ARE YOU SURE?

The roads were more or less deserted; Vienna was getting on with things, without bothering about her. She could see Cafe Jonathan ahead.

She had been to the cafe once before, with Tanja. Cosy and warmly lit, it seemed to her the perfect place for the rendezvous she had planned. You felt at ease there; it was busy but not bursting, loud enough to prevent eavesdropping, but not so loud that you had to shout across the tables. As Norah walked in, she looked about her to see if anyone stared at her or reacted to her in any way, but apart from two men drinking beer at the bar, who gave her the once-over, she noticed nothing. Certainly, neither of the men—young, well-dressed, dull and attractive—was the person she was here to meet; Norah was sure she was looking for a woman. She found a table tucked away in a corner near the door and sat down on a chair that gave her a good view of whoever came in.

She ordered a glass of wine and waited.

It wasn’t long before the door opened. Norah froze, but immediately relaxed again when she saw a small group come into the cafe—presumably students. A glance at her watch told her that it was just gone ten. She sipped her wine and wondered how she would recognise the woman she’d been texting. She had no answer to the question, but felt sure that her instinct would guide her. A couple paid at the bar and left. Before the door had closed behind them, a tall red-haired woman walked in—late twenties, Norah guessed. Her eye caught Norah’s for a second, as she scanned the cafe—then she turned away and sat down at the bar. No, Norah thought, sipping her wine, that wasn’t her. Too conspicuous. And too young.

Norah kept her eye firmly on the door. Through the buzz of voices, she heard the red-haired woman order a gin and tonic and begin to flirt with the two young upstarts next to her.

Two hours later, Norah called a taxi and went home. Given that she hadn’t really expected the woman to turn up, she felt unduly disappointed.

49

Norah slept a kind of hospital sleep—the fitful half-sleep you drift in and out of at the bedside of someone who is gravely ill. She remembered dozing like this, without ever feeling rested, in the weeks before her mother died.

Now she was lying on the sofa, staring into the semi-darkness of her flat. Every now and then the headlights of a passing car threw small illuminated artworks onto the living-room wall. Norah groped for her phone, squinting when the screen lit up in her face. She didn’t hold out much hope of a message. She’d checked so many times already it seemed unlikely there’d be anything this time.

There wasn’t. Norah made sure that the text-message tone was activated and put the phone back down, then dozed off again. When she woke, the light in the room had changed. She tried to heave herself up, but had been lying on her right arm for so long that it gave way beneath her when she tried to lean on it. How long had she been asleep? Two hours, according to her phone. Better than nothing. Norah massaged her arm and checked for messages. She must have slept deeply; she hadn’t heard a thing, but there in her inbox was the text she’d been waiting for when she dropped off.