217 Babel Street | Apartment 8
Emma nodded. "He’s an actor. Well, we both are. We trained, I mean. But I got tired of being the eternal understudy. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. James does telly and film stuff. Bit parts mostly. Walk-ons. He’s one of those people hugging wildly at the airport in the opening sequence of Love, Actually. He does voice-overs too. Car insurance ads. Sex education DVDs. What to do in case of an emergency and this plane crashes. One director said his voice could persuade anyone to do anything. It’s amazing - and frankly, awful - how people still lap up a public-school accent. Well, that’s what I put it down to. I suppose he also has quite a good, resonant voice, but don’t tell him I said so."
Tom pointed to the coffee table. "Whose inhaler then? Yours?"
"No, his. He has to take care with his lungs."
Tom made a mental note, though he had no idea why. "So what do you do now?" He liked her touch, her nearness.
She toed the pink mat on the floor. "I teach yoga. Tree position. Downward-facing dog. The Cat, etcetera."
He treated himself to the thought of her in the cat position. In her clingy black jumper and leggings, she looked like Diana Rigg from re-runs of The Avengers. He stared again at the picture. "No. I know him from somewhere else..." The bastard.
The bastard? Why?
A key rattled in the door.
"Well, at last. You can ask him yourself."