The fact that there is a slew of London's finest record stores within 2 minutes walk of this particular 'Moon Under Water', reinforces the reason why this is the best day in the best pub. The fish-finger sandwich, gorgeous. The second Guinness, finished. At the Cricket, it is still lunchtime. Outside, the Soho streets fizz with life.
Leaving my paper and phone on the table. Nobody will steal my phone or my table. We just don't do that here. I climb the three stories to the roof terrace - empty. I'll come back up around 3:40 (tea-time at the cricket).
Time to pop into Soul Jazz or one of the other record shops in Berwick Street, Murphy might still be around. Skim through the racks and boxes. Pick up a mint condition copy of Weekend's wonderful La Varieté. Put a deposit down on a pristine copy of 'Ascenseur pour l'echafaud' by Miles Davis. Then back in the pub before she glides through the door at 1:30.
My table has been tidied, a bottle of Tattinger is in one of the pubs rare ice buckets (made from a WW1 German helmet picked up at Ypres). My phone has been recharged, newspapers folded and a printed scorecard of the morning's play placed on a silver tray for my perusal.
The hubbub of Soho seeps in a couple of seconds before she does. Despite the fact that the pub is quite quiet (oh the bliss), a palpable silence accompanies her first step through the side door. She knows where I'll be, same table, same seat. 'The view from her room' by Weekend drifts from the jukebox in perfect time. She is wearing a summer dress, her hair short, two degrees south of ebony. She is beautiful, not least because she doesn't know or care whether she is or she isn't.
She slides into 'her' seat. A double vodka and lemonade (ice, no slice) appears.
They know her here.
It is 1:35pm.
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