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“I think I just want to talk,” I said. “For a bit. Is that pathetic?”
“It’s the opposite of pathetic.” Vivienne curled up beside me on the sofa, close enough that her knee touched mine. “Go on, then. Talk.”
So I did. About Maureen, my ex-wife, forty-four now, and the eleven years of being slowly turned into furniture. About my daughter, twenty-two, at university in Bristol, who phones on Sundays. About the pitch that went well and how there was nobody to tell. Vivienne listened. She asked good questions. At one point she laughed so hard she spilled whisky on her dress and didn’t care.
She put her feet in my lap. I rubbed them without thinking. She made a noise like a contented cat.
“You’re very good at that,” she said, eyes closed.
“I’m very good at feet. It’s my only skill.”
“I doubt that.” She opened one eye. “You know, we’ve still got forty minutes. I’m not going to push you. But I’m also not going to pretend I haven’t noticed what’s going on in your trousers every time I wiggle my toes.”
I went red. She grinned.
The truth was I was exhausted. Three days of handshakes. I had a seven o’clock call with Singapore. And the sofa was very soft, and her feet were very warm, and my eyelids were very heavy.