Of course leaving now would mean that he would never see her again. He wondered if she would mind, and presumed she would: they usually did. But would he mind? He had managed perfectly well without her for four years. Until last night he had been under the impression that she was called Anna, and yet at the party he hadn’t been able to look away. Why had he not noticed her until now? He examined her face as she slept.
She was pretty, but seemed annoyed by the fact. Her bottled-red hair was almost wilfully badly cut, alone in front of the mirror probably, or by Tilly whatsername, that loud, large girl she shared this flat with. Her skin had a pallid puffiness that spoke of too much time in libraries or drinking pints in pubs, and her spectacles made her seem owlish and prim. Her chin was soft and a little plump, though perhaps that was just puppy-fat (or were ‘plump’ and ‘puppy-fat’ things you weren’t meant to say now? in the same way that you couldn’t tell her she had tremendous breasts, even if it was true, without her getting all offended).
Never mind that, back to her face. There was a slight greasy sheen on the tip of her small, neat nose and a spattering of tiny red spots on her forehead, but these aside there was no denying that her face – well, her face was a wonder. With her eyes closed he found that he couldn’t recall their exact colour, only that they were large and bright and humorous, like the two creases in the corners of her wide mouth, deep parentheses that deepened when she smiled, which seemed to be often. Smooth, pink mottled cheeks, pillows of flesh that looked as if they would be warm to the touch. No lipstick but soft, raspberry-coloured lips that she kept tightly closed when she smiled as if she didn’t want to show her teeth, which were a little large for her mouth, the front tooth slightly chipped, all of this giving the impression that she was holding something back, laughter or a clever remark or a fantastic secret joke.
If he left now he would probably never see this face again, except perhaps at some terrible reunion in ten years’ time. She’d be overweight and disappointed and would complain about him sneaking off without saying goodbye. Best to leave quietly, and no reunions. Move on, look to the future. Plenty more faces out there.
But as he made his decision, her mouth stretched open into a wide smile and without opening her eyes she said:
‘So, what do you reckon, Dex?’
‘About what, Em?’
‘Me and you. Is it love, d’you think?’ and she gave a low laugh, her lips tightly closed.
‘Just go to sleep, will you?’
‘Stop staring up my nose then.’ She opened her eyes, blue and green, bright and shrewd. ‘What’s tomorrow?’ she mumbled.
‘Today you mean?’
‘Today. This bright new day that awaits us.’
‘It’s a Saturday. Saturday all day. St Swithin’s Day as a matter of fact.’
‘What’s that then?’
‘Tradition. If it rains today it’ll rain for the next forty days, or all summer, or something like that.’
She frowned. ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’
‘Not meant to. It’s a superstition.’
‘Raining where? It’s always raining somewhere.’
‘On St Swithin’s grave. He’s buried outside Winchester Cathedral.’
‘How come you know all this?’
‘I went to school there.’
‘Well la-di-da,’ she mumbled into the pillow.
‘“If on St Swithin it doth rain/Something dum-di-dum again.”’
‘That’s a beautiful poem.’
‘Well, I’m paraphrasing.’
She laughed once again, then raised her head sleepily. ‘But Dex?’
‘Em?’
‘If it doesn’t rain today?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘What are you doing later?’
Tell her that you’re busy.
‘Nothing much,’ he said.
‘So shall we do something then? Me and you, I mean?’
Wait ’til she’s asleep then sneak away.
‘Yeah. Alright,’ he said. ‘Let’s do something.’
She allowed her head to drop onto the pillow once more. ‘Brand new day,’ she murmured.
‘Brand new day.’