Constance

‘Where are you from? Are you Russian?’

She looked levelly at him. ‘I am from Uzbekistan.’

‘Are you? Uh, I don’t think I even know where that is.’ He sighed inwardly. That’s right, go on, let her know you’re thick as well as a prat.

‘It is in Central Asia. We have been independent country since 1991. Our capital is Tashkent. We have borders with Afghanistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and Turkmenistan.’

Noah raised an eyebrow. ‘Thank you. Now I do know. What brings you to England? Are you a student? Your English is really good.’

‘Thank you very much. I’m not a student. I’m working here, I would like to stay. It’s better for me.’

‘What do you do?’

Roxana paused. ‘I am a dancer.’

Yes, she had the body for it. And that explained the studied poise of her head on the long, pale column of her neck. Noah found that he didn’t want to speculate too hard, not here and now, anyway, on the look of her in – what were those things dancers wore? Leotards.

‘Ballet?’ She was a bit too tall for that, though.

‘No. Not ballet. Modern.’ She nodded towards the yellow bicycle. ‘I have only just been for, um, a test?’

‘Audition?’

‘Yes. I have the job, they tell me there and then.’ She did smile now and Noah blinked.

‘Congratulations.’

‘Thank you. And I should of course ask now about your job but I have to go soon. It’s not my bicycle, I have only borrowed it to come to the place over there for my audition.’ She nodded across in the approximate direction of St Paul’s. ‘But in London for two weeks I haven’t yet been to see the river Thames, so I came for one hour.’

She pronounced it with a soft th, to rhyme with James.

Noah’s stomach did something that he associated with a lift dropping very fast. Jesus, he thought. What’s happening? Can you fall in love with someone after ten minutes, just because she says Thames instead of Tems?

‘What is your job?’ she asked softly.

‘I work in IT. For a small publishing company.’

‘Near to here?’

‘In the West End. I’ve just been visiting my mother, in the hospital. She’s had an operation. She’s got cancer.’

Roxana didn’t react in the usual way. Her face didn’t contract with distress or sympathy and there was no rush of consoling words, although Noah realised a second later that this was what he had been looking for. Instead she just nodded, quite matter-of-fact.

‘Will she recover?’

‘Oh yes, I think so.’

‘That’s good.’

He might have concluded that she was unusually detached. Most people, in his experience, when you told them your mother had cancer, were concerned for you and her, even though they might never have met her. There was a look about Roxana, though, that told him she wasn’t unconcerned. He noted the way her incredible mouth drew in at the corners and her neck bent a little, as if it were made of soft wax. He thought she might have heard a lot of stories that were sadder than the illness of a stranger’s mother.

Their glasses were empty. ‘I have to go, really,’ she said.

He said too quickly, ‘No time for one more drink?’

‘No. Thank you for this one.’

They both stood up, awkwardly negotiating the edges of the table. Roxana twisted the handlebars of the yellow bike and prepared to wheel it away.

‘Which way are you going?’ Noah asked. He was thinking, Do you have to sound so desperate, you sad bugger?

‘Over there. There is a small bridge.’

‘Oh yeah, that’s the Millennium Bridge. Known as the Wobbly Bridge, usually. I’ll walk that far with you.’

They wove through the crowds together. Noah heard himself giving an overlong and over-animated explanation of why the footbridge had acquired its nickname. She might perhaps have been half-listening, but she was also frowning and biting the corner of her lip. She was anxious to get away, probably to return the borrowed bike to its owner. He wasn’t usually quite this hopeless with women. What was it about this one?

They were crossing the bridge. Streams of people poured past them, which meant she had to keep dodging and breaking away from him.

‘Would you, um, like to meet up again? As you don’t know London, maybe we could, ah, go on a riverboat.’ A big white one was passing directly underneath. Roxana briefly glanced at it. ‘Or do something. See a film? Or I could come and see you dance.’

‘No.’ She said that very quickly, and in a firm voice that meant absolutely not.

At the far end of the bridge she bent her head and pushed the bike up the steps, leaning into the job. She looked tired now, and – what? Forlorn. That was it.

‘I do have to go.’ She gestured at the handlebars. ‘There will be trouble.’

‘Can I have your phone number?’

‘I don’t have any phone. Not at the moment.’

‘Roxana, I’d like to see you again. Is that all right? Won’t you tell me where you live?’

She looked away, in the direction she would be heading as soon as she could get away from him, and Noah knew that she was concealing something.

‘I will have a place. In a few days.’

You’re getting nowhere, mate, Noah decided. Can’t you take a hint? She’s probably got a huge Uzbek boyfriend stashed away somewhere.

‘Well. I enjoyed talking to you.’

Roxana made to get on the bike, then stopped.

‘You have a telephone?’

‘Sure. Yes, of course.’ He took a work card out of his wallet and scribbled his mobile number on the back. ‘Call me.’

‘Okay. Goodbye, Noah.’