Ismay’s face is unmistakable. Dark eyes glisten like those of a man freshly wounded; his brow furrows; his mouth hides behind a grey moustache. Miranda peers through the leafy opening, feeling protected for the moment, the way an audience member feels shielded by the relative darkness of the stalls and the sense of invisibility. But this is a restaurant, she reminds herself, not a theatre. He could turn to her any time, and no doubt will, if she doesn’t tear her own gaze away.Her mother has been talking about curtains, how the modern vogue for sheer makes her think she is entering a harem. This is rich, Miranda thinks. Clinging to the late Victorian fashions of her girlhood, Mother insists on mauve and indigo drapes in her own home, surely the signature hues of ill-repute.It is, in any case, a ruse. Mother is merely trying to probe into Miranda’s plans, but she’s trying too hard, using a barrage of noise when a simple question might yield more information. Mother wants to know where Graham and she will buy and how she intends to decorate her first marital home.Married life is Miranda’s escape, and Graham is under strict orders to keep mum.
