Molly said evenly, ‘It’s three o’clock in the morning. Believe it or not, I was asleep when you called. This is what I look like without make-up. Just like this is what you look like after a night out with your rugby friends. Shall we go?’
‘Ah no, you can’t leave yet,’ protested a woman sitting opposite with a toddler on her lap. ‘Timmy’ll start crying again if you do.’ She turned to Molly. ‘He loves the singing. Your husband’s been a complete lifesaver tonight, keeping him entertained.’
‘He’s not my husband,’ said Molly as, on cue, the little boy began to whimper in a fractious manner.
‘Well, he’s been a godsend,’ the woman reiterated. ‘And we’re due to be seen soon. You can stay for just a bit longer, can’t you?’
Why? Why did these things always have to happen to her? Graham resumed his singing – Elvis tracks were his speciality – and Timmy stopped whimpering in order to gaze at him in rapt adoration. Everyone else in the waiting room, astoundingly, appeared to be enjoying the show too. Realising that to drag him away now would make her some kind of hateful frozen-hearted witch, Molly found herself sinking on to an empty plastic chair and picking up one of the mangled magazines from the table in front of her.
Three months, that was how long they’d been seeing each other. She’d first met Graham in a cinema queue and in so many ways he’d seemed like excellent boyfriend material. Intelligent, tick. Kind-hearted, tick. Not a ladies’ man, big tick. By day he was a chartered accountant, which had impressed her no end. And he didn’t have any irritating habits along the lines of eating noisily, sniffing non-stop or laughing like a donkey.
But no one’s perfect and Graham’s irritating habit turned out to be his passion for rugby. Or, more to the point, for going out with his rugby-playing mates even when the rugby season was over, and getting absolutely plastered on a regular basis.
Actually, she wouldn’t even mind if it didn’t affect her, but it was reaching the stage where it was. Last month, one of Graham’s epic hangovers had resulted in them not going to a barbecue. And a couple of weeks ago he’d managed to shoot a champagne cork into his own eye at a wedding. The subsequent bruising, which had been spectacular, had only just gone down.
And now this, tonight. To add insult to injury, she’d been having a brilliant dream when the phone had rung, waking her up.
‘Hey, Molly, I love you, it’s me.’ His voice had been blurred around the edges. ‘You won’t believe what’s happened. I’ve only gone and broken my foot. I can’t walk . . .’
‘Oh God, where are you?’ She’d got head-rush sitting bolt upright, instantly conjuring up a mental picture of Graham lying in agony at the bottom of a ravine. This was what happened when you were jolted out of a dream that involved skiing in the Swiss Alps with Robert Downey Junior, and loaves of bread strapped to your shoes.
‘I’m at the hospital, A&E. They’ve sorted me out but now I can’t get home. I had to spend my taxi money getting here. And I can’t walk,’ Graham said sadly. ‘Oh Molly, I do love you. Could you come and pick me up?’
‘Oh God . . .’
‘If I had my credit card,’ he wheedled, ‘I wouldn’t have to ask.’
Molly sighed; she was the one who’d told him to leave his bank cards at home after the last time he’d lost them on a night out.
See? Soft touch. And now that she was here, they still couldn’t leave.
Thankfully the child’s mother had been right and within minutes they were called through for treatment. When they’d disappeared, Graham held out his hands to Molly and said, ‘There, he’ll be fine. Shall we go now?’
She had to help him up. His right shoe was sticking out of his jacket pocket, his right foot bare and spattered with dried blood. There was tape wrapped around his toes.
Molly frowned. ‘If you’ve broken your foot, shouldn’t it be in a plaster cast?’
‘Well, I didn’t actually break my foot. It was the toes. The little one and the one next to it. They don’t put them in a cast,’ Graham explained. ‘Just strap them together. Bloody hurts, though. Ow.’ Leaning heavily on her shoulder, he took a step and flinched. ‘Ow, OW.’
He weighed fourteen stone to her eight. At this rate she’d end up putting her back out. ‘Couldn’t they give you crutches?’ said Molly.
‘What? Oh yeah, they did. What happened to them? They were here earlier. I forgot!’
The crutches were located under someone else’s chair. It was finally time to leave. As they headed outside, a lad approached them. In his late teens and with his arm in a sling, he said, ‘Mate, I can’t get a taxi and my girlfriend’s mad as hell ’cos I should’ve been home ages ago. Couldn’t give me a lift to Horfield, could you?’
‘Sorry, we can’t.’ Molly shook her head, avoiding eye contact.
‘Oh, Moll, don’t say that! Of course we can give him a lift.’ Graham wasn’t just a drunk, he was a generous drunk. ‘No problem, mate, come along with us, Horfield’s not far out of our way. We’ll drop you home!’
Once everyone was folded into the car, Molly buzzed down the driver’s window to dispel the alcohol fumes.
‘So how did you manage to break your toes?’ she asked Graham.
‘Fell off a table.’ He shrugged as if it was entirely the table’s fault for not managing to keep him on there.
‘And where did all the blood come from?’
‘I dropped my pint when I fell. There was glass everywhere. You should see Steve’s hands, cut to ribbons where he landed on it!’
‘So all in all you had a pretty disastrous night.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ Graham gave a shout of incredulous laughter. ‘It was brilliant, best time ever!’
Nodding slowly, Molly decided for all their sakes to concentrate on the road ahead. And to think she’d been so thrilled last month when he’d helped her fill out her tax form online.
But accountant or no accountant, Graham definitely wasn’t destined to be the man of her dreams.
He was going to have to go.
Chapter 3
Dexter was enjoying Alice’s company. She was a nice girl with a neat figure and pretty grey eyes. Rather sweetly, she had refused to sleep with him after their first date, proudly announcing that she wasn’t that sort of girl.
It had happened after the second date instead.
And now it was a fortnight later and to his eternal shame Dex could already feel his enthusiasm start to wane. He didn’t want it to be like this, it just always seemed to happen regardless. The thrill was in the chase, the process of seduction. As soon as that aspect of it was over, the excitement began to subside, the shine wear off. He still had fun, enjoyed their company, liked being with them, but never quite as much as before.
The morning after their first night in bed, Alice had said, ‘Don’t go thinking I make a habit of this, by the way. I’ve never done it before.’
They always said that too.
Poor Alice, she deserved better than a no-hoper like him.
Dex made coffee as she wandered into the kitchen now, wearing his too-big towelling robe. While he’d been out of the bedroom she’d done her usual thing of hastily brushing her hair and teeth and dabbing on a bit of lip gloss.
‘Here you go.’ He passed her a cup. ‘What time do you have to be at work?’
Her eyes danced. ‘Trying to get rid of me?’
‘Of course not. It’s just that I’ve got a couple of appointments later.’
‘I know.’ Alice’s tone was playful as she perched on one of the stainless steel stools and reached for the leaflets next to the coffee maker. She tapped the times and dates he’d scrawled across the top of each one. ‘I saw them last night. Are these for you?’
‘Well, not all of them. But one. Possibly.’ It had started off, pretty much, as an idle whim. A friend at work had happened to mention how much he looked forward to heading out of London on Friday afternoons and spending lazy weekends at his cottage in the country. The idea had piqued Dex�
�s interest and he’d registered his details on a couple of estate agents’ websites. Then the glossy brochures had started arriving and the level of interest had grown. A refuge, somewhere to get away from it all, began to sound like something he might really enjoy. It wouldn’t be a stretch to buy a smallish property. And whether he ended up liking it or not, choose wisely and it wasn’t as if he’d be throwing money away. It would be an investment.
‘They’re gorgeous. So . . . cottagey.’ Alice was lining the details up in a row on the steel countertop. ‘Especially compared with this place.’
Dex took a gulp of coffee. This place was a sixth-floor apartment in an ultra-modern development overlooking the Thames and Canary Wharf. He’d bought it a couple of years ago, aware that it was the ultimate single guy’s cliché. The views impressed everyone who came here. The living room had a spectacular mirrored wall to reflect the light, and opened on to a steel and glass balcony. Every technological gadget was top of the range. He had no idea how the oven worked, but that didn’t matter; he generally ate out. And thanks to his cleaner, every inch of the flat was kept immaculate.
‘I thought I’d go for something different.’ He shrugged.
‘Which one do you like best?’
‘No idea, I haven’t seen them yet.’
‘Moreton-in-Marsh.’ As she read out the names of the locations, Alice’s robe gaped open a bit. ‘Stow-on-the-Wold. Briarwood.’ She mimed a swoon. ‘They sound like something out of a Sundaynight costume drama. Maybe everyone’ll be wearing long skirts and bonnets.’
‘Bonnets don’t suit me,’ said Dex.
‘I could come with you, if you like. Help you choose. I’m not working until this evening.’
Dex hesitated. When he’d told Laura about the viewings, she’d offered to go along with him. Which was a great idea in theory, but not quite so practical now that Delphi was part of the package. For a start, the baby seat wouldn’t fit into the Porsche. When he’d pointed this out, Laura had said easily, ‘Well, that’s not problem, we can go in my car instead!’
But seriously, given the choice, who would prefer to drive down to the Cotswolds in a ratty old Ford Escort? Plus, much as he loved Delphi, she didn’t have a handy volume button. Once she took it into her head to start bellowing at the top of her lungs, it wasn’t easy to persuade her to stop.
Worse still, there was the ever-present risk of NNS – Nightmare Nappy Situation – an example of which he’d been subjected to last week when Laura had asked him to look after Delphi for twenty minutes while she had a bath. That had turned out to be twenty minutes he wouldn’t forget in a hurry. Imagine if that were to happen while you were trundling down the motorway, trapped in an ancient Ford Escort . . .
OK, that was enough deliberation; he already knew the answer.
‘Great, we’ll set off in an hour.’
‘Yay,’ Alice said happily. Dex quelled a spasm of guilt. It was a sunny day; they’d have fun together. And, unlike Delphi, Alice hopefully wouldn’t wail like a banshee all the way to Gloucestershire.
He’d give Laura a call and let her know. She’d understand.
With London behind them, traffic thinned out and the scenery grew steadily more attractive. By the time they reached Stow-on-the-Wold, Alice was in raptures. They found the estate agency and followed the agent to the cottage they’d arranged to view. The owner greeted them eagerly with tea and a homemade lemon drizzle sponge, and insisted on wrapping up the rest of the cake for them to take away when they left.
The cottage itself was nicely decorated and well cared for. Sadly the agency details had neglected to mention that it was situated next to a lorry depot. The more or less non-stop soundtrack of pantechnicons arriving, loading up then beeping as they reversed back out of the yard made it hard to hold a conversation.
‘What time does this start up in the morning?’ Dexter had to raise his voice to be heard.
‘Oh, not until seven o’clock.’ The agent’s tone was soothing.
‘And it’s all stopped by nine at night,’ the owner chimed in over-brightly.
So this was what estate agents meant when they said a house was ‘close to local amenities’.
Dex felt sorry for the woman who was clearly desperate to sell, but her cottage was so close you could feel the engine-rumblings in your bones. All the lemon drizzle cake in the world couldn’t make up for that racket.
The next property was in Moreton-in-Marsh. It was perfectly positioned with wonderful views and there wasn’t a depot in sight. There were even baby-pink roses growing up around the front door.
‘Oh my God.’ Alice clasped her hands together at the sight of it. ‘This one is perfect.’
It certainly looked that way. Until the moment the estate agent opened the door and they stepped over the threshold.
Dex knew at once he couldn’t live here. The actual atmosphere inside the house was completely at odds with the feel of it from the photos he’d seen in the brochure. It was like meeting a complete stranger and taking an instant dislike to them. The books in the oak bookshelf weren’t real books at all, just plastic covers with the names of the classics written on their fake spines. There was a strong smell of cheap air freshener in the air. The walls were painted in cloying shades of pink and the art on the walls was anodyne.
None of this mattered a jot, of course; he knew that. The whole point of buying somewhere meant not having to put up with other people’s choice of décor; the place was yours and you could do whatever you liked with it. But when the sense of revulsion was this extreme, it was impossible to overcome. Dex knew he just couldn’t bear to live in a property that had previously been chosen by someone whose sense of style was so wrong.
‘Shall we take a look around upstairs?’ The bearded estate agent gestured for them to follow him and said jovially to Alice, ‘The third bedroom’s currently being used for storage but it would make a wonderful nursery.’
Oh good grief . . .
Dex shook his head. ‘Sorry, there’s no point, I don’t like this place.’
‘Why not?’ Alice looked stunned. ‘It’s amazing. I love everything about it!’
Dex couldn’t help himself; the fact that Alice was actually capable of loving this property caused his enthusiasm for her to bump down another couple of notches.
It shouldn’t matter, but it did.
Then again, that was the story of his life, wasn’t it?
Something always did.
Chapter 4
It was always awkward, finishing with someone who didn’t want to be finished with. Molly didn’t enjoy being the one causing the upset.
And in his own macho, blustering, rugbyish way, Graham had been upset when she’d broken the news to him that their relationship was over. Nor had the broken toes helped; the fact that he was only able to walk on the ball of his right foot and was limping around dramatically only served to increase her guilt. Even if he had been the one to bring the situation upon himself.
So she had finished with him, but he was currently still doing his level best to persuade her to change her mind.
Hence the fish.
‘It’s . . . lovely.’
‘I know.’ Graham was like a Labrador eagerly presenting his owner with a tennis ball covered in saliva. Although saliva would have been less revolting than this. ‘It’s for you,’ he added with pride.
‘Me?’ Oh God. ‘Why?’
‘Because I know you like fish. And I caught it myself. Came home with three, but this one’s the biggest. Eight pounds three ounces. That’s a really good size.’
‘Wow.’ Eight pounds three ounces . . . eurgh, that was as much as a baby. How could she turn it down, though, without hurting his feelings? Molly said tentatively, ‘But I don’t know what I’d do with it.’
‘It’s a carp. You cook it!’ He was starting to look offended.
‘Right, OK.’ Gingerly she peeled back the edges of the carrier bag and took another peep. The carp’s single visible eye was gazin
g balefully back at her. No it wasn’t, the carp was dead. ‘I’ll do that. Thanks.’
‘I remembered how much you like fish,’ Graham repeated.
This was true, she did like fish. Deep fried in batter and eaten with lovely chips. But it would clearly be cruel to explain to him that this one was turning her stomach. He’d driven all the way from Bristol. It was a gift.
‘I do.’ Molly nodded.
‘I can gut it for you if you like. Or stay and help you cook it.’ He looked hopeful.
‘No, that’s fine, I’ll do it myself. Let me just put it in the fridge . . .’
‘Molly, I’ve told you I’m sorry. And I’ve changed.’ Oh help, he was moving back into begging mode. ‘I haven’t had a drink in over a fortnight. I told you I’d do it and I have! Please let me stay and cook the carp with you . . .’
‘Oh Graham, don’t say it.’ She shook her head and held out the heavy carrier bag. ‘I’m not going to change my mind. Maybe you should take the fish home with you.’
He raised his hands in defeat and limped away from her towards the door. ‘No, I’m not taking it, I caught that carp for you. It’s yours.’
‘A what? A cup?’ At the other end of the line, Frankie sounded mystified. ‘Why are you trying to give me a cup?’
‘Not a cup, a carp. Graham went fishing this morning, he brought one over for me, but I don’t want it.’
‘God, I’m not surprised. Carp are disgusting! Why would he do that?’
Molly looked at the dead carp with those weird dangly things at either side of its mouth. Frankie was right, it was disgusting. The dangly things made her feel squeamish. ‘It’s his way of being nice. He’s trying to win me back.’
‘Honestly, hasn’t he heard of diamonds? Much nicer. Hang on, I’m just Googling it now.’ She heard the sound of computer keys tapping away in the background. ‘Here we are. Eastern Europeans eat carp on Christmas Day . . . and the way to do it is: nail it to a plank and roast over an open fire . . . carp have a muddy taste . . . some regard them as inedible . . . oh yeurgh, even worse than I thought. Don’t bother trying to cook the thing,’ Frankie said bluntly. ‘Just chuck it away.’
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