What Men Say Read Free

preferences. “Howard, can you imagine it? Howard Becker—”
    â€œBecker? You mean—it’s going to have Sam’s name?” Loretta was too astonished to conceal her reaction.
    â€œWell, I don’t think those double-barrelled things really work . . .” Bridget hacked at her fish cake, avoiding Loretta’s eye.
    â€œNeither do I, but what’s wrong with Bennett?”
    â€œI haven’t been pressured into it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Bridget said crossly, making Loretta think she had. “It’s all very well theorizing, but when you’re actually faced with . . . If you must know, it means a lot to Sam.”
    This, from a woman who had been outraged by her younger sister’s decision to change her name when she got married the previous year, was more than Loretta could bear. “I’m sure it does. I’m sure it’s meant a lot to men throughout the ages, which is why—”
    â€œOh, for God’s sake, Loretta, spare me the lecture. Can’t you see it’s personal?”
    â€œAnd that isn’t political, all of a sudden?”
    They glared at each other, unused to confrontation and uncertain how to deal with it. When the waiter removed their plates, Bridget refused his offer of pudding and announced she had to dash, thrusting a ten-pound note into Loretta’s hand to cover her share of the bill. They had spoken on the phone since, feeling their way back towards the old, easy companionship, but the sense of constraint had not entirely disappeared. Bridget’s suggestion that Loretta arrive early at the party had raised her hopes of a quiet talk, but in the event she had spent the time in the kitchen, listening to Sam’s enthusiastic description of his plans for the top floor of the house.
    â€œThe best woman.”
    â€œSorry?” Loretta looked up in surprise, realizing toolate that someone, a man who looked faintly familiar, was talking to her.
    â€œWe met at the wedding—you were the best woman. You made a great speech.”
    â€œI’m glad you liked it. It didn’t go down too well with Bridget’s parents.”
    â€œOlder people often are traditional. You had a nice touch, livened the party up no end. That place they got married—it was the pits.”
    Loretta smiled. The Oxford register office was a first-floor room in the Westgate Center, a dreary indoor shopping arcade, near a branch of C & A. It had slightly more charm, but not much, than a doctor’s waiting room, and the guests hurried out after the ceremony to find themselves confronted with the frankly inquisitive stares of half a dozen middle-aged shoppers who had stopped to see the bride. Bridget, taking advantage of the unseasonally warm spring weather in a halter-neck dress and Loretta’s gold Italian sandals, was an obvious disappointment and they soon drifted away. Her parents, whose pleas for a church wedding, a Pronuptia dress and bridesmaids in pastel polyester had been swept aside, were left to pose unhappily for photographs with their slightly pregnant daughter, her new American husband and Loretta. They were even denied the consolation of meeting Sam’s mother, who lived in Boston and was unable to come to England at such short notice. Instead, she sent flowers and a conventionally worded telemessage.
    â€œChristopher Caesar,” said the erstwhile wedding guest, holding out his hand. “I don’t think we were introduced.”
    â€œLoretta Lawson.” He had a lean, serious face, with high cheekbones and dark hair parted in the middle—good-looking in a very un-English way. Loretta wouldnot have been surprised to discover that he worked out at a gym and drank only mineral water.
    â€œBridget’s talked about you,” he was saying. “You teach English, right?”
    â€œYes, but not at Oxford. And only part-time.” She hesitated, her cheeks growing warm.