And now he’d taken a closer look at her, he came to believe that too much hair sprouted from the top of her head, as if every square inch of her scalp was overburdened with an excess of hair follicles, producing the pale thatch. He’d not seen the hairstyle on an adult before. It made him think of a Saxon helmet cut from a bushel of straw.
The fringe was slightly asymmetrical too, as if cut in a straight line with a ruler that had slipped at the final moment when the scissors closed. At the back and sides, the length had been messily cropped into a crude attempt at a bob. The style might have been evidence of an individual’s lack of interest in fashion, or a sign of a personality disorder.
Seb was no expert on hairstyles, but the chance of it being in vogue was undermined by the unflattering statement her clothing made. What looked like a man’s padded raincoat had been complemented with corduroy jeans in poor condition. Her outfit covered a bulbous torso carried atop broad hips. Battered grey hiking boots concealed feet small enough to be ridiculous.
Seb cleared his throat. ‘I’ve never heard that said about a beautiful day before.’
This clearly pleased the odd figure. The movement of her body on the bench made Seb restrain himself from recoiling, and he found it necessary to breathe through his mouth. The rustling of her coat had disinterred a miasma imprisoned from a place that was damp. The odour that impregnated her clothing not only carried the scent of neglect but was thickened with a hormonal fragrance; a taint of oils and secretions that should have been washed away. Seb knew where he’d smelled similar before.
The woman’s eager face maintained a grin lit with expectation. She seemed pleased with herself.
Seb moistened his mouth. ‘Do you know me?’
The woman shook her head emphatically. Another gesture that suggested a strange immaturity. ‘No, but I’d like to.’ As she spoke, Seb was stricken by a glimpse of an incomplete set of yellow-brown teeth.
‘What . . .’ He was no longer sure of the question he wanted to ask.
The woman laughed.
‘You’ve read my books then?’
A rapid nodding made the longer strands of her thatch sway. The bleached eyes widened with excitement and added weight to his suspicion that the woman was unstable.
‘So, what can I do for you?’ Seb suffered the uneasy feeling that interaction would lead to some kind of entrapment. ‘And how did you know I’d be here? Did you follow me?’
‘I came to extend an invitation. We’d like you to take part in something. An event.’
‘We? I’m sorry, but who are you?’
Another two questions she didn’t answer. She remained committed to extracting a response to her invitation that he was clearly disinclined to give. She issued more of the irritating giggling. But a small hand was tentatively extended towards him. The fingernails were chewed back to tiny half-moons of pearly cartilage, embedded inside red nail beds. They looked sore and gnawed rather than bitten. Her fingertips were also wet from a recent trip to her mouth. Seb hoped she would drop the little hand. He had no intention of touching it.
‘I belong to a group that appreciates ideas. Shall we say, ideas that reach into unusual places. Even if most books are always wide of the mark.’ Again the giggle and Seb was sure she was referring to his books. ‘You’d be amongst friends, Sebastian.’ Her hand remained poised in the narrowing gap between their bodies.
Never fond of public speaking, to which he found himself emotionally unsuited, Seb still occasionally took part in literary events, though he’d never been approached like this before.
And that smell.
‘Is that so? I’m a little busy right now. New book.’
‘New book! How exciting. That’s precisely what we want to hear about. Your plans. What’s it about? We’d love to know.’ The surprise in her voice was forced, the curiosity insincere. He knew she had no real interest in anything he had written. This was someone who wanted something from him.
‘I never discuss the details of works-in-progress.’
‘A secret! A shame. What a shame.’ She’d phrased this as if his refusal to open up was to his disadvantage.
‘For who, me?’
‘Don’t you like to meet your readers?’
‘I always have time for genuine readers. So why don’t you send me your details by email. You’ll find an address on my website.’
Her eyes became busy with mischief and she wrinkled her nose in disappointment.
‘You are enquiring about a reading? A talk?’
‘Mmm. That sort of thing, yes,’ she said, but only after a pause as if the idea was only being recognized as a possibility because he’d just suggested it.
‘You don’t seem so sure.’
‘Having you with us is the main thing. The rest can take its course. I think the best connections are made that way, don’t you?’ The unnerving stare was now offset by astigmatism in her left eye, the effect suggesting mania more than a misshapen eyeball.
It was time to close the conversation. Seb slipped his unread book inside his rucksack. ‘As I say, best to send an email.’