A flicker of self-consciousness shot through her. She sounded like she was giving a job interview. When had she become this conservative? She had written poetry herself when living on the commune. Charlie’s face, however, remained open and sanguine.
“Some can. But I make my living as a lowly copywriter.”
“That doesn’t sound so lowly to me,” said Avery.
The Le Pain Quotidien group, including the speaker who was swearing off men, was shuffling toward them, ostensibly to invite them to join. Charlie and Avery shared a look that communicated a mutual desire to avoid this. It was bad, she knew, to pair off and separate from the group, an old form of bonding that didn’t serve her sobriety, but then Charlie touched her elbow and all she could think about was the quickest way out of there.
“Hey,” he said, giving her a knowing look. “You walking to the tube?”
Fuck it, she thought.
“Let’s go,” she said.
Before the others reached them, they took off together in step, both taking regular drags of their cigarettes, a heady sensation of escape quickening their pace. It was a beautiful summer evening and the light, as they set off up the hill, was the rich yellow of good French butter. London was so lovely when it chose to be, Avery thought. Charlie turned to her and smiled.
“What about you?” he asked.
“What about me?”
“What do you do?”
“Don’t you know that’s a rude question?”
That smile again. His teeth were surprisingly small and cream, like tiny pearls.
“Forgive me,” he said.
Avery looked at his funny face, so close to handsome yet slightly off the mark, and felt she could forgive him anything.
“I’m a lawyer,” she said.
“Ah!” He nodded. “The least lowly of trades.”
Now, Avery smiled. It was true.
“So what are you doing here?” he asked, nodding back toward the meeting. “Too much champagne and cocaine for you? Had to call it quits?”
This was so far from the truth of the last years of her using as an itinerant drug addict, Avery had to laugh.
“What makes you think those were my drugs of choice?” she asked.
“You just seem like kind of a fancy lady.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Your shoes, maybe.”
Avery looked down at her Gucci loafers with the horse bit buckle. She had been wearing them last weekend when she stole a quilted wallet from Chanel. No one ever suspects the woman in loafers. She blushed.
“Nah, don’t get me wrong. They look good,” he added. “I’m just surprised to meet someone like you at a meeting, is all.”
“How much time do you have?” she asked.
“I just picked up my ninety days.”
He was barely able to conceal his pride. So, he was a newcomer, she thought. Probably still on a pink cloud, that euphoric period of early recovery when you’re through the physical withdrawals but reality hasn’t quite set in yet. A brief window of time when anything seemed possible. How she missed it.
“You’ll see, there’s all sorts here,” she said. “In New York we say this disease gets everyone from Park Avenue to the park bench.”
He grinned.
“I like that. What would the London equivalent be?”
“I don’t know, from Mayfair to—”
“My bedroom,” he said.
The blush would not leave her cheeks.
“That works,” she said.
“How come I’ve not seen you here before?”
“I stopped coming for a little,” she said.
“Why’d you stop?”
“Honestly?”
