I thought my wish would come true. But in the days following our walk Sabine was increasingly aloof. She didn’t take her earphones out when we talked and responded to my questions with the briefest of answers. When she caught me looking at her, she looked away. I raked through the day at Valentines, trying to work out what I’d done. Finding nothing, I became sure that she saw how hungry I was to know her, to know about her, to be close.

In the local library one rainy lunch break, I came across a leaflet on the park. It contained all the information Sabine had told me. But libraries were often the haunts of old men. The priest had probably come here and read it; he’d passed the information on to Sabine who’d passed it to me. The other possibility was that there was no old priest. But there was no reason for me to choose that explanation.

In early December, I found a book still in its bag on my desk: The Healing Energies of Trees by Patrice Bouchardon. When I asked Sabine about it, she said she’d liked it and thought I would too. I wasn’t sure what the gift meant. Was it my turn to make another move? Or was it the closing seal on our friendship? Ending relationships, I’d always paid for the last meal, or parted ways after I’d given a gift rather than vice versa. I didn’t want any chance that the other person could feel used.

Although this was a friendship, I imagined Sabine was doing similarly. Her gift was about saying no nicely. Hurt, I left the book at the back of my work drawer. Reining in my glances, I tried to look forward to the Christmas holidays in Scotland.

7

The day before Graham and I left for his sister’s place in Inverness was the day of the Christmas do. Ordinarily I avoided work drinks, but since the Christmas ones started during office hours, they were pretty much obligatory. I found myself hemmed in at a trestle table with colleagues I hardly knew. Wondering how long I’d have to stay, I heard, “And Sabine’s off to do nightshifts at London Bridge.”

“Sabine Dubreil?” I asked.

“Yes,” said the matronly woman to my right.

“She’s only been here four months!”

“I know, it’s a shame,” said the woman.

“Got to move on for the CV,” said the ex-army head of finance.

“How will nightshifts be good for her CV?”

The hot guy from IT shrugged. “Different job, innit?”

While he doled out generous refills of Sauvignon from the bottles on the table, I scanned the pub crowd. Sabine’s lime rucksack was easy to spot; she was the only woman in a group of men by the bar. After draining my glass, I excused myself.