She stares hard. If only she could see him as others did. The tall and charming impresario, and not look beyond, to his torpid flame which hardly fans her fire, to that lack of engagement of mind, to the comfortable, work oriented, low hearth marriage, the harsh imaginings and recriminations of her own insight. Yet if he asked again she was going to say yes. Probably, yes.

“Emmanuel,” she says. “That golden mushy object you are devouring is my pikelet.”

He smiles, his quick blue eyes diverting to the door where David and the crew, trailing laptops, art boards, excuses are finally trailing in. Unbidden, they form about her and Manny. Dependable, cheery David gavels down on the chrome.

“Let’s get this ordering business over.” He’ll bring structure to the morning, despite its casual billing. But the ordering takes an age. She finds herself drumming pointedly on the table and then she is aware of disturbing noises, sounds of distress. She swivels to witness this man Hoffman standing over the elderly couple’s table. He is brandishing these sheets of paper with a startling, stabbing motion. The woman is flinching and the man is embarrassed, grinning. A powerful dread wells in her. Hoffman is insisting with his offering and they are protesting, half on their feet, showing him money. Then a mad bark, which propels their sheepishness to alarm, and he wheels away leaving his unwanted gift. And he is swinging the remaining sheafs wildly, wading through the tables, coming towards her.

The voice, contemptuous and reassuring: he means no harm, though they do not believe him. He has only a present for the beautiful miss and he will be gone.

And she is with and without awareness, locked onto those crazy eyes. She stands, the two men about her puzzled. They aren’t reacting. Then he is reaching across. She flinches; a tiny betraying squeak of terror, her plate breaking distantly on the floor. His bony fingers fiercely clasp her jaw. But there’s no pain, only his ardent grip and the fierce longing in those terrible eyes. “The passing of spirit between one and the next,” the voice echoing foreign. “Do you believe in reincarnation, miss?” Fingers of infinite care now stroking her sleeve. “No accident, not in death, but blessing the living. Margaret,” the whispered love of that, “are you there?” The face contorts to anguish. For God’s sake, where are her men? She takes hold of the arm and firmly withdraws it from her. No menace in it. Only the peculiar recognition of him in her fingers. Manny and David, in reluctant alarm reaching too late to restrain him. The voice, contemptuous and reassuring: he means no harm, though they do not believe him. He has only a present for the beautiful miss and he will be gone. The men’s grip warily loosening and he has twisted free and is pressing the rolled papers fallen to the desk, on her with startling justification. Yet with a quiet triumphal sense. His gift for her that she will love. A last stroking of her blouse. “Never sell this, miss. It was for only you, Margaret.”

And he is turned and he is going out the door, the men harrying him, baying like bloodhounds.

She dimly hears the scandalised cries of her work companions, a calamitous hubbub. Manny and David are in close attendance, commiserating, offering doctors, cursing the madman. “I should have knocked his block off. Idiot — crazy. We can prosecute.” Georgio prancing about, this violation, in his establishment, to his favourite.

But she sees only the terrible and yes, beautiful eyes. Is that you, Margaret, “Do you believe in reincarnation miss?” No, not rationally, but yes, forever Margaret in that look.

And no one but Margaret has donned this special blouse. She is overwhelmed by a deeply defiant sense of ownership. She will be its champion. It wasn’t designed for Manny’s mum or any other customer in the world. It was made only for her, Margaret.

“Pixie, are you alright?” She hears David’s concerned voice coming from inside a well and she knows what it must look like to them.