The Doll's House

120

He kept a good distance behind, so as not to alert her to his presence. He had eventually found his tongue and responded to her concern for his cut finger, before taking the job from her – a simple boot re-heel – promising to have it ready first thing tomorrow as recompense for her kindness and sympathy.

After she’d gone, he’d remained at his work station for a silent count of twenty, then switched off the shop lights, flipped the ‘Closed’ sign and hurried out, locking the door behind him. Experience had taught him not to dawdle during this process – you risked losing your quarry among the crowds of shoppers, if you were too cautious. You just needed enough time for her to clear the immediate vicinity of the shop.

He scanned left and right, before spotting her a hundred yards away, idly window shopping. Her crisp navy suit and smartly tied-back hair made her quite distinctive among the loafers and driftwood that usually populated this place. Tired of daydreaming, she moved off again. And he went with her, as always at a discreet distance.

She meandered slowly homewards. She had finished work for the day – she really did look smart and professional – but clearly had no one to rush home to. She stopped to look in various shop windows, to buy a copy of the Big Issue, but she looked like she was killing time. As if she were waiting for something to happen. Or someone to come along.

They passed through Bedford Place, then through Portswood to the cheap flats that lay near the university. Though she was well turned out, she clearly wasn’t well-off, living among the detritus of the city. This was in character too, he thought to himself, suppressing a smile. You grow older, but you don’t really change.

He stopped abruptly. He had momentarily lost himself to memory and inadvertently had walked too close to her. She had stopped at a door – not ten yards from him. If she turned round now, she’d see him. So he upped his pace, thankfully clearing her without exciting her interest. Crossing the road, he chanced a backward look – just in time to see her enter a sorry-looking flat.

Hugging the corner of the street, he found a decent vantage point behind a hedge. He watched with interest as the lights came on up on the first floor. He didn’t know whether to stay or go. The working day was coming to an end and workers would be filling the streets soon – he couldn’t risk being spotted or, worse, reported. But, as always, she made the decision for him, appearing now in the first-floor window.

There was no way he was leaving now. He had the perfect vantage point – to watch her, to admire her, to drink in every detail of her life. She made no attempt to draw the curtains, she just looked down on to the street below. Looking for hope. Looking for love.

Looking for him.