Louisa has another job in London - this time taking pictures for a diabetes charity in Haringey and we're regarding a gleaming empty plate with two forks poised on the rim, as yet another lemon tart becomes merely a memory of cream and sugar, washed down with guilt-infused tales of the link between diabetes and obesity. She's telling me that she had heard from the Norwegian.
'What Norwegian?'
'You know, the Norwegian I met at the clinic.'
'The clinic?' She has been threatening to go to a health farm - though as an impoverished photographer who I met when I was at art school in Camberwell (me matron, she graduate) I can't think how she can afford it. I wonder if she's slipped in a weekend away having water fired at her from a high pressure hose while I was at home watching dust motes drift through the air - a remarkably time-consuming activity.
'Yes, the clinic,' she repeats, dropping her voice lower than our waitresses jeans.
'Ah, the clinic.' This is starting to sound like Pinter, (the clinic, mmm, the ...pause.... clinic. Um, yes - the clinic.) but I shall spare her blushes by not explaining further...(not that she really is called Louisa, so this is not a traceable story... but move it to Brighton and make her 35 and French and you're getting warm.)
You met a Norwegian at the clinic and you spoke to him? For goodness sake Louisa, what are you - starring in a Daily Mail expose or something?'
'I didn't want to, but he struck up a conversation and I was embarrassed, I couldn't ignore 'im.'
I shook my head. This woman needs lessons in appropriate places to pick up men. 'Louisa, clinic waiting rooms are not the place to hook up. Clinic waiting rooms are places where you pretend that other people don't exist. You don't make eye contact, you do not, repeat not, chat. You keep your head down, you read a Hello magazine from 1978 and you keep dark glasses on at all times. A hijab would be even better.'
'I know, but 'e sat right next to me and started talking. And then he called me.'
'He called you?'
'Yes, on the phone at the office, and left a message...'
My head is now spinning around like a fishing reel with a Marlin on the end of the line. 'How in the name of Gonorr... I mean God, did he get your telephone number? At the office?'
'He asked for my card..'
'Louisa, dear, if a homeless crack addict stopped you on the street and asked to move into your lovely Leigh on Sea semi-detached (okay so it's not Brighton but closer to Southend) sea view bungalow, would you just nod your head and say "of course, and 'ere's my wallet?" Why on earth would you give him your card?' I'm beginning to see how she found herself sitting in this particular waiting room. She can't say no. Or even non.
'He's Norwegian. I've never been to Norway, it sounds lovely. 'e was interested in my work - I told him to pass by my studio.'
'Louisa, you met him at the Cla.. .' I couldn't speak. These continental women, they do it differently from we Presbyterians. We shake hands wearing oven gloves and don't speak to people after we've been living next door to them for a decade.
'Anyway, 'e rang.' She said, lighting an invisible cigarette and flicking invisible hair - hers is shorn above her ears like early Mia Farrow and she has ten studs up her ear. Her son learned to count by pointing to them one by one.
'And...'
'He wondered if I wanted to visit 'im in Norway.'
'But you're not going, are you..?'
'No, don't be silly. I met 'im at the clinic. Who knows what he 'ad.' She shuddered. 'I didn't even want to shake 'ands with him.'
There's something flawed in the logic here, but I'm darned if I can see what it is.
'Erm, pot calling...perhaps,'
'Don't be disgusting - I was there for work.'
I said nothing. If that's her excuse, then I'm not going to contradict her...
'Any anyway,' she said. 'it's cold in Norway now. Better to wait for the summer...'
