Hungerford Bridge on a Friday evening. The sun beats down and I have Radiohead in my ears to hypnotise me against the minor irritancies of City life as I hurry my way to the train station at the end of a long week. Ambling tourists criss-cross my path to admire the view of the City of London, while I behind my shades admire their breasts, their legs, their tight buttocks in cut off shorts. Fellow office drones hurry alongside me, each picking the most efficient route through the throng, to make it their wife, their husband, their lover, their friends, or just a lonely glass of cold beer to start the weekend fun.
'Jim!'
I snap out of my reverie, confused momentarily, scanning around to see a familiar face, taking the speaker buds from my ears. There's a big-breasted 40-ish woman grinning at me. She's wearing the biggest, ugliest pair of polka-dotted sunglasses I've ever seen. My mind races to think who this woman is. Someone from the football team's wife?
'Fancy seeing you here!' she says, smiling once more.
The accent gives it away. Perfect English but a distinct Germanic accent. It's Ingrid, the wife of Wolfgang, our Austrian winger. They both work for a German merchant bank in the City, and I've met Ingrid a couple of times at football club socials. We had a pretty good chat both times, but being drunk on both occasions all I remember of her is that we shared an interest in classical music. And that she has stupendous breasts. Typical man.
'Hi Ingrid, great to see you. I love your sunglasses!' Liar, but a person could only wear something that hideous if they really loved it.
She fingers the glasses with pride. 'Chanel! E-Bay! A bargain.' She's smiling again. I said the right thing.
I take the beat in the conversation to take another look at her. She's tall, nearly as tall as I am, her hair is pulled back from her face into a ponytail, but leaving a stray flop of thick dark hair across her right eye. Her vertically striped summer dress is pulled in at the waist by a thin belt in a way that emphasises both the fullness of her chest and the delicious chunkiness of her hips. The outfit is finished off with what I hope are white stockings and a pair of red strappy shoes. I like the shoes. I like the stocking-clad legs more.
'So where are you hurrying off to?' she asks me.
I end my lascivious thoughts and look back at her face. 'Oh, meeting friends in Covent Garden. We're supposed to go and watch a film later, but to be honest I'm a bit whacked so I might just head home.'
Her face drops. 'Oh, that's a shame. I was about to ask you if you wanted to go a concert. My friend dropped out at the last minute and I have a spare ticket. It's Zimerman.' Her lips curl up at the corners as I see that she's wondering if I'll get the reference to the legendary Polish pianist. It's a hot ticket, one that I wouldn't turn down even if it wasn't in the hands of such a beautiful woman. It takes me about a second to decide to go to the concert, but I prolong the uncertainty a little just for fun.
I tease, 'What's he doing? If it's anything too Tuetonic I might not be able to digest it.'
'Chopin études first half and Lutoslawski for the second'.
'Chopin...how romantic. I hope Wolfgang wont be jealous.'
Bad move. She scowls. 'Wolfgang can go fuck himself. Do you want to come or not?' Wow, fiery. This could be interesting.
'Okay.'
We turn and head back across the bridge towards the Festival Hall. The sun lights up the beautiful white Portland stone of the façade and we chat about music as we make our way through the crowds, discussing recent concerts we've been to. As we stroll I steal glances at Ingrid from the corner of my eye and also notice the looks we get from passers-by. Looks of envy. I reckon we look a pretty good couple, me in my charcoal suit with pale green-striped shirt and emerald tie, and her in her well-fitting blue-striped summer dress. Successful, smart and attractive. Just that we're not a couple. Too bad. I feel a large amount of envy for Wolfgang, and curiosity as to what he did to piss off this beauty beside me.
In the Festival Hall there's the usual pre-concert crowd. Mostly middle-aged and above, well-heeled Londoners, a few foreigners showing off trophy wives, a smattering of Chinese students, harassed-looking parents with sulky teenagers in their worst best outfits. Their chatter echoes through the main bar, the sound increased by the clatter of heels on polished floors. I hate crowds.
'Let's go upstairs, I've got my Member's Card with me, we can get away from the masses and have a quick G and T before kick-off.'
She takes off her sunglasses and puts them away in her handbag. 'Whatever you say.' She says it with an ironic glint in her eye that I like.
We ascend to the sixth floor in the lift. It's the first time I've been able to get close enough to her to smell her perfume. I breathe in deeply. Citrus, but with a depth of something else, something like coffee. Quite masculine. Heady stuff. An awkward silence in the intimacy of the lift, during which I revel in the blueness of Ingrid's finally unmasked eyes, an intimacy broken by the doors opening onto the Members' Bar.
'What would you like to drink?'
