'Would you go to another one?’ she asked him. ‘Another Shakespeare? Or another play? I like going places with you, so, yeah.' She wanted to kiss him, right there, on the bus, properly, but she resisted. ‘That guy you were talking to about football.’ ‘Ah, he was suffering, man. His wife had booked the tickets.' ‘Do you think he wondered about us? When I came back?’ ‘No.’ ‘Just no?’ ‘Just no. I think you wondered whether he wondered. That was the only wondering going on.’ Maybe that was it, Lucy thought. Maybe there was only wondering about wondering, which had to be as good a definition of self-consciousness as any.