but not wishing with quite the same zeal as Jemima, because after all he is a man, and men do not share women’s excitement about clothes. Have we ever heard of a male shopaholic? Exactly.
Ben turns round and stops, about to cross the road, and there, standing exactly opposite him on the other side of the road, is Jemima. Ben looks to his left, Jemima looks to her left. Ben starts to cross as a big truck trundles up then stops, sitting slap-bang in the middle of the road, obstructing the view because the road has become too narrow for the truck to pass down due to the early evening shoppers double-parked.
But Jemima doesn’t cross, because surely then they would meet in the middle. Jemima sees a crêperie stand on her right, and instead of walking into Ben, of whose presence she is unaware, she turns right and walks down to the crêperie.
And so once again they miss one another. But Jemima’s p. 56 being a good girl, she decides against the thick crêpe dripping with butter and oozing chocolate sauce. She heads instead for a café, which, to her delight, is almost empty.
She squeezes into a corner table by the window and orders a cappuccino, then pulls out the first of her books and submerges herself, in comfort this time, in Anna’s world.
Ben, meanwhile, is dying for a drink. He walks past a café and stops, peering in the window to see what it’s like. Nope, he thinks, too empty, I need something busier, buzzier, and of course he is looking too far into the restaurant, well beyond the corner table by the window, the corner table at which Jemima is sitting, head buried, lost in another world.
So close but yet so far, Jemima. I wish we could tell you that Ben Williams is standing but feet away from you, but it’s not our place, I’m afraid. Fate will just have to continue taking its course.
And fate, as usual, is shining on Ben Williams. He crosses the road and walks into a bar that’s more his scene. Large plate-glass windows on to the street, a smooth polished cherrywood bar sweeping round the center of the room, with young, good-looking bartenders chatting idly by the glasses. Small round wooden tables with cast-iron legs and twirly iron chairs contain Hampstead’s better-looking people, and right at the back is a sofa, a couple of old, beaten-up leather armchairs, and a huge fireplace which is not yet roaring, too early in the year for that, but is alight, casting a golden glow on the people sitting near the back.
Ben pushes open the door, immediately assaulted by noise, heat, animated chatter. Yes, he thinks, this is where I’ll have a drink. He goes up to the bartender and orders a bottle of imported beer, then looks around for the most comfortable place to sit, and heads towards the sofa at the back.
He’s slightly out of place in his dark navy suit, but he sinks into the sofa, drapes his jacket along the back, and exhales loudly. Good place, he thinks, looking around. He takes a swig of beer, pulls the book from his pocket and settles back, one p. 57 elbow leaning on the arm of the sofa, his hand resting just above his forehead, pushing his hair back, the other holding the book. The beer rests on the table.
If a photographer from GQ were to walk in now, he would not be able to resist this little tableau. For Ben looks quite amazing, his right ankle resting on his left knee, long legs, well-built body, handsome face. He looks like a set-up, too good to be true, too good for any woman to resist.
So can we blame the tall, slim brunette sitting at one of the tables for taking the initiative? She’s with her two girlfriends, all equally stunning, all dressed in the latest fashions, the clothes that Jemima Jones can only dream of wearing. Hip-hugging trousers with tiny bootleg flares at the bottom. Soft leather boots with square toes and center stitching, tiny little tank tops squeezed over perfect, pert breasts.
The brunette and her friends noticed Ben the moment he walked in. Too much of a suit?
Ben turns round and stops, about to cross the road, and there, standing exactly opposite him on the other side of the road, is Jemima. Ben looks to his left, Jemima looks to her left. Ben starts to cross as a big truck trundles up then stops, sitting slap-bang in the middle of the road, obstructing the view because the road has become too narrow for the truck to pass down due to the early evening shoppers double-parked.
But Jemima doesn’t cross, because surely then they would meet in the middle. Jemima sees a crêperie stand on her right, and instead of walking into Ben, of whose presence she is unaware, she turns right and walks down to the crêperie.
And so once again they miss one another. But Jemima’s p. 56 being a good girl, she decides against the thick crêpe dripping with butter and oozing chocolate sauce. She heads instead for a café, which, to her delight, is almost empty.
She squeezes into a corner table by the window and orders a cappuccino, then pulls out the first of her books and submerges herself, in comfort this time, in Anna’s world.
Ben, meanwhile, is dying for a drink. He walks past a café and stops, peering in the window to see what it’s like. Nope, he thinks, too empty, I need something busier, buzzier, and of course he is looking too far into the restaurant, well beyond the corner table by the window, the corner table at which Jemima is sitting, head buried, lost in another world.
So close but yet so far, Jemima. I wish we could tell you that Ben Williams is standing but feet away from you, but it’s not our place, I’m afraid. Fate will just have to continue taking its course.
And fate, as usual, is shining on Ben Williams. He crosses the road and walks into a bar that’s more his scene. Large plate-glass windows on to the street, a smooth polished cherrywood bar sweeping round the center of the room, with young, good-looking bartenders chatting idly by the glasses. Small round wooden tables with cast-iron legs and twirly iron chairs contain Hampstead’s better-looking people, and right at the back is a sofa, a couple of old, beaten-up leather armchairs, and a huge fireplace which is not yet roaring, too early in the year for that, but is alight, casting a golden glow on the people sitting near the back.
Ben pushes open the door, immediately assaulted by noise, heat, animated chatter. Yes, he thinks, this is where I’ll have a drink. He goes up to the bartender and orders a bottle of imported beer, then looks around for the most comfortable place to sit, and heads towards the sofa at the back.
He’s slightly out of place in his dark navy suit, but he sinks into the sofa, drapes his jacket along the back, and exhales loudly. Good place, he thinks, looking around. He takes a swig of beer, pulls the book from his pocket and settles back, one p. 57 elbow leaning on the arm of the sofa, his hand resting just above his forehead, pushing his hair back, the other holding the book. The beer rests on the table.
If a photographer from GQ were to walk in now, he would not be able to resist this little tableau. For Ben looks quite amazing, his right ankle resting on his left knee, long legs, well-built body, handsome face. He looks like a set-up, too good to be true, too good for any woman to resist.
So can we blame the tall, slim brunette sitting at one of the tables for taking the initiative? She’s with her two girlfriends, all equally stunning, all dressed in the latest fashions, the clothes that Jemima Jones can only dream of wearing. Hip-hugging trousers with tiny bootleg flares at the bottom. Soft leather boots with square toes and center stitching, tiny little tank tops squeezed over perfect, pert breasts.
The brunette and her friends noticed Ben the moment he walked in. Too much of a suit?
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