sitting on a bench in the square opposite the entrance to May and Co., watching as people left and walked to local cafés and restaurants. She didn't know why, but she just wanted to get another look at Sophie, one where she wasn't on the back foot, where she was in a relaxed and familiar environment. She felt like Jeff Corwin camped out by a crocodile's watery home. She just wanted to study the subject in her own habitat.
* * *
She was getting bored and starting to freeze when, at four minutes past one, she saw Sophie coming out the front door of May and Co. White coat, brown boots, umbrella. She stood up, then sat down again, then stood and followed from a distance. She could see that Sophie had gone into Eat, so she went in, too, and poked around halfheartedly in the sandwich section. Sophie was already at the counter, ordering soup, so Helen grabbed a chicken wrap and got into the queue behind her. She suddenly saw what it must be like to be a bloke, always expected to make the first move on a girl. She had an overwhelming urge to speak to her and tried to think of an opening line.
"Nice day"—too banal.
"Is the soup here good?"—only required a one-word answer and anyway, what kind of a freak had never tried the soup at Eat before?
"Do you work round here?"—too creepy, lesbian stalker not being the image she was going for.
"Do you know the way to the nearest tube station?" Perfect. Not exactly a conversation launcher, but it'd have to do.
Sophie was collecting her change, turning around to go toward the door.
"Excuse me, do you know the way to the nearest tube station?" Helen was saying, but Sophie had already moved out of earshot and was heading out into the street. Helen thought of running after her and tapping her on the shoulder, but the man behind the counter had started to answer her question and she was obliged to stay and listen to directions that she had no need of, in order not to be rude. When she finally got outside, Sophie had long gone.
Thank God.
What was she thinking? Now that the moment was over, she went pale thinking of what might have happened. "Where's the underground?" and then what? "Oh, by the way, I thought I'd just mention it, I'm the woman your husband has left you for. Must rush. Nice to meet you. Bye." What was the best that could have happened? That Sophie would have given her directions that she didn't want? She made her way back to the office dejected, trying to figure out what was going on. She was trying to decide whether to call Rachel and confess her weird stalking trip when she was intercepted by Annie.
"Guess what," she was saying, eyes blazing with the excitement of having a hot piece of gossip to impart. "Amelia from Human Resources spoke to Matthew's wife this morning and she told her that Matthew has gone off with someone else and not only that—it's someone he met through work. And…"—there was a big dramatic pause while Helen held her breath and waited for the worst—"…her name's Helen."
Annie lived to be the imparter of stories. That wasn't to say she was a wit who loved to entertain. There was no art in her tale-telling; she just wanted to be the center of attention. It was a miracle that she had never even caught the scent of Helen and Matthew, but she was one of those blond-haired, big-breasted women who, Helen knew—despite having a face that looked like Play-Doh, a squashy baby's face that probably looked cute when she was twenty but now was more puffy Pound Puppy—believed she possessed the only two qualities of interest to a man. It had never occurred to her that anybody could find a brunette or a redhead attractive, and if they were smaller than a 36C, forget it. Helen realized it was a defense mechanism, of course. Annie knew that Helen was pretty—way prettier now, even as she was approaching forty, than she herself had ever been—but she comforted herself that it was a prettiness no man would ever be excited by.
Helen decided the best
* * *
She was getting bored and starting to freeze when, at four minutes past one, she saw Sophie coming out the front door of May and Co. White coat, brown boots, umbrella. She stood up, then sat down again, then stood and followed from a distance. She could see that Sophie had gone into Eat, so she went in, too, and poked around halfheartedly in the sandwich section. Sophie was already at the counter, ordering soup, so Helen grabbed a chicken wrap and got into the queue behind her. She suddenly saw what it must be like to be a bloke, always expected to make the first move on a girl. She had an overwhelming urge to speak to her and tried to think of an opening line.
"Nice day"—too banal.
"Is the soup here good?"—only required a one-word answer and anyway, what kind of a freak had never tried the soup at Eat before?
"Do you work round here?"—too creepy, lesbian stalker not being the image she was going for.
"Do you know the way to the nearest tube station?" Perfect. Not exactly a conversation launcher, but it'd have to do.
Sophie was collecting her change, turning around to go toward the door.
"Excuse me, do you know the way to the nearest tube station?" Helen was saying, but Sophie had already moved out of earshot and was heading out into the street. Helen thought of running after her and tapping her on the shoulder, but the man behind the counter had started to answer her question and she was obliged to stay and listen to directions that she had no need of, in order not to be rude. When she finally got outside, Sophie had long gone.
Thank God.
What was she thinking? Now that the moment was over, she went pale thinking of what might have happened. "Where's the underground?" and then what? "Oh, by the way, I thought I'd just mention it, I'm the woman your husband has left you for. Must rush. Nice to meet you. Bye." What was the best that could have happened? That Sophie would have given her directions that she didn't want? She made her way back to the office dejected, trying to figure out what was going on. She was trying to decide whether to call Rachel and confess her weird stalking trip when she was intercepted by Annie.
"Guess what," she was saying, eyes blazing with the excitement of having a hot piece of gossip to impart. "Amelia from Human Resources spoke to Matthew's wife this morning and she told her that Matthew has gone off with someone else and not only that—it's someone he met through work. And…"—there was a big dramatic pause while Helen held her breath and waited for the worst—"…her name's Helen."
Annie lived to be the imparter of stories. That wasn't to say she was a wit who loved to entertain. There was no art in her tale-telling; she just wanted to be the center of attention. It was a miracle that she had never even caught the scent of Helen and Matthew, but she was one of those blond-haired, big-breasted women who, Helen knew—despite having a face that looked like Play-Doh, a squashy baby's face that probably looked cute when she was twenty but now was more puffy Pound Puppy—believed she possessed the only two qualities of interest to a man. It had never occurred to her that anybody could find a brunette or a redhead attractive, and if they were smaller than a 36C, forget it. Helen realized it was a defense mechanism, of course. Annie knew that Helen was pretty—way prettier now, even as she was approaching forty, than she herself had ever been—but she comforted herself that it was a prettiness no man would ever be excited by.
Helen decided the best
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