‘It’s been a long time,’ Seb replies.
‘Not that long.’
‘Almost a year.’
Clara winces. ‘Not quite.’
Seb says nothing.
She fills the silence. ‘I did try to tell you,’ Clara says. ‘That night.’
‘You have a boyfriend.’
The commuter’s book is lying in his lap, unopened. This is far more interesting.
‘You knew?’
‘I guessed it was something like that,’ Seb says. ‘In the very long time since.’
‘I could have died in an accident,’ Clara responds. ‘Or gone to prison.’
Seb doesn’t take the bait. ‘What was I, then?’ he says. ‘A distraction?’ He collects himself. ‘This is stupid. It was one date. You probably didn’t even think it was a date.’
‘I did,’ she says.
‘But you have a boyfriend.’
‘I did.’
There’s a silence. Her use of the past tense hasn’t gone unnoticed.
‘You broke up?’
‘A few months ago.’
Seb can’t seem to decide whether this is a good thing. The commuter puts his book back in his bag. He studies Clara’s sharp profile, the back of Seb’s dark hair. They pass Lamb’s Conduit Street on the left, a pair of bohemian-looking elderly gents drinking wine al fresco.
‘If it helps, I tried to find you,’ Clara says, then corrects herself. ‘Stalk you.’ She shakes her head. ‘You’re not on Facebook. You’re not anywhere.’
‘I called you,’ he says. ‘Several times. You never answered.’
‘I was still—’ she begins. ‘It wasn’t the right time.’
‘And after?’
She has nothing to say to this. Outside, on the fields, exhausted young lawyers take their lunch breaks in the spring sun.
Gray’s Inn Road
More feet up the stairs, and a couple of attorney-in-training types slide into seats across the way. Seb’s shoulders are still taut, and Clara is still sitting side-on to him, seeming desperate for a way to break down his defences.
‘It was complicated.’
‘I don’t need to know about him.’ A pause. ‘Who was he?’
‘An actor,’ she says. ‘Another actor.’
‘You have a type.’
