The Immaculate by Mark Morris Read Free Book Online Page B

to wait until he was home before looking properly at what he’d bought, but if Frank wasn’t going to show he needed something to occupy his mind while he ate.
    His first course arrived, mushrooms in garlic and tomato sauce. Jack added pepper, chili and parmesan cheese and ate them slowly. Whilst he waited for his main course, chicken in cream and herbs with tagliatelle, he looked through the rest of his books. The two hardbacks were by genre contemporaries whose work he admired, the new paperbacks by writers he’d never read before. One was a collection of stories by a twenty-two-year-old science-fiction writer whom everyone was raving about. Jack was flicking through this, looking at the names of the stories, reading the first paragraphs of each, when a dark shape moved in front of him, blocking the light from the window.
    He looked up, expecting to see Frank. A woman stood there. She was wearing a blue and orange skirt, a white T-shirt and a blue cardigan. She was looking at him quizzically, as if she knew him from somewhere but could not place where. On the rare occasions when Jack had been recognised he’d felt awkward and uncomfortable, but now he was willing the woman to say, “Excuse me, but aren’t you Jack Stone, the writer?”
    Not that he’d have anything interesting to say back. “Yes, I am,” he’d admit modestly, and she’d maybe gush for twenty seconds or so about how she’d read all his books and thought they were brilliant. He would go pink and his smile would become fixed and he’d say, “Thanks very much. It’s very nice of you to say so.” Then maybe there’d be a pregnant pause and she would say, “Well . . . it’s been good to meet you. I’ll look out for the next one.” And she would walk away, leaving Jack floundering frustratedly for witticisms that would come to him the instant she was out of earshot.
    â€œIs anyone sitting here?” the woman said, pointing at the empty chair opposite him.
    â€œEr . . . no,” he said. “I was waiting for a friend, but it doesn’t look as though he’s coming.”
    â€œWould you mind if I joined you then? I’m not usually so pushy, but it’s the only free seat in the place and I’ve been on my feet all morning.”
    Jack half-stood and flapped at the seat as though scattering seeds. “Er . . . no. I mean, yes. I mean . . . oh, hell. Please sit down.”
    â€œThanks,” said the woman, and did so with a sigh of relief.
    â€œHave you been shopping?” he asked, gesturing at the large canvas—obviously heavy—shoulder bag that she dumped on the floor by her side.
    The woman ran a slim hand through her short black hair; Jack loved the way the glossy hair fell back into place in the wake of her raking fingers.
    â€œNo, I’m a relief teacher. I’ve been taking a class of nine year olds all morning in Kilburn. Absolute horrors. I dread to think why their normal teacher’s off school. Probably knife wounds or head injuries or maybe they let her off lightly with a nervous breakdown.”
    â€œOh dear,” said Jack. “You don’t have to go back this afternoon, do you?”
    â€œNo, thank God. I’ve been there every morning this week. Hopefully by Monday their usual teacher will be back.”
    He nodded and gave a sympathetic smile and tried to think of something else to say. He was saved from having to do so by the arrival of his main course. The waitress gave the woman a menu and took her order for a pineapple juice. Jack added pepper, chili seeds and parmesan to his food and began to eat.
    Normally he relished this meal, but today he felt self-conscious. One errant strand of tagliatelle and his chin would be smeared in greasy sauce. Not that it really mattered. Half an hour from now he would leave the restaurant and never see the woman again. All the same he ate his meal slowly and carefully,