Fortunately, Nelson never found out how the meeting in Colliers Wood went, as the bell rang again and he moved to the next seat. Now he was seated opposite a woman old enough to be his grandmother, who, somewhat cheerfully, had brought her knitting with her. He looked at her, trying to remember who she reminded him of. And then it came to him: the Queen Mother. Who’d been dead for years, of course, but still. The resemblance was uncanny.
‘I’m Nelson,’ he said, raising his voice a little, assuming she was deaf.
‘No need to shout, dear,’ said the woman. ‘And no names. It’s all anonymous here, remember? Like AA. Which I’m also a member of, as it happens.’
‘Of course. Nice to meet you, Number 1. Oh, you must have been the first one here.’
‘I always am,’ she said, click-clacking away with her needles. ‘I try to come early so I can look at all the men as they arrive. I rate them in my head on a scale of one to ten and then I make sure to put extra effort in when I’m sitting opposite the ones who scored high. It saves a lot of time, I find.’
‘I see,’ said Nelson. ‘And what number did I get?’
‘You’re a five, dear. Maybe a six. A sort of any-port-in-a-storm type. You’re no Number 18, that’s for sure, but you’re a damn sight better than Number 26.’
‘Thank you, I suppose,’ he said. Number 18 again. Whoever he was, he was proving very popular among women of all ages.
‘Still, a policeman! That’s impressive. Brought your truncheon, have you?’ She giggled like a manic pixie.
‘Ahahaha,’ said Nelson, to be polite.
‘I would have thought a policeman could have his pick of the women.’
‘No, sadly no. We’re very manly, of course. And fearless. But no.’
‘When did you last arrest someone?’
‘Yesterday,’ he lied. ‘Down Bridge End.’
She winked at him. ‘I’d bet you’d like to put me in handcuffs, wouldn’t you?’
‘Ahahaha,’ he said again.
‘Don’t blush, dear. You don’t stand a chance. Do you know, I once had sex with a royal?’
‘I didn’t know that, no,’ said Nelson. ‘But then, we’ve only just met.’
‘It was Lord Lucan,’ she said with a knowing smile.
‘Strictly speaking, Lord Lucan wasn’t a member of the royal family,’ said Nelson. ‘He was a member of the House of Lords.’
‘Oh, but it’s all the same thing, isn’t it? This was before he murdered the nanny, of course, and disappeared up the Swanee.’
‘Of course,’ said Nelson. ‘What was he like?’
‘In bed?’
‘No, just in general.’
‘He didn’t have much of a sense of humour. But they don’t tend to, do they?’
‘Lords?’
‘No, murderers.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘But he was quite the tiger in bed, since you’ve asked. He enjoyed water sports, but then so do I. You know what they say? Wild women do, and they don’t regret it. Do you like water sports?’
‘My parents took me to Euro Disney when I was a child,’ replied Nelson. ‘And I enjoyed the slide. You know, the one that goes around and around and then you land in the swimming pool with a big splash?’
The old woman stared at him and shook her head. ‘Oh my,’ she said. ‘You’re quite the innocent, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Did you have a Bourbon earlier?’
‘A what?’
‘A Bourbon biscuit.’
‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘I got here at the last minute. There does seem to be a lot of attention given to the biscuits, though. You’re the second person to mention them to me.’
‘I can’t eat them,’ she replied, lowering her voice. ‘I have an intolerant bowel – it’s basically Nigel Farage in organ form – so I have to be careful what I introduce to it. My doctor tries to keep me away from sweet things for the most part, but I used to love a Bourbon back in the day. When I was being naughty.’
‘And are you still naughty?’ he asked, attempting a flirtation, but she sat back now and looked affronted.
‘Cheek,’ she said.
‘I do apologize.’
‘Don’t. I like cheek.’
‘Ahahaha,’ said Nelson, never so happy to hear a bell ring in all his life as he moved to the next chair.
‘Hello,’ said the woman sitting opposite him, who was in her late thirties and looked as if she’d just chewed a wasp. ‘Go on, then. Give it your best shot.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘We’re about fifteen seconds in and already I can tell you’re a no-hoper. Come on, try harder. Give it some welly.’
Nelson felt like he might burst into tears. ‘It’s awkward, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘Talking to strangers like this. The pressure is very intense.’
‘Do you want to know what I hated most about my ex-husband?’ she asked.
‘Not really, no.’
‘He was a bastard. And a cliché. He had an affair with his secretary, if you can believe it. It’s like something out of a Beverley Cleverley novel.’
‘Oh,’ said Nelson, brightening up. ‘Do you enjoy her work?’
‘It’s fine. I mean, I might read one when I’m on the bus or if I’m waiting for a smear test. They’re easy and you don’t have to think. She’s not exactly Maude Avery, is she?’
‘Well, she’s very popular, I know that much,’ said Nelson, feeling on safer ground. ‘I thought The Surgeon’s Broken Heart was particularly good. Although, no, perhaps not quite at the level of Like to the Lark.’
‘I read that when I was at university,’ said the woman, folding her arms tightly around her own body as if she was trying to wrap herself up in a cocoon. ‘It changed my life.’
‘In what way?’
‘Mind your own business,’ said the woman, looking infuriated by the question. ‘I did read the latest Sarah Waters, though, and that was very good. Have you read her?’
‘I haven’t, I’m afraid,’ admitted Nelson.
‘Oh, let me guess,’ said the woman, sneering at him. ‘You’re one of those men who say they don’t read women.’
‘Not at all,’ said Nelson. ‘Like I said, I read Beverley Cleverley’s most recent one. And I’ve read books by …’ He racked his brain for names. ‘Anne Brontë. Anne Enright. Anne Griffin. Anne Tyler.’
‘All you’re doing is naming writers called Anne. Have you really read them or are you making this up?’
‘I’ve really read them,’ he said.
‘And is it a fetish, all these Annes? Might you move on to a Rose, perhaps? Or a Claire? Or a Zadie?’
‘I expect I will,’ he said. ‘Do you read a lot of novels, then?’
‘Not really,’ she said, turning away. ‘I always say, if a book’s any good, then they’ll make it into a film. Like Captain Corelli’s Mandolin. Or The Bonfire of the Vanities.’