Oh no, thought Floz. Not this. Not him. This was why she didn’t come into the town centre much any more.
‘Shall we go back home now?’ she said, hanging behind the others.
The policemen had the drunk between them now and were holding him up.
‘Two minutes, I just have to go in Boots for some nail glue,’ said Juliet.
‘I’ll meet you outside Thorntons. I want to buy some chocolate,’ lied Floz and she zipped off in the opposite direction.
‘Come on you.’ The drunk’s legs buckled and he nearly took one of the policemen down with him.
‘I need to talk to that woman,’ the drunk slurred, pointing at a giggling teenager with long red hair.
‘You can talk to us in the car on the way to the station.’
Coco looked at Juliet. ‘What’s up with Floz?’
‘Old flame back on the scene. Think she’s a bit emotional at the moment. Chocolate is exactly what she needs in my opinion. She’s been very quiet the past couple of days.’
‘Everyone is quiet compared to you, love,’ said Coco.
‘Cheeky! She keeps bobbing into her room every five minutes then coming out with a face as long as Red Rum’s. I presume she’s waiting for the mystery man’s emails.’
‘Doesn’t he ring? Or text?’ asked Coco.
‘How do I know?’ laughed Juliet. ‘If I knew anything at all about relationships, I wouldn’t have been nearly murdered twice in one week.’
‘If it’s an old flame, he would be more likely to ring, don’t you think?’ Coco and Juliet stood watching the policemen trying to load the protesting drunk into the car. He was singing now, much to the entertainment of the town-centre shoppers. His voice was surprisingly clear with a measured vibrato. It was a voice wasted on such a numpty, a few observers thought.
‘He might ring during the day when I’m at work so I wouldn’t know,’ Juliet said, amused by Coco’s attempts to turn himself into a detective.
‘But if he doesn’t ring in the evening . . .’ Coco’s brain was computing ‘. . . that says to me that he might be married. Gideon says that a man who prefers to text and email rather than talk has something to hide.’
‘Come on, Miss Marple.’ Juliet dragged Coco into Boots. She wasn’t sure that her friend should sell his Perfume Palace and join the police force just yet.
Across the road, through Thorntons’ window, Floz watched the drunk being placed in the back of the police car. He’d lost weight — and teeth. His jaws were hollow now and he looked far older than his age, with his sallow skin and unkempt hair. She couldn’t believe that she had once shared a bed with him. He was a tramp now, a drunk at whom people laughed. Once upon a time they had been a couple with a house and jobs and a future. It pierced her that he had chosen this path. Despite everything he had done to her, and the revulsion she felt at seeing him now, she could have cried for him again.
Chapter 27
‘So, ready for your lunch with the family and Steve?’ asked Juliet, with a slight sneer pulling up her top lip.
‘What is it with you and him?’ said Floz, looping her handbag over her shoulder.
‘He’s all brawn and no brain.’ Juliet tapped the side of her head. ‘Find me the polar opposite of Steve Feast and then you’ll have someone I’m very interested in.’
‘I thought he seemed really nice.’ Floz disappeared into the kitchen to get the white wine from the fridge.
‘You have only met him once, Floz. I, however, have known him all my life.’
‘Your brother obviously doesn’t share your feelings.’
‘Steve Feast spent more time at our house than his own when he was a kid. Mrs Feast was – and still is, unfortunately – a total piss-head. Steve’s father buggered off before he was born. My mam bought him more clothes for school than his own did. But then he was very good to Guy when . . .’ She trailed off, as if she had been just been wrenched back from the verbal equivalent of a very large hole.
‘When what?’ prodded Floz.
Juliet grabbed her coat. ‘Oh, nothing really. Guy had a rough time a few years back and Steve helped him through it. So, are we ready for lunch chez Grainne et Perry then?’
Yep, thought Floz. Then: This is going to be great, Guy glowering at me, Juliet glowering at Steve . . .
Mr and Mrs Miller lived in a very spacious detached house on the quiet outskirts of Maltstone, a pretty little village with a gothic church and an annual May Day festival. Perry Miller and his late twin brother Stan had owned a successful plastic engineering firm before they sold it for a huge profit and retired. Stan had been the flamboyant director in a suit, Perry – never happier than when he was in his overalls in the engineering toolshop. Grainne Miller had always been content in her role as a home-maker. Only the fact that she was the world’s crappest cook stopped her from being Doris Day.
Juliet pushed open the front door to number 1, Rosehip Gardens and stepped into the large square hall immediately followed by Floz. The wonderful aroma of a Sunday lunch hit them both smack in the face. The Miller seniors appeared quickly, arms out ready to greet their daughter and their considerably smaller guest. Grainne gave her a big kiss on the cheek, then, as if she were on a hugging conveyor belt, Floz was passed to Perry and given a squashy hug. They were the sort of people who made her think she had known them forever, and she totally understood why Steve had gravitated to this family if his own had been so cold and dysfunctional. She wanted to smile as soon as she thought about the Millers.
‘Where’s our Guy?’ asked Juliet, stripping off her coat.
‘He’s in the kitchen,’ said Perry, admiring the very nice bottle of Sauvignon Blanc that Floz had just placed into his hands. ‘Steven is opening some wine in the lounge – go and say hello.’
‘No, thanks,’ said Juliet under her breath, but she was forced into meeting him seconds later as Steve rounded the corner with a tray of glasses.
Floz took him in again: the strong lantern chin, the white-blond hair and eyebrows, whilst his skin was light olive, which set off his ice-blue eyes beautifully. Oh yes, she bet he was an absolute dog with women. Although she did think his eyes were kind, his welcoming smile wide and genuine.
‘Steven, put that tray down and come and meet our Floz,’ said Perry, putting his arm around the man and pushing him forward.
‘We’ve met, Pez,’ Steve answered, putting the tray down on a coffee-table.
‘Pez?’ Juliet rolled her eyes backwards.
‘Nice to see you again, Floz,’ said Steve, ignoring her. Steve knew exactly where Guy was coming from with his attraction to Floz. She wasn’t beautiful like Chianti Parkin, but she was incredibly sweet-looking – with bright, shiny eyes like waxed leaves.
‘Have some wine, Floz,’ said Steve, handing her a glass. ‘Red okay?’
‘Thank you,’ replied Floz.
‘So, what have you been writing this week?’ asked Perry, drawing Floz into conversation whilst Juliet wandered into the kitchen to see Guy in his empire. Pans were bubbling and steaming; Guy was carving the roast beef. Juliet stole a bit and Guy slapped her hand.
‘Just testing,’ she said, munching merrily. ‘Up to your usual standard, I have to say.’
A pan hissed and gravy bubbled over the top of it.
‘Oh shit!’ said Guy, looking wildly around him for a cloth.
‘S’up with you?’ Juliet gawped at him. ‘You’re in a flap. You never get in a flap cooking.’
‘I am not in a flap,’ growled Guy.
‘You all right?’
‘Course I’m all right,’ said Guy. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘It’s just that . . . I haven’t seen much of you recently. And when I do – well, there’s me telling Floz what a great laugh you are and you’ve gone all grumbly like a big disgruntled grizzly bear.’
‘I don’t think it’s right that I visit as much when you have a lodger. She’ll want her privacy,’ Guy grumbled like a big disgruntled grizzly bear.
‘Floz an
d Steve seem to be getting on rather well,’ mused Juliet, stealing a look in the mirror on the kitchen wall which held a reflected view of Steve and Floz talking together in the dining room. ‘I reckon there’s a spark there.’
Guy dropped a carton of milk and swore and Juliet made a hasty exit. Maybe today her twin would be best left alone.
Steve was leading Floz over to an armchair when Juliet joined them. He was showing off Stripies the family cat: an ancient, one-eyed, one-toothed cat with deformed paws. He looked fiercely feral with his single long canine, but he was as soft as butter.
‘Why do you call him Stripies?’ asked Floz, seeing as he was all black with not a hint of a stripe anywhere.
Everyone in the room swapped amused glances above Floz’s head.
‘Ah, there’s a story,’ said Grainne.
‘Actually it’s a fact that when black cats are kittens, a lot of them have ghost-stripes on them,’ began Perry with a grin. ‘They grow out of them soon enough, but they definitely look stripey.’
‘Oh I see,’ said Floz.
‘But that wasn’t the reason he got his name,’ smiled Perry, being deliberately evasive.
‘Oh Dad – tell the story,’ urged Juliet with good-humoured impatience. ‘Okay, I’ll begin. For my nineteenth birthday, Mum and Dad bought me a black fur coat.’
‘And a few nights after, Guy runs into the house shouting, “Juliet, give me your coat quick and a black binliner”,’ Grainne took up the reins of the story. ‘And he handed this wet bag over to me and ran out of the house with Juliet’s coat and a bin bag.’
Floz looked bemused.
Perry took a few attempts to light the pipe that was now clenched in between his lips. When he had, he carried on with the next part.
‘In the bag was a damp, shivering black kitten with strange paws. Turns out that a man called Donald Green had put him in a sack and thrown him in the stream that runs just to the side of Pogley Top Woods. The stream that is known locally as “Pogley Stripe” because it’s really more of a ditch with a very shallow stripe of water running through it. Hardly more than a dribble. Then this Donald bloke called in the local pub and starting talking about what he’d just done. He thought it was a funny yarn. He had an idea that people would see him as the hard man for doing such a thing.’
‘Prick!’ interjected Juliet, giving her beloved cat a tickle under his chin.
‘And who should be drinking in the pub, but our Guy and Steve,’ said Grainne.
‘Ah.’ Floz was beginning to see the connection now.
‘Wait though, there’s more to tell.’ The story baton passed back to Perry. ‘So Guy and Steve straight away leave the pub to go hunting for the cat and find him. The state of the little thing. Pogley Stripe wasn’t deep enough to drown him in, but he’d have died of the cold if he hadn’t been rescued. Then the boys come home, give us the cat to warm up and grab Juliet’s coat, because they’ve made a plan.’
‘We knew that wank— waste of space Don Green always got pi— drunk,’ said Steve, trying to mind his Ps and Qs in front of the older Millers. ‘So we waited for him.’
‘And sure enough, out of the pub he comes,’ whispered Perry, milking the drama. ‘Drunk as a lord at ten past eleven. And laying in wait for him by the edge of Pogley Top Woods and the Stripe are our heroes Steve and Guy.’ Then he started giggling like a schoolboy. It was an infectious sound and set Floz off.
‘And Steve puts the bag . . .’ began Grainne.
‘No, Gron, you’re telling the story too quickly!’ admonished Perry. ‘So, they see Donald Green coming and just as he’s in the place where they found the kitten, Guy, clad in Juliet’s coat, roars like a lion and grabs Donald Green from behind. And Steve covers the villain of the piece with the binliner and they push him in the ditch. It’s only a spit of water, like I said – couldn’t drown a man, but I think his trousers were distinctly wet by the time he crawled out. And even today, Donald Green is convinced that he was attacked by the Beast of Pogley. He felt the giant cat’s fur, you see. He even got a story printed about it in the Chronicle. Obviously he didn’t tell them the part about trying to drown the kitten.’
‘He ended up giving some money to the RSPCA,’ added Grainne. ‘Allegedly he still sleeps with the light on.’
‘I don’t think he’s been that way home from the pub since,’ giggled Perry.
‘What a funny story,’ said Floz, giving the old cat a scratch on his head. He really was an ugly creature with his club paws and a greying face, so odd that he was utterly endearing and she could understand why the family loved him so much. Stripies had lived like a king since he entered the Miller portals. He laid claim to the best armchair, ate fresh salmon every Saturday for his tea and he repaid them with the odd knee-sitting, lick and dismembered fieldmouse. He was part of the furniture and no one doubted he would be there forever. Floz thought that Stripies had known more love than a lot of people in this world.
‘Do you want a hand, son?’ called Grainne in the direction of the kitchen.
‘No, I’m fine,’ came back the big bass tones of Guy, just before a clatter of tins and a string of expletives that made everyone swap raised eyebrows.
‘Thank goodness we got a taxi – this Rioja is superb. Well done, Dad!’ said Juliet, filling up her glass.
Perry gave her a big squeeze and looked at her in such a way that tears blindsided Floz. It cost her a lot of eye-blinking to force them back.
‘To the table, boys and girls,’ called Grainne.
Perry Miller crooked his arm towards his guest and Floz smiled and threaded her glass-free hand through it. She really had better slow down on the alcohol. This bonhomie was almost painful with its sweetness, although there was always Guy to redress the balance. He made a red-faced entrance carrying a pot of vegetables. He nodded a hello to Floz, barely hunting eye-contact. She prayed he wasn’t sitting next to her at the table, or worse – directly across from her. Luckily, when they took their places, she was to find that Guy was heading for the opposite end of the table. She was seated next to Perry and across from Steve and his cheery face.
‘You are in for such a treat now,’ said Juliet, leaning over the table to Floz. ‘Guy is a superb cook.’
Minutes later, the table groaned from the bacchanalian feast of burned honeyed parsnips, cauliflower with an eye-watering Stilton and bacon sauce, sloppy sage mash, baby carrots drowning in butter, over-cooked asparagus, under-cooked sprouts and pine-nuts, liquidy horseradish cream, ultra-thick onion gravy that could have been served in slices, and Yorkshire puddings . . . or were they pancakes? It was as if a three-year-old had got hold of a Masterclass recipe book.
‘Sorry, folks,’ apologized Guy. ‘It . . . er . . .’
‘Oh, not to worry,’ encouraged Perry. ‘It all looks jolly fine to me. Tuck in, everyone.’ He speared a Yorkshire pudding which was so brittle it shattered over the table en route to his plate.
The beef was good, Guy told himself. Even if it was the only thing that was. He couldn’t have been more nervous if he had been cooking for the Sultan of Brunei. In fact, it was worse because he didn’t fancy the Sultan of Brunei. And the Sultan of Brunei hadn’t been told what a fantastic cook he was with a reputation he sadly had not lived up to on this occasion. He could have died of embarrassment.
‘It’s great stuff.’ Steve stuck his thumb up at Guy and took a forkful of beef. ‘Chuffing hell, Guy, that’s a fine cut of bull.’
Guy was fidgeting in his seat like Shakin’ Stevens, which made Steve want to laugh. If only Floz knew what was making him so nervous.
‘When’s your next wrestling bout?’ asked Juliet. ‘Get us a couple of tickets and Floz and I will come and watch you.’
‘It’s on Tuesday in the Centennial Rooms. I’ve managed to persuade Guy to fight again because we’re a man down.’
‘Okay, we’ll be there,’ said Juliet, taking it as read that Floz would want to go too. She felt her new friend needed cheering up a wee bit.
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‘Do you come from around here then, Floz?’ said Grainne.
Floz finished chewing on a carrot and nodded. ‘Higher Hoppleton, originally,’ she said.
‘Oh, you’re posh then,’ Steve winked at her across the table.
‘Ignore him,’ sniffed Juliet. ‘He wouldn’t know posh if it shoved an olive up his arse.’
‘Juliet Miller, you watch your language at my table.’ Grainne waved her fork at her daughter.
‘Are your parents from Higher Hoppleton, Floz?’ asked Perry.
‘Dad was, Mum was from York.’
‘You must have gone to Penistone High then,’ Steve deduced, nearly breaking his tooth on a parsnip.
‘No, we moved around a lot. Dad’s a Brigadier in the Army.’
‘Ah, that’s why you have that lovely silky accent,’ smiled Grainne.
That also explained why Floz didn’t seem to have any close mates, thought Juliet. She’d once worked alongside the daughter of another military man who had told her how a life of being uprooted every few years had affected her ability to make solid and lasting friendships.
‘How come you settled back in Barnsley then?’
‘I went to Uni in Leeds and I . . . er . . . met my ex-husband there. He was from Barnsley.’
‘And you liked it so much, you stayed?’ said Perry.
‘More or less,’ said Floz.
‘And where are your parents living now?’ asked Perry.
‘Stop interrogating the girl.’ Grainne told her husband off.
‘No, it’s okay,’ said Floz. She didn’t mind. She was flattered that they were taking an interest in her. At this light, non-intrusive level anyway. ‘They retired to France.’
‘Do you see much of them, then?’ asked Grainne.
‘No, not really,’ replied Floz, feeling the first prickles of discomfort. She knew that a family who were as close as the Millers were to each other would not be able to understand her own family set-up. Juliet and Guy were so obviously products of a loving couple, not an unwanted bombshell of a by-product.
‘Oh, that’s such a shame,’ said Grainne. She opened her mouth to ask another question, but to Floz’s great relief, Steve hijacked the course of the conversation.
An Autumn Crush Page 12