As I walk from the underground to Charlotte Street, dusk falls like a chiffon scarf. Inside, the bar is heaving and smells of Acqua di Parma and money. I order vodka & tonic, find a newly vacated table near the entrance, and I wait. I do not allow myself to be distracted by the gaggle of pretty office girls to my right, nor by the couple bickering in hushed tones to my left. Instead I stare ahead, my eyes fixed on the revolving door, so that I can drink in Christina’s entrance – allowing myself the luxury of seeing her, before she sees me.
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