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Elizabeth burped gently as she pushed the remains of her meal around her plate. her hand unconsciously brushed the pronounced swell of her abdomen as the remains of the Stroganoff completed its third circuit.
The restaurant was dark and gloomy, waist coated waiters pointedly switching off the fake candles and the nervous woman who had served her leaned wearily against the floral wallpaper. Elizabeth sipped her orange juice. The clatter of washing-up drifted out of the kitchen, muffled voices arguing. Suddenly raucous laughter erupted, terribly out of place in the tense atmosphere of the dining area.
She was the last customer, nearly. A broad, blond man was leaning at the bar. He was drinking something clear from a tall glass. The waitress shifted uncomfortably and looked at her watch. Elizabeth reached out and put her hand around her glass protectively, dragging out her pretence for as long as possible. She watched the blond man, making an intricate and unnecessary study of his back. He was tall, it seemed, very tall and very broad. His hair was very pale, almost white and he /wore/ his tailored suit, rather than letting it hang off his frame. He turned, glass in hand as if sensing her scrutiny. She flushed in embarrassment and raised the remnants of her juice to her lips. She could feel his stare, as if his glance was a physical force, touching her details carefully. She shifted position self-consciously. Ah well, in her condition she should be glad of any second glance she got, she thought ironically.
The waitress sighed impatiently and crossed to the table. Elizabeth closed her eyes and breathed deliberately.
"Excuse me, madam." The woman said. Elizabeth lifted her handbag from beside her feet. "Would you like the bill now?" Elizabeth put on her brightest face and forced smile.
"D'you think I could have a cup of coffee first?" she asked. "It's a cold night and I've a way to walk." The waitress looked tiredly at her.
"I'm afraid the coffee's all gone now, madam," she lied. "We'll be closing in a few moments, you see." Elizabeth sank inwardly as she felt the moment she's tried so hard to forestall come speeding toward her.
"Okay then, yes." She rummaged theatrically in her handbag as the waitress scribbled on her notepad.
"Twenty-three pounds fifty, madam." The waitress said tersely, customer respect already turning in for the night. Elizabeth looked up with dishonest eyes.
"I'm afraid I can't seem to find my..."
"I see, madam," the waitress cut in. "I'll just call the manager." Elizabeth felt the pit open beneath her.
"Excuse me." It was the blond man who had been standing at the bar. He was holding out a credit card. "I would like to buy this lady her dinner," he said calmly. He turned to Elizabeth, "If you don't mind, that is?" he asked. The waitress looked vaguely disappointed.
"No," said Elizabeth, "I mean, of course I don't mind. Thank you." The waitress took the card and return with the slip to sign.
"Thank you for your custom." she said mechanically.
They left together, Elizabeth and the blond man, from the warmth of the restaurant to the chilly London street. The flashing neons cast eerie shades along the night street and they didn't see one of the waiters turn the cardboard notice behind them. 'Closed' it said and the waiter wearily pushed his fingers through his hair.
The biting breeze cut through the darkness and Elizabeth pulled her stained denim jacket closer to her chest.
"Listen, thanks for..." she turned to say to the blond man. But he just wasn't there.