What Men Say Read Free Page A

“The rest of the time I write books.” She felt uncomfortable talking about her writing, especially with strangers, so she added quickly: “I’m a lecturer at London University, one of the newer colleges. I have an office near the Post Office Tower, if you know where that is.”
    â€œHow’d you know Bridget?”
    â€œOh—” Loretta and Bridget had been in the same women’s group around the time Loretta left her husband, a journalist called John Tracey. She was not normally reticent on the subject, but it occurred to her that she had no idea whether Sam knew about this bit of his wife’s past, or how he would feel about it. “We’ve known each other for years,” she said vaguely, “it must be at least ten. What about you? I assume you’re a friend of Sam’s?”
    â€œWe work for the same company,” he said, and began to talk about a joint project between CES—Loretta had never quite got over her astonishment that the initials stood for Computo Ergo Sum pic—and the university engineering department.
    She nodded politely from time to time, understanding enough about computers to work her own word processor and nothing more. Bridget, usually as technologically illiterate as Loretta, had developed a baffling interest in the subject in December, suddenly talking knowledgeably about macros, megabytes and even logic bombs; then she introduced Loretta to Sam, and all was explained. Christopher Caesar’s account of ways to use computers to simulate aircraft wear and tear, instead ofdestroying expensive engines, left Loretta terminally bored and she looked down, hiding a smile at this silent pun, then realized he had stopped speaking.
    â€œWould you like a hamburger?” she asked quickly. “Everyone’s allowed two, though there hasn’t exactly been a rush . . . Shit!” The flat pink circles which had been sitting harmlessly on the grill last time she looked were now reduced to black, misshapen nuggets. An acrid smell hovered about them, a pungent combination of singed meat and fat-spattered charcoal.
    â€œYou know how to turn that thing down?”
    â€œI suppose you just . . .” Loretta bent and fiddled with various knobs at the back of the barbecue. “This looks like the gas supply . . . yes, I’ve got it.”
    â€œWhy don’t I take over for a while?” He picked up the fish slice and used it to lift the charred hamburgers onto a plate. “You look like you need a break.”
    Loretta stared at him for a moment, then seized her bag and slid out from behind the table before he could change his mind.
    â€œWhoa—just missed your dress.”
    She turned and saw that she had almost collided with Stephen Kaplan, who was holding out a plastic cup.
    â€œStephen—thanks.” Flustered, she took the cup and sniffed the reddish-gold liquid inside. “What
is
this?”
    â€œSome sort of fruit juice. Mango, passion fruit and persimmon—one of those unlikely combinations. They’ve run out of mineral water and I didn’t think you’d want tap.”
    â€œReally?” Loretta was surprised by this admission of the low quality of the local tap water. It was often cloudy and there had been several incidents of contamination since privatization, but she would not have expected Stephen to acknowledge either problem. “I thought you were all for privatization.”
    â€œI am, but it’s early days yet. You can’t wipe out years of socialist neglect overnight.” He seemed on the verge of launching into a speech, then apparently thought better of it. “How’s your book selling?”
    â€œMy book?”
    â€œA biography, isn’t it? Some authoress.”
    Bridget had once claimed, when challenged by Loretta over her friendship with Stephen, that she liked his dry wit. Loretta had never seen any evidence of it, merely an ill-mannered tendency to