They were graceful steps – what one would expect from Ralph. He believed he had style. Ralph probably thought he had more of it than others might, but, just the same, Ralph felt a responsibility to move elegantly and offer his profile at favourable angles. He seemed to be waiting for somebody. Although most of the car park was dark, a single security lamp near the door made him identifiable, but his profile couldn’t at all come over in full glory through the dimness. Naturally, Harpur wondered whether Ember had managed to get something going with a girl dinner guest or a waitress, and expected her to follow him out now, possibly for something quick and doggie, or, more likely, to fix an arrangement for a better time. Ralph could undoubtedly pull. He looked quite a bit like the young Charlton Heston in, say, Ben Hur or El Cid – the same fine boniness of face and tall, wide-shouldered body. A long scar along one side of his jaw intrigued some women and gave a pretext for fluttering their investigative fingers on him, stroking that slightly raised line of shiny pink skin until other shiny pink skin reached the agenda, while clucking with sympathy and big, admiring curiosity.
