Absolution

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‘I’m told we met in London, Mr Leroux, but I don’t remember you,’ she says, trying to draw her body upright, making it straight where it refuses to be.

‘That’s right. We did meet. Just briefly, though.’ In fact it wasn’t London but Amsterdam. She remembers an award ceremony in London where I wasn’t. I remember the conference in Amsterdam where I spoke, invited as a promising young expert on her work. She took my hand charmingly then. She was laughing and girlish and a little drunk. I can see no trace of intoxication this time. I’ve never met her in London.

There was the other time, too, of course.

‘Please, call me Sam,’ I say.

‘My editor says nice things about you. I don’t like your looks, though. You look fashionable.’ She draws her lips back on the final syllable, her teeth apart. There’s a flicker of grey tongue.

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ I say, and can’t help blushing.

‘Are you fashionable?’ She spreads her lips again, flashes her teeth. If it’s supposed to be a smile it doesn’t look like one.

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