'You can't stay here in the rain.'
'Yes I can. Some of us live in the real world, you know.'
I turn away and pretend to be studying a poster about AIDS. The next moment Jack has arrived in the bus shelter. He sits down in the little seat next to mine and for a while we're both silent.
'I know I was terrible company this evening,' he says eventually. 'And I'm sorry. I'm also sorry I can't tell you anything about it. But my life is … complicated. And some bits of it are very delicate. Do you understand?'
No, I want to say. No, I don't understand, when I've told you every single little thing about me.
'I suppose,' I say, with a tiny shrug.
The rain is beating down even harder, thundering on the roof of the shelter and creeping into my — Jemima's — silver sandals. God, I hope it won't stain them.
'I'm sorry the evening was a disappointment to you,' says Jack, lifting his voice above the noise.
'It wasn't,' I say, suddenly feeling bad. 'I just … I had such high hopes! I wanted to get to know you a bit, and I wanted to have fun … and for us to laugh … and I wanted one of those pink cocktails, not champagne …'
Shit. Shit. That slipped out before I could stop it.
'But … you like champagne!' says Jack, looking stunned. 'You told me. Your perfect date would start off with champagne.'
I can't quite meet his eye.
'Yes, well. I didn't know about the pink cocktails then, did I?'
Jack throws back his head and laughs.
'Fair point. Very fair point. And I didn't even give you a choice, did I?' He shakes his head ruefully. 'You were probably sitting there thinking, damn this guy, can't he tell I want a pink cocktail?'
'No!' I say at once, but my cheeks are turning crimson, and Jack is looking at me with such a comical expression that I want to hug him.
'Oh Emma. I'm sorry.' He shakes his head. 'I wanted to get to know you too. And I wanted to have fun, too. It sounds like we both wanted the same things. And it's my fault we didn't get them.'
'It's not your fault,' I mumble awkwardly.
'This is not the way I planned for things to go.' He looks at me seriously. 'Will you give me another chance?'
A big red double-decker bus rumbles up to the bus stop, and we both look up.
'I've got to go,' I say, standing up. 'This is my bus.'
'Emma, don't be silly. Come in the car.'
'No. I'm going on the bus!'
The automatic doors open, and I step onto the bus. I show my travelcard to the driver and he nods.
'You're seriously considering riding on this thing?' says Jack, stepping on behind me. He peers dubiously at the usual motley collection of night bus riders. 'Is this safe?'
'You sound like my grandpa! Of course it's safe. It goes to the end of my road.'
'Hurry up!' says the driver impatiently to Jack. 'If you haven't got the money, get off.'
'I have American Express,' says Jack, feeling in his pocket.
'You can't pay a bus fare with American Express!' I say, rolling my eyes. 'Don't you know anything? And anyway.' I stare at my travelcard for a few seconds. 'I think I'd rather be on my own, if you don't mind.'
'I see,' says Jack in a different voice. 'I guess I'd better get off,' he says to the driver. Then he looks at me. 'You haven't answered me. Can we try again? Tomorrow night. And this time we'll do whatever you want. You call the shots.'
'OK.' I'm trying to give a noncommittal shrug, but as I meet his eye I find myself smiling, too.
'Eight o'clock again?'
'Eight o'clock. And leave the car behind,' I add firmly. 'We'll do things my way.'
'Great! I look forward to it. Goodnight, Emma.'
'Goodnight.'
As he turns to get off, I climb up the stairs to the top deck of the bus. I head for the front seat, the place I always used to sit when I was a child, and stare out at the dark, rainy, London night. If I stare for long enough, the street lights become blurred like a kaleidoscope. Like fairyland.
Swooshing round my mind are images of the woman in gold, the pink cocktail, Jack's face as I said I was leaving, the waiter bringing me my coat, Jack's car arriving at the bus stop … I can't quite work out what I think. All I can do is sit there, staring out, aware of familiar, comforting sounds around me. The old-fashioned grind and roar of the bus engine. The noise of the doors swishing open and shut. The sharp ring of the request bell. People thumping up the stairs and thumping back down again.
I can feel the bus lurch as we turn corners, but I'm barely aware of where we're going. Until after a while, familiar sights outside start to impinge on my consciousness, and I realize we're nearly at my street. I gather myself, reach for my bag, and totter along to the top of the stairs.
Suddenly the bus makes a sharp swing left, and I grab for a seat handle, trying to steady myself. Why are we turning left? I look out of the window, thinking I'll be really pissed off if I end up having to walk, and blink in astonishment.