Chapters (60)
- Cover
- Dedication
- Introduction
- Prologue
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
- Chapter 34
- Chapter 35
- Chapter 36
- Chapter 37
- Chapter 38
- Chapter 39
- Chapter 40
- Chapter 41
- Chapter 42
- Chapter 43
- Chapter 44
- Chapter 45
- Chapter 46
- Chapter 47
- Chapter 48
- Chapter 49
- Chapter 50
- Chapter 51
- Epilogue
- Glossary
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
He nods again. It’s one of those prompting nods, the ones television interviewers give to encourage their interviewees to keep talking. But I’ve given all I’m going to give him. I don’t want to be one of his research cases. So we lapse into silence for a moment.
‘What about work, Lotti?’ he says. I’m not sure he’s really interested. In fact, he’s probably wondering why he bothered having this meeting. What did he expect to find? A buxom, sex-obsessed thirteen-year-old as I was back then, trapped in some sort of time warp?
‘Oh gosh. My work is very boring. I’m not really supposed to talk about it.’
‘Ah!’ he says, knowingly, with a wink. ‘That sort of work. Say no more. My lips are sealed.’
Again, silence is the order of the day. I can see he’s feeling uncomfortable, and wondering what to say. Whether to try to cut everything short. That’s what they often do, my dates. Once they realise I’m not going to be an easy fuck just because I’m a Plain Jane. And not just a Plain Jane – a Plain Jane with a facial deformity. It’s thanks to you fucking British that I look like this, I want to say. But of course I don’t. That would be rude. He’s fiddling with the menu now, turning it over and over.
‘What about something to eat? Are you hungry?’
I realise this is the tipping point. It could go one way or the other. I can back out now, bring it all to an end, we say our goodbyes, and wonder why we’ve bothered to spoil what was probably a special memory for us both from more than forty years ago. Or I can say yes.
‘Yes,’ I hear myself saying. ‘That would be lovely. The Eisbein with Sauerkraut and Erbsenbrei is particularly good here.’
He looks at me like a little lost lamb. ‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘My German’s not bad, but you’ve lost me there.’
‘Well you know what Sauerkraut is?’
‘Of course.’
‘So the dish is pork knuckle with Sauerkraut and mushy peas.’
‘Mushy peas. Great. A Hull delicacy – usually served with greasy cod and chips, but pork knuckle and Sauerkraut sounds much more appetising. Shall we go for two of those?’
*