to see her, to apologize once again for giving her such a fright when I didn’t answer my phone on the day of the Hampstead rape. I’ve been scouring the Internet
for any more news of the assault, but there is none. I wonder if the woman is OK, whether there is an investigation into the incident and who is running it. I also think that I can’t stay
away from the Heath forever. I miss it.
I arrange to meet Bell in YumYum in Stoke Newington, the best Thai restaurant outside South-East Asia, some Stokie locals say. True, the food is rather good and the atmosphere appropriately
exotic. When I arrive, Bell is already there, sitting barefoot Asian style on the floor by a low table. I plonk myself down opposite her, grateful she’s already ordered passion fruit mojitos
for both of us.
‘Just caught the end of happy hour,’ she says proudly.
‘Well done, you should’ve ordered two each.’
‘Things that bad at work?’
I make a face and take a big gulp of my mojito. It tastes divine.
‘Look, I’m sorry I overreacted the other day about the Heath thing. For one crazy moment I thought it might be you . . .’ Bell shakes her head.
‘No, don’t be silly, it should be me apologizing for not answering your calls. I do appreciate you were worried about me.’
‘Well, that’s what good friends are for.’ She clinks my glass. ‘You haven’t bumped into your Heath guy lately?’
‘Nah, haven’t been out jogging for a week. I can feel the fab already building up.’ I pat my stomach, hoping she’ll drop the subject. Luckily a waitress appears to take
our order.
‘How is your Moscow girl?’
‘Good, really good.’ Bell beams at me happily. Oh God, I think, she’s fallen for it again. And, as if on cue, she says what I’ve been dreading to hear. ‘Actually,
I’ve been thinking I might go and see her.’
‘In Idaho?’
‘No, we’ve been talking about meeting up in Vancouver. It’s only a stone’s throw for her and I’ve always wanted to go there.’
‘Vancouver sounds lovely,’ I say, carefully avoiding mentioning her virtual girlfriend.
‘Vancouver is lovely,’ she says, sounding hurt. ‘But I’m talking to my best friend, not TripAdvisor. You haven’t even asked me what her name is.’
‘What is her name?’ I don’t want yet another argument on the subject of Bell’s girlfriends.
‘It doesn’t matter. You think it’s all nonsense, don’t you?’
‘No, Bell, I don’t. I’m happy for you. I just don’t want you to get hurt again. You don’t even know her.’
‘But I do. I’ve spent more hours chatting to her in a week than an average couple spends talking to each other in a year. That’s what long-distance relationships are about.
Talking and listening. When was the last time you really listened to one of your boyfriends?’
Careful, I think, let’s not get provoked into a full-blown row. The waitress saves the day again, bringing our food. We tuck in to our Thai green curry with king prawns and lemongrass
chicken, savouring the subtle combination of spices, sweetness and salt, our girlfriend/boyfriend tiff forgotten for the rest of the evening. I know the subject will surface again, but I’m
relieved it’s not going to happen tonight. And I’m glad Bell has let the subject of ‘the Heath guy’ drop so easily.
But I can’t stop thinking about it. Having dropped Bell off at her place, I drive home, allowing myself to form the question I’ve been avoiding for a week. Could
the Dior Man, despite my conviction to the contrary, based mostly on the colour of his track bottoms, be the rapist? Could he be the man who attacked a young woman who was jogging on the Heath one
unlucky morning? Was it him? Should I be going to the police, I ask myself, as I crawl in traffic along ever-congested Green Lanes, watching men standing in front of Turkish kebab shops. No, it
can’t be him. He doesn’t look Mediterranean and, according to the police description, the
for any more news of the assault, but there is none. I wonder if the woman is OK, whether there is an investigation into the incident and who is running it. I also think that I can’t stay
away from the Heath forever. I miss it.
I arrange to meet Bell in YumYum in Stoke Newington, the best Thai restaurant outside South-East Asia, some Stokie locals say. True, the food is rather good and the atmosphere appropriately
exotic. When I arrive, Bell is already there, sitting barefoot Asian style on the floor by a low table. I plonk myself down opposite her, grateful she’s already ordered passion fruit mojitos
for both of us.
‘Just caught the end of happy hour,’ she says proudly.
‘Well done, you should’ve ordered two each.’
‘Things that bad at work?’
I make a face and take a big gulp of my mojito. It tastes divine.
‘Look, I’m sorry I overreacted the other day about the Heath thing. For one crazy moment I thought it might be you . . .’ Bell shakes her head.
‘No, don’t be silly, it should be me apologizing for not answering your calls. I do appreciate you were worried about me.’
‘Well, that’s what good friends are for.’ She clinks my glass. ‘You haven’t bumped into your Heath guy lately?’
‘Nah, haven’t been out jogging for a week. I can feel the fab already building up.’ I pat my stomach, hoping she’ll drop the subject. Luckily a waitress appears to take
our order.
‘How is your Moscow girl?’
‘Good, really good.’ Bell beams at me happily. Oh God, I think, she’s fallen for it again. And, as if on cue, she says what I’ve been dreading to hear. ‘Actually,
I’ve been thinking I might go and see her.’
‘In Idaho?’
‘No, we’ve been talking about meeting up in Vancouver. It’s only a stone’s throw for her and I’ve always wanted to go there.’
‘Vancouver sounds lovely,’ I say, carefully avoiding mentioning her virtual girlfriend.
‘Vancouver is lovely,’ she says, sounding hurt. ‘But I’m talking to my best friend, not TripAdvisor. You haven’t even asked me what her name is.’
‘What is her name?’ I don’t want yet another argument on the subject of Bell’s girlfriends.
‘It doesn’t matter. You think it’s all nonsense, don’t you?’
‘No, Bell, I don’t. I’m happy for you. I just don’t want you to get hurt again. You don’t even know her.’
‘But I do. I’ve spent more hours chatting to her in a week than an average couple spends talking to each other in a year. That’s what long-distance relationships are about.
Talking and listening. When was the last time you really listened to one of your boyfriends?’
Careful, I think, let’s not get provoked into a full-blown row. The waitress saves the day again, bringing our food. We tuck in to our Thai green curry with king prawns and lemongrass
chicken, savouring the subtle combination of spices, sweetness and salt, our girlfriend/boyfriend tiff forgotten for the rest of the evening. I know the subject will surface again, but I’m
relieved it’s not going to happen tonight. And I’m glad Bell has let the subject of ‘the Heath guy’ drop so easily.
But I can’t stop thinking about it. Having dropped Bell off at her place, I drive home, allowing myself to form the question I’ve been avoiding for a week. Could
the Dior Man, despite my conviction to the contrary, based mostly on the colour of his track bottoms, be the rapist? Could he be the man who attacked a young woman who was jogging on the Heath one
unlucky morning? Was it him? Should I be going to the police, I ask myself, as I crawl in traffic along ever-congested Green Lanes, watching men standing in front of Turkish kebab shops. No, it
can’t be him. He doesn’t look Mediterranean and, according to the police description, the
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