– Shall we?

Emily expects Clark to take her to an expensive restaurant or even take her across town for a cup of coffee for forty pounds; but Lorraine confidently crosses the A11, turns onto Cambridge Heath Road, and from there dives into the yard.

No. She was prepared for anything – up to and including the fact that Clark keeps a picture of the Queen under her pillow – but not the barely visible "Blind Beggar" sign above the shabby door.

"Blind Beggar?" Is that a joke?

Clark pushes the massive wood away from him-the bell sounds melodically, the warm air hits his face; Emily sees rows of tables and sofas in the light of the red-and-yellow wide lamps; the clinking of appliances mingles with soft conversations; it smells of beer and roast meat.

A typical London pub: the owner himself, of course, is behind the bar, the waiters move around the room faintly, a fat woman at the entrance nods at Clark like an old acquaintance and leads them to a table with a "reserve" sign.

As they approach, the sign immediately disappears.

As Clark unwinds the endless layers of the scarf, Emily notices that the cut spot on her arm is tightly bandaged with a flesh-colored bandage hiding under the long sleeves of her sweater.

– Charlie showed me this place," Lorraine said, folding her coat on a nearby chair and sliding her tiny backpack on top.

– Unusual. – Emily follows suit. – I hardly ever go anywhere but home and work and the coffee shop," she admits, trying to remember how much money she has left and whether she can afford anything more expensive than a free glass of water.

The nurse's hands are shaking – she's so nervous, like she's about to take the most important exam of her life. Although, knowing Clark, she really could give her a test on the spot, and not on nursing knowledge at all.

Who knows what's going on in that neurosurgeon's head?

But now Lorraine is leaning back on the sofa relaxed and squinting slightly at the menu. Still afraid to even breathe loudly, Emily reaches for the leather folder, trying to make as little noise as possible.

To pretend to be furniture.

But she doesn't even have time to open it-a dainty woman's hand with a thin bracelet gently takes the menu from her hands.

– My treat.

– I… uh… – Emily feels herself blushing. – Don't, I…

Clark cocked an eyebrow:

– Come on. You can't even buy yourself a robe, what lunch…

And then Emily flares up, like long extinguished embers from the last spark, carelessly thrown match, lighted nearby fire.

– Well, you know…!

She rises so sharply that people turn on her and remains standing, her fingers clenched in the tabletop until her knuckles turn white.

She is pounding with anger, but the tears no longer welling up in her throat, only the dry twigs of her recent resentment burning as brightly as if they had been doused with kerosene.

Emily doesn't know what to do – to walk away, to scream, to hurl words, to blame Clark for her own vulnerability – but she realizes that she wants it to stop.

The world narrows down to the unperturbed, not even flinching from her antics Clark and the nurse herself – taut, shivering, sparkling.

– Did you bring me here to mock me?

Emily's voice trails off.

The ball tumbles down.

It hits the ground.

And stays on it.

– It's just a damn robe! It's a fucking robe. Fucking. The robe. It doesn't make me better or worse!

– Yeah? Well, I thought it was the only reason you mattered," Clark grinned.

– What?" She looked lost.

– I thought you wanted to be a doctor. – Lorraine gestures for the waiter. – The usual for me and my date.

– I'm not having lunch with you!

– And a couple of glasses of red.

– I'm at work!!!

– Big ones, then.

– Yes, miss. – The young man disappears as quickly as he appeared.