“Perhaps,” I said. “Sometimes I do need a lie-down after vodka and cola.”
He smiled wolfishly. “Puts you in the mood, eh?”
I tried to lift my eyebrows into a question, but, strangely, could only make one of them rise.
I’d had too much to drink because I’d had too much pain, and there was nowhere else it could go but down, drowned in the vodka.
Simple, really. “What do you mean?” I said, hearing that I was pronouncing the consonants somewhat indistinctly.
“Funerals,” he said, moving closer to me, so that his face was almost pressed against mine.
He smelled of onions. “It’s nothing to feel bad about,” he said.
“All that death... afterward, don’t you find it really makes you want to—” “Eleanor!”
I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned round on my stool, exceptionally slowly.
“Oh, hello, Raymond!” I said. “This is... actually, I don’t know. Excuse me, what’s your name, Mr... . ?”
The barman had moved at what must have been lightning speed to the other end of the counter, where he had resumed his glass polishing and TV watching.
Raymond gave him a look that could best be described as unfriendly, and placed a twenty-pound note on the counter.
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