I’d insisted that we meet outside the post office, fearing the reaction of my coworkers were we to be observed leaving work together.
It was a mild, pleasant evening, so we decided to walk to hospital, which would take only twenty minutes.
Raymond was certainly in need of the exercise. “How was your day, Eleanor?” he said, smoking as we walked.
I changed sides, trying to position myself downwind of the noxious toxins.
Fine, thank you. I had a cheese-and-pickle sandwich for lunch, with ready-salted crisps and a mango smoothie.
He blew smoke out of the side of his mouth and laughed. “Anything else happen? Or just the sandwich?”
I thought about this. “There was a protracted discussion about Christmas lunch venues,” I said.
“Apparently it’s been narrowed down to TGI Fridays, because ‘it’s a laugh’”—here, I tried out a little finger-waggling gesture indicating quotation marks,
which I’d seen Janey doing once and had stored away for future reference; I think I carried it off with aplomb—
“or else the Bombay Bistro Christmas Buffet.” “Nothing says Christmas like a lamb biryani, eh?” Raymond said.
He stubbed out his cigarette, discarding it on the pavement.
We arrived at the hospital and I waited while Raymond, typically disorganized, went into the shop on the ground floor.
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