my mobile’s on the blink. You must have thought I wasn’t coming.’

‘Not at all,’ he lied. ‘It’s wonderful to see you.’ He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the girlish waist, voluptuous breasts, long, curvy legs, displayed now to perfection as a waiter took her coat. ‘But are you all right?’ he asked
with genuine concern. ‘I mean, you must have got soaked to the skin. I’ve never known a November like this – rain every day, so far. Although I have to say you don’t look very wet.’