The Rendezvous by Evelyn Anthony

A museum, a theatre. I have a wonderful design, quite revolutionary, for a theatre. One day I’ll do it.’ He smiled, and she thought how good-looking he was; the eyes were so blue, and she had never seen him smile with them before. ‘You must find all this very boring,’ he said. ‘I’m being selfish and talking all the time about myself and my work.’
    â€˜I like it,’ she said. ‘It’s very interesting. Did you always want to be an architect?’
    He lit a cigarette and gave one to her. They had ordered coffee. ‘No, not always. My family wanted me to be a soldier. When they died I went to the Argentine and studied. I liked the idea of South America – Europe was just recovering from the war, there wasn’t much time for new ideas. People were rebuilding on ruins, now they’re beginning to design as well as build.’
    â€˜Would you ever go back?’ she asked.
    â€˜No. There’s nothing for me there. I have no family alive.’
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ Terese said. ‘Don’t you mind being alone?’
    â€˜I’ve got used to it. But I don’t like it, in many ways.’
    â€˜You’ve got Julia, though. I mean, I know about it. I hope you’re not annoyed with me for saying it.’
    â€˜It’s common knowledge. We live together. But I’m still alone.’
    Terese put out her cigarette. ‘Then you can’t be in love with her.’
    â€˜I have never said I was.’ He was watching her so intently, it was disturbing, like the sudden anger when they were discussing Vera Kaplan’s rudeness the other night. It was like a door that opened, a shutter that flipped up, and then was quickly closed again.
    â€˜Do you realise something,’ he said. ‘You’re the first woman I’ve been with in six years who didn’t talk about herself all the time? You haven’t told me about your husband, your sex life, your doctor, or the secrets of your best friend. Will you let me take you out again?’
    â€˜Do you want me to talk about those things, then?’ she asked him.
    â€˜No. But I want you to tell me why you said you were strange the other night. I haven’t forgotten, you see.’
    She put one hand to her forehead; it was the right one and the tiny scars showed up against the skin.
    â€˜I’ve lost my memory. That’s what I meant by being strange. I know who I am and all the necessary details – I can fill out my own passport, but I can’t remember any of it. I had some kind of accident in the war – it’s no good,’ she looked up at him, ‘I can’t go any further than that, and I’d rather not try, if you don’t mind. But people know about it, and it makes me feel odd. A freak. And this is not the kind of society that likes freaks.’
    â€˜It ought to,’ he said. ‘It’s full of them. They’re the most neurotic, undisciplined people in the world. Give me your hand.’
    She held it out to him across the table. The other couples had gone and a bored waiter leant against the farthest wall, watching them and waiting for some sign that they were going to go.
    He put both his hands over hers, covering it completely. She felt an impulse of sensuality that went up like a flare inside her. There were blond hairs on the back of his wrists; his hands were strong and not oversensitive, not too artistic. Her own was hidden between them and his fingers touched her wrist.
    â€˜It’s late,’ she said. ‘I know it’s late. I must go home.’
    They sat side by side in his car and they didn’t speak until he had come to the last intersection before her apartment block.
    â€˜When will I see you again?’
    â€˜I don’t know.’ She looked up at him, and the look was there again, the fear of herself, the unspoken appeal to him not to press her too hard. He had seen it in the Avenue Foch