Perfect Day

blue, and the pink is so pink it’s amazing, like if you were painting it, you’d never put those colours together, because you wouldn’t believe that nature had such bright colours.’
    ‘You’d think nature was more subtle.’
    Out of habit, he is an English teacher introducing more complex vocabulary into the conversation.
    ‘I’ve never thought of dividing views into big and small before,’ he says quickly, hoping she didn’t notice.
    ‘It’s just my way of having two favourites,’ she says, and starts to walk on. ‘I’m like that. Always want more than I’m allowed. My mum says to me, why can’t you be satisfied with what you’ve got, you’d be a lot happier...’
    ‘My mother was just the opposite,’ he says: ‘she always wanted me to want more.’
    She turns her face to look at him.
    ‘That’s the difference between us,’ she says. ‘I’m working class and you’re middle class.’
    She starts walking again.
    His inclination is to protest, which would anyway only prove her point, but he finds it odd that she’s chosen that to single out, he thinks, as if it were the only factor that distinguishes them. To him there is nothing obvious they have in common, except that they are there, together, on a busy road bridge, shouting to make themselves heard above the traffic.
    ‘Where are we going?’ he asks, quickening his step to catch her up. The pavement on the bridge is wide. There’s no danger of bumping into each other if they walk side by side here.
    ‘I haven’t walked that bit yet.’ She waves towards Bankside .
    ‘Me neither,’ he says.
    ‘Never?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I want to walk every inch of the river before I leave,’ she says.
    ‘When are you leaving?’
    ‘When I get the money together. How much d’you think I’ll need?’
    ‘A thousand?’ he ventures, not really knowing whether she’s asking his opinion, or whether it’s some kind of test.
    ‘Oh! It’ll be a year at least, then,’ she says. It’s the first time he’s seen her face look sad, almost panicked.
    ‘Maybe not that much. I really don’t know...’ he tries to retract.
    ‘If I live on five pounds a day, I can usually save twenty pounds a week.’
    ‘Five pounds a day?’
    ‘I get a meal at work.’
    ‘Five pounds a day doesn’t go very far.’
    ‘You find ways. Let’s go down these steps,’ she says, as they reach the other side of the bridge. ‘Now listen!’ She pauses at the bottom.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘No traffic noise down here. The water soaks it up.’
    He wonders whether he would have noticed the relative stillness without her pointing it out.
    ‘Have you ever been in there?’ she asks, pointing at the grey concrete façade of the National Theatre.
    ‘Yes,’ says Alexander.
    ‘Me too!’ she says, as if it’s another remarkable thing they have in common. ‘There was a bloke playing jazz piano, and there’s a balcony where you can look at the view. Nobody minds if you’re not seeing a play. I used to want to be an actress, when I was young...’
    There’s a slightly wistful tone that makes him say, ‘You’re still young.’
    ‘How old am I? If you’re wrong, you can buy me a drink.’
    She stands still for a moment and makes a face he takes to be her idea of sophisticated.
    ‘Twenty-one.’
    He calculates that it’s a safe number. If she’s eighteen, she’ll want to look older. If she’s thirty, she’ll want to look younger. As he looks at her properly for the first time, he has no idea how old she is. Her body and clothes are a runaway teenager’s, but her eyes have seen more of life. Blue eyes, very dark blue, he notices, then looks away as if he’s been caught staring.
    ‘Wrong!’
    She wants him to guess again.
    ‘I give up,’ he says.
    ‘I’m twenty-four. People always think I’m younger. Your turn,’ she says.
    He imitates her pouting pose.
    ‘Thirty-five,’ she says.
    ‘Correct.’
    ‘No?’ Her face lights with triumph.
    ‘Actually, thirty-six,’ he says, ‘but only last week.’
    ‘I would have said thirty, except that you’re getting a bit of grey at the sides,’ she says, as if that will make him feel better.
    ‘Thanks for pointing it out.’
    ‘Happy Birthday for last week, anyway. What does that make you — Aries?’
    ‘I think so. What are you?’ he asks, out of politeness.
    ‘Aquarius. The only definite thing you can say about Aquarians is that they don’t become astrologers,’ she