Romeo's Tune (1990) by Mark Timlin Page B

this OK by the way?’ She held up the bottle so that I could see the label.
    ‘Terrific,’ I said.
    Suddenly I got cold feet and hoped she wasn’t a cop groupie. I’ve met lots in my time and dislike them as a species. Most can only come with a truncheon between their legs. If Josephine was one I was going to be bitterly disappointed.
    ‘You’re not a cop groupie are you?’ I asked.
    She laughed out loud. ‘Are you kidding?’
    ‘Then why the sudden change of attitude?’
    ‘Why not? I can change my mind can’t I? I liked your voice on the phone, whatever.’ She caught my look. ‘No, really. You were kind to me the other day and I was ungrateful. Then you called up and half-way through I realised that I was acting like a princess, and I decided that I’d like to talk to someone. And that someone was you. Is that fair?’
    ‘Fair,’ I said.
    ‘So let’s have a drink.’
    She went off to get some glasses and I checked out the tapes. There were all sorts. Wagner, Vivaldi, Bach, Foreigner, Madonna, Ray Charles, the MJQ, REM and The Cramps. When she came back I asked, ‘Do you really like The Cramps?’
    ‘Sure,’ she replied.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because they get down,’ she said drily.
    She poured the wine and we drank. It was cold and delicious. The TV was playing a rock video with the sound turned all the way down. I recognised Peter Gabriel and I was glad it was silent running.
    We sat down on the sofa, one by each arm, like book-ends and I asked her how she was settling down in London.
    ‘Just fine,’ she said, ‘sitting in on some classes, getting started on research for a paper.’
    ‘How long are you over here for?’
    ‘A year.’
    ‘Where did you go to college in the States?’
    ‘New York.’
    ‘And why here now?’ I asked.
    She seemed reticent. ‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell you some time.’
    ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ I said, and changed the subject. I asked her what she wanted to do that evening and she opted for dinner. She wanted Indian food so I took her to a place I know in Gypsy Hill that does a mean tandoori duck.
    At first we just chatted, swapping information. But somehow for the last half of the meal and the coffee and the drive back to her place and more coffee in her living-room, listening to her new tapes, we talked about me.
    I told her a lot, but not everything. I didn’t think she was ready for everything, and nor was I, so I glossed over a lot. She didn’t pry and I didn’t mind talking. But by two a.m. I was about talked out and I told her so.
    ‘You must be bored,’ I said.
    ‘Not in the least,’ she replied. ‘I’ve really enjoyed myself tonight. I haven’t been anywhere since I got here.’
    ‘No handsome students asked you out?’
    ‘Don’t be coy, Nick,’ she teased.
    ‘Shall we do it again?’ I asked.
    ‘Certainly.’
    ‘I’ll call you,’ I said.
    ‘That reminds me,’ she said, ‘How did you get my number in the first place?’
    ‘Copper’s trick.’ I explained. ‘I just memorized it off the dial. It’s a good idea to remove the number or cover it up, or else anyone who comes in can get your number and use it.’
    She pulled a face in my direction. ‘I’ll remember that.’
    ‘Are you mad at me?’ I asked, putting on my most innocent look.
    ‘No,’ she said, then bounced up and kissed me briefly on the cheek. I went out into the frosty night air and on the way back home I smiled that dopey smile again.

11

    W hen I checked into the office the next morning Cat was a proud mother. I could hardly believe it. I’d got her to the vet’s in the nick of time.
    She sat in her nest of paper with a bunch of little bodies sucking busily at her nipples. I didn’t know quite what to expect from my old sparring partner, but when I hunkered down by her basket for a closer look she raised her head for me to stroke her torn ear.
    ‘Good girl,’ I said aloud, then went and sat in my chair and looked at my new family. As the kittens