The iron gate was rusty, leaning heavily on its hinges. It creaked open. Small splinters of rust attached to my frozen fingers, almost blue from frost, and as I wiped away unbidden tears, some of the brown rotten granules scratched a way into my eyes. I found momentary solace from the pain, blinking hard to clear my vision, and forgot for a few seconds my sense of desolation.

3

Arthur

Snow flurries fell like confetti, soft and celebratory. The wet fluff settled around my head, forming soft water droplets on my face. Christmas this year was going to be my time. I hummed ‘Good King Wenceslas’ as I slithered across the pavement. Every few steps I slid through the slush, with carefully controlled but risqué manoeuvres.

Queues of traffic snaked up the Finchley Road and the blast of horns drowned out Christmas cheer with their din. I passed tawdry little premises which were open late, trying to tempt impulse buyers with their wares.

I got there early. I wasn’t going to be late. I’d already waited two long months for the rendezvous. Candles flickered through the restaurant window and a brightly decorated tree twinkled in the corner.

I peered in, half expecting to see her already seated at our table. Perhaps she intended to be fashionably late, keep me waiting before telling me how devastatingly lonely the last two months had been. Two months, one day and fifteen hours. The trial separation had been torture for her.

‘Good evening, Arthur. Come in. Let me take your coat.’ Roberto shook my hand with professional aplomb and not a little familiarity before he draped his arm across my shoulders. A foolish flush of pride seeped through my bones as the maître d’ led the way.

‘Your usual, sir.’

There was an elderly couple at the next table, clinking glasses of red wine, relaxed and at ease with one another. That would be us in a few years’ time, growing old as one; a couple who did everything together. Age would not dim our passion.

There was a small clock over the bar whose hand determinedly clunked forward. It was a sharp defined movement which was mesmerising through the mellowing haze of the Chianti. Eight o’clock came and went and the two glasses for Dutch courage soon became three.

‘Some olives, sir? A little garlic bread perhaps?’

My left eye twitched as the sycophantic waiter hovered.

Twenty minutes past eight and the hand was about to jerk forward one more notch when I saw her. A red woollen hat matched the scarf. The hat sat at a jaunty angle and framed her beautiful face.

Roberto, rather too quickly, threw open the doors and bent to kiss her; on each cheek, side to side. My scarlet lady of the night shook her wispy hair loose and tucked the red beret into her pocket. I got up.