‘No idea. Just someone who thinks he knows me. What about an Irish coffee, it’s cold enough?’

‘Oh I—’ (She knew the man, who was he?)

‘I’ll treat you. Maeve,’ Laura caught a passing waitress by the skirt, ‘two Irish coffees, please.’

‘Okay,’ said the girl, snatching away her skirt. ‘No need to grab.’

Laura put a hand up to loosen the neck of her jersey. ‘Lovely and warm in here, isn’t it?’ She looked about at the people coming in from the street; tables were filling up, but nobody challenged her right to the table for four.

‘I was awfully pleased to meet you properly last night,’ said Claud. ‘I watched you. I wanted to get to know you the moment I saw you.’

‘Oh?’ Laura felt she must pay attention.

‘You are so—er-colourful, nobody could fail to notice you.’ Indeed in her orange skirt, black high-necked sweater and Cossack hat Laura was striking. Claud leaned towards her.

The waitress stretched across the table from behind Claud to place a mug of coffee laced with whiskey in front of Laura. Her bare arm brushed Claud’s nose; he could smell her flesh, quite separate from the coffee; he jerked his head back as she set a second mug in front of him. ‘Croissants,’ she asked, ‘or rolls?’

‘Have some croissants,’ suggested Laura. ‘I shall.’

‘Oh, thanks. Wonderful.’ Claud, realising that he was hungry, salivated.

‘Butter? Cherry jam?’ enquired the waitress.

‘Yes, please,’ said Laura. ‘You had got as far as colourful. That’s a bit better than sidelong—’

‘Oh, I, ah—’ Claud was undecided. ‘Er—’

‘I love hearing about myself.’ Laura sipped her coffee.

Claud watched her lips pout towards the mug. He liked the sharpness of her nose, her high cheek bones, extraordinarily bright eyes. ‘The whites of your eyes are as brilliant as a child’s,’ he said.

‘It’s all the garlic I eat. Go on.’

‘Your colouring is dramatic. Your-er-high colour, black hair and eyebrows, and the splendid colours you wear—’

The waitress, returning, thumped a plate of croissants, two tiny dishes of butter and two equally minuscule portions of jam onto the table.

‘More, Maeve, more,’ said Laura, without distracting her gaze from Claud.

‘I have switched back to Mavis,’ said the waitress. ‘I am sick of the Irish shooting each other all the time. I disassociate myself from that tragic country; the Welsh are more reliable and harmonious.’

‘Okay, Mavis, I’ll try and remember,’ said Laura. ‘It’s all the same to me. I happen to know you were born in Plymouth. Have you a manuscript one could look at?’ She darted bright eyes at Claud.

Claud made a protective gesture, hands against chest.

‘You will have to learn to accept criticism,’ Laura grinned. ‘You can’t be pregnant for ever; somebody has to look at your baby.’

‘My mother almost did; she was trying to tidy my room.’

‘Tut! Still living at home?’ Laura frowned.