‘Of course, no problem,’ she says.
We sit outside, at the biggest table. The beer is cold, the bottles sweat. Paolo Nutini gives way to Lana Del Ray. While Tom explains to Dawn how we want to organize the meeting, I catch snippets of conversation from the foursome nearby. Talk of travellers’ tales, visa nightmares, accounts of adventures in Vietnam and Korea. A mix of accents, Home Counties, Geordie, Spanish, Australian. Some are loud, others mostly listen. I catch the smell of weed. They could be kids in any bar, anywhere on the planet, meeting up for drinks and company. Young, apparently confident, hopeful. Like Lori, thrusting themselves into unfamiliar situations, away from all the support they’ve relied on till now.
A Chinese couple arrive and Dawn fusses about. I can see she’s awkward, anxious, as she introduces us to Oliver and Rosemary. Rosemary has waist-length black hair and wears a strapless blue maxi dress. She has butterflies tattooed on her shoulders.
‘Rosemary?’ I query her name.
‘We all choose English names,’ she explains, with a warm smile. ‘It is easier for everyone. How are you?’ Her smile drops and Rosemary looks concerned, a little fearful even, small frown lines puckering her forehead.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Worried, of course.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I am so sorry. This is very difficult situation.’
Oliver, listening, nods. He has a round face and podgy hands. He wears thick glasses, so his eyes swim in and out of focus when I look at them. He’s dressed in a white polo shirt and chino shorts, a bracelet of large wooden prayer beads on his wrist.
Tom glances at his watch.
‘We get drink?’ Oliver says, as though he is asking my permission.
‘Of course.’
While they’re at the bar, Bradley arrives. He’s come straight from work, he says, and apologizes for being a little late. He has a short-sleeved white shirt and long trousers, proper shoes. ‘You do translation?’ I ask him, after accepting his expressions of sorrow about Lori going missing.
‘That’s right, for a software firm, not the most exciting material in the world.’ He reminds me of Nick: he has a similar square face, regular features, with light brown hair, cut shorter at the sides. He wears a fine moustache and stubble covers his jaw line. I’m no good on American accents but I can tell his is not the Deep South or the Bronx so I ask him where he’s from.
‘Midwest,’ he says.
‘Kansas?’ I say.
‘Even smaller, the middle of nowhere.’
