A Fool's Alphabet by Sebastian Faulks

champagne as well.’
    â€˜This is not a time for dancing,’ I said, looking across at the two girls on the sofa. I had meant to show my contempt for them all, but the man seemed to think I was indicating that it was only the girls’ presence that was a problem.
    â€˜I can get rid of them,’ he hissed.
    â€˜Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said. ‘Now please be quiet, all of you, or I shall call the police. I think you had all better go and let Wilfred get some sleep. Come on, now. All of you!’
    The two girls, rather to my surprise, stood up and gathered their bags and coats.
    The man stood closer to me. ‘Don’t change from your man’s clothes. You look beautiful,’ he said.
    I suppose he must have been very drunk to have spoken like that, and yet he seemed quite calm. At that moment Wilfred reappeared from the bathroom. He was sweating a little on the upper lip, but looked better than before.
    â€˜We’re leaving, Wilfred,’ said the other man. ‘Thank you for your hospitality.’ The girls went past me and he took my hand again in the doorway. Then I did something which I still don’t understand. I said: ‘My name is Hannah van Duren.’ I was on the verge of saying ‘You can come and see me’, but I could tell from his eyes that he understood. He kissed my hand, and began to go unevenly down the stairs, two or three at a time.
    I heard his voice coming up the stairwell. ‘And be wearing your tweed suit,’ he was calling, ‘and your bow tie.’
    The next day I felt ashamed of myself. I’d never behaved like that before towards a man. But not that ashamed. After all, I’d only told him my name. During the morning I stayed indoors with my uncle, hoping he would call. The telephone was silent. About midday there was a ring at the door, but it was only the postman.
    After lunch I had to go out and do some shopping. I got the caretaker’s daughter to come and sit in our flat while I was out. I went to the market and then to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription for my uncle. All the time I was turning over the events of the night before in my mind. My boyfriend had left Antwerp for a job in Paris about a year before. I was glad. We had begun to irritate each other. Although he was a kind man, and of course I was fond ofhim, I no longer felt passionate about him. He was confused by me in return. I think he was secretly pleased that we now just kept in touch by letter. He told me I was staid and middle-aged, but I wasn’t. The truth was that I no longer found him romantic.
    I hurried around the shops and I don’t know what I bought. I got it all wrong, as far as I remember, so it was difficult to cook dinner that night. I’d bought prawns to go with beef, or something like that. I was excited. Do you know Ghent? It’s a boring place. Bourgeois. The word could have been made for it. Not like Antwerp, which I like. But that afternoon I thought it looked magical, it was quite different. You know how it is when you see things suddenly in a different light, in a new light, as though you were a traveller who has just arrived.
    I didn’t stop to ask myself why I was so excited, or what it was about this man – a man whom I’d in any case only seen for a few minutes. Maybe it was just that physical thing. You can never underestimate that – though it felt like something much more. I wanted to take his head in my hands and hold his poor ragged hair against my chest. But I didn’t feel sorry for him. Well, a little bit maybe. I felt more in awe of him, really.
    When I got back to the block I hurried through the hall because I didn’t want to be detained by the caretaker who always wanted to talk for hours. But it was no use: he was waiting beside the lift with his horrible dog. ‘There’s some flowers for you,’ he said, in a way that was supposed to make me feel guilty. But I