Perfect Day

you can’t even hear yourself think.’
    They shift apart.
    ‘Sit there.’ Alexander points to a wooden table with benches on either side.
    At the bar he asks for a bottle of still mineral water but they’ve run out. He returns to the table with a little green bottle of Perrier, then takes a tissue from the pocket of his jacket, holds her leg out horizontally by the ankle, rolls her trouser leg carefully up over her knee and inspects the wound, as if a long enough look at it will give him a clue as to what to do. He pours some water on it. It fizzes over the surface of her skin and drips onto the ground.
    ‘How does that feel?’
    ‘Stings,’ she says, biting her lip.
    He soaks a tissue in the water and dabs tentatively at the periphery of the wound. The blood and some of the gravel come away easily, making it look a lot better, but there are still some bits embedded.
    ‘What you need is a nice bath,’ he says. ‘Come on, I’ll get you home.’
    She looks at his outstretched hand but does not take it.
    ‘Aren’t I even going to get that drink you owe me, suffering as I do?’ Her accent has taken on a mournful Irish lilt.
    He knows that he should say no because whereas an hour before going for a walk with her meant just going for a walk with her, now, having a drink with her seems to mean more than just having a drink with her.
    ‘Owe you?’ he stalls.
    ‘In fact you owe me two.’
    ‘How do you work that out?’ he asks.
    ‘I guessed your age, you didn’t guess mine. And my knee hurts...’ she adds, seeing that he’s giving in.
    At the bar he buys an orange juice for her and another Perrier for himself. The Perrier is a compromise. He will have a drink with her, but not a real drink. He will have no excuse not to go after one, or two, if she insists on holding him to their bet. The bargain seems to quell the slight nausea of guilt in the pit of his stomach.
    She drinks from the neck of the bottle and they look out over the river. The pub lights come on, making the sky seem darker. She looks at the graze on her left palm then bends the fingers over to inspect her nails. He’s about to say that her nails were the first thing he noticed about her, but he stops himself. He can’t think of a way of saying it that won’t sound too intimate.
    ‘Were you a waitress in Bolton ?’ he asks finally.
    ‘No, I worked in a shop. On the tills,’ she adds hurriedly as if he understands what that means in supermarket hierarchy. ‘They offered me promotion to assistant manager of produce, but you couldn’t be so flexible with your hours. Anyway,’ she adds, ‘I want to live a bit before I start getting into a company pension scheme, don’t I? And my sister had a place I could stay...’
    ‘Your sister’s here too?’
    ‘Yes. Both us girls left and all four boys still live at home. What made you come back to England , anyway?’
    ‘My mother was ill,’ he says, ‘and then she died. I had to sort out her stuff. I’m an only child.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she says.
    ‘Thanks,’ he says, not knowing whether her sympathy is for the loss of his mother or the absence of family. He takes a breath, then exhales, like a sigh. He knows that he should say more, but the moment passes.
    ‘How long ago?’ she asks.
    ‘Nearly four years.’ He decides he really doesn’t want to talk about it. ‘How long have you been in London ?’ he asks.
    ‘Nearly four weeks,’ she says.
    Their eyes keep meeting, speaking to each other without speaking, then looking away when one of them says something.
    ‘I was up at Tower Bridge the other day,’ Kate says quietly, as if it’s a secret she doesn’t want anyone else to hear. ‘There was this cruise ship moored on the other side, all glittery with lights. I thought about stowing away on it.’
    ‘Why don’t you get yourself a job on one?’ Alexander suggests.
    ‘I’d still be a waitress then, wouldn’t I? I want to experience things. Write about them...’
    ‘You want to write a travel book?’
    ‘No. A novel. You have to have seen things to write a book, don’t you?’
    ‘Isn’t it more to do with the way you write than the location?’
    ‘No-one wants to read a book about a checkout girl, do they?’
    ‘If you wrote it, they might,’ he says.
    ‘Yeah?’
    She beams at him, her transparent delight paying him back tenfold for the compliment.
    ‘Come on,’ he says, looking away, ‘let’s get you home.’
    ‘OK.’
    She limps after him in an