‘I’m Stefano from Costana and Mortimer, and this, this is Fay. She’s a prospective buyer.’
Fay stuck out that willing hand again. ‘Hi.’ Then she screwed up her little nose in thought. ‘You look kind of familiar, DI Fox.’
‘Oh yeah?’ He considered her briefly.
‘I know.’ She clapped a hand to her heart. ‘From the TV show: I Overcame a Trauma.’
I groaned quietly.
‘I ’spect that’s it. Weren’t my finest hour, it must be said.’ Did DI Fox wink at me then? The DS’s radio crackled loudly and she stepped away.
‘Anyway, in the circumstances, I’m afraid you can’t go in,’ Fox said. ‘This is currently a crime scene, while we wait for fingerprints to be taken. I’ll have to ask you to come back.’
‘A crime scene?’ Costana shifted from brogue to shiny brogue, scowling slightly.
‘There’s been a break-in,’ Fox explained. The DS was now signalling to an unmarked car pulling up through the dispersing fog.
‘A break-in? I see.’ Impatiently Costana tapped a glossy set of details for the flat against his thigh. ‘It’s not exactly a great selling point, is it?’ He glared at me and then smiled apologetically at Fay.
‘So sorry about that,’ I muttered.
‘Are you Maggie’s boyfriend? You’re lovely and tall, aren’t you?’ Fay was smiling up at Alex. ‘I thought you were single, Maggie, you naughty girl.’
I bit down so hard on my lip that I tasted blood.
‘Ex,’ Alex said wearily. ‘Ex-boyfriend.’
Fay twinkled knowingly. ‘Aha.’
‘Excuse me,’ I said faintly, ‘but I’m not feeling all that wonderful.’ If I didn’t leave immediately, it might just become a murder scene. I gathered up my various bags. Perhaps it was the fog; perhaps it was just sheer desperation to get away from Fay, but somehow I went flying as I stepped off the pavement in search of peace.
I whacked my head on the kerb as I fell, and my mobile went straight down the gutter. There was a big hullabaloo, I remembered afterwards, with potatoes and Cornish Yarg and little tomatoes rolling all over the road, and then someone phoned my father and asked him to collect me as I sat with my head between my knees for a while. The DS gave me the once-over but nothing was really damaged apart from my pride.
‘Get some ice on that when you get home,’ she advised, and gave me a brief rundown of the symptoms of concussion while I looked mournfully up at the flat and wished that I actually had a home these days.
Fay picked up the tomatoes. She returned my collection of bags to me, and then eventually she and Costana dissolved into the chilly day, although Fay wanted to stay, I could tell even in my dazed state.
‘Please go now, Fay,’ I said, and she tried and failed not to look put out. I heard Alex assuring her he’d take good care of me. Fox patted my hand and said he’d talk to me later.
Then Alex practically carried me to the pub on the corner and bought me a double whisky and, after I pleaded, cigarettes from the machine. He ordered fruit juice for himself. The landlord greeted Alex like a long-lost friend, which he was, I supposed sadly. Sitting in the corner booth, I hugged Digby to me. My teeth kept chattering though it was warm and fuggy in the pub.
‘What’s going on, Mag?’ Alex asked, eyeing my drink.
‘You tell me.’ I lit a cigarette. ‘Can you get me another whisky please?’
‘You haven’t finished that one yet.’ He frowned. ‘So why weren’t you at work?’
‘Why weren’t you?’
‘I’m meant to be getting on a plane back to Glasgow in about’, he checked his watch, ‘an hour.’
‘You’d better go then.’
‘Yes, I better had.’ But he showed no sign of moving. ‘And you?’
‘I’m having a crisis,’ I said, and drained my glass. ‘Another one. Please get me that drink now.’
So he did. And another orange for himself – apparently. I was so suspicious I even tasted it.
‘What kind of crisis?’ he asked, ignoring the insult, pushing my whisky towards me.
‘An everything crisis,’ I said mournfully.
‘Right. One of those.’
I stared at the wall opposite, at the little etching of a knife-grinder on London Bridge serving a bonneted lady. ‘My life’s falling apart, Alex.’
He sighed deeply. ‘It’s not, Maggie, honestly. It just – it probably just seems a bit like that.’
‘Someone’s out to get me and I’m really scared. Sometimes I think I might be –’
‘What?’
I couldn’t bear to say it. Turning out like my mother. I shook my head. ‘And I don’t trust any of you –’
‘Thanks very much.’
‘It’s a strange way to live, isn’t it?’ The world seemed to be retreating. Or perhaps it was due to the whisky. ‘And I wish that bloody girl would get off my case.’
‘Which girl? The redhead?’
‘She’s not a bloody redhead. She’s a nutter.’
‘I thought she was a friend.’
‘Hardly.’
He chewed his thumbnail. ‘She’s very –’
‘Don’t say it, please.’ I held up a hand. ‘She’s very pretty. The kind of girl you just want to take care of.’
‘Yeah, she’s pretty,’ he grinned. ‘She looks a bit like you actually.’
I groaned.
‘But I was going to say – odd. Kind of – spaced out. She looks like she’s – I don’t know. Almost nervous of you.’
‘Nervous? Of me?’ I was incredulous.
‘Like – in awe. Like you might turn round and bite her.’
‘You’re making it up.’
‘If you say so,’ he shrugged. ‘So why else are you having this crisis?’
‘I want to leave Double-decker, that’s the main thing. I’ve remembered that I hate it.’
‘Well, do it then. You know what I think.’
‘Yes, I do know, thanks.’ I took a big slug of my drink. The whisky fumes burnt the lining of my nose. ‘But it’s not that easy.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, what else would I do?’ I looked at him. I took a deep breath. ‘And also – it’s Charlie.’
‘What about him?’
‘He won’t let me go.’
Alex’s face closed down. ‘Fuck Charlie.’
‘I’d really rather not.’ I swirled my whisky round the glass. It was very golden under the ceiling light. I wasn’t sure I even liked whisky, but I seemed to be quite enjoying it now. ‘Although he did try it on with me the other night, I think.’
‘For Christ’s sake.’ Alex banged his own glass back on the table. ‘Just tell him where to go, Maggie, why don’t you?’
‘I can’t,’ I mumbled. ‘He’s kind of threatening me.’
‘With what?’
I looked at him very directly. ‘I imagine you know perfectly well what with, Alex.’ I couldn’t pretend I didn’t remember any more. The early-morning nightmares had become reality as my brain finally filled in the gaps. Relieved as I was to have not lost my memory for all time, the images of the night that precipitated my downfall were so unpleasant I’d rather not have recalled them at all.
Alex shifted slightly in his seat, gnawing his thumbnail in that oh-so-familiar gesture. ‘Because of –’
‘Because of the summer, yes.’
Alex looked away like the memory actually hurt him. In the corner by the fruit machine, two stallholders were arguing about the most lucrative kind of tourist. The taller one had wiry hair that looked like it had been neatly folded on top of his head.
‘And what’s Charlie going to do about it?’ Alex asked grimly. His eyes were slanted half-shut against the overhead light.
‘He’s angry. He says I let him down, and he says he’ll make sure I don’t work again. He’ll ruin my reputation.’ I picked at a cardboard beermat. ‘Whatever reputation that might be. I don’t think it’s a very good one any more, do you?’
‘For fu
ck’s sake, Maggie.’ Alex stood up too quickly and whacked his forehead on the lampshade. ‘The bloke’s a fucking bully.’
‘Sit down, Alex. He might well call you the same, you know.’
‘He might, I suppose,’ Alex muttered, rubbing his sore head almost violently. ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this? I could talk to him –’
‘It’s nothing to do with you any more, Al. I’m not your problem now, you know that.’
He looked down at me and suddenly I felt like I was on a keeling ship, as if I was pitching up and down; as if I needed to grab for Alex. If I grabbed on, perhaps I could haul myself back up to safety.
Alex sat down beside me now. Digby grinned up at him happily.
‘You’ll always be my problem, Mag,’ he said quietly, fondling the dog’s silky ears with his long, nicked fingers.
‘Why’s that then?’ I peeled the whole colourful top layer off the beermat.
‘Because,’ he rubbed his craggy face tiredly. ‘Because you’re my best friend.’
‘Really?’ I stared at my drink. My heart felt like it was somersaulting across that deck. ‘Well, you’re not a very good best friend, Alex.’ I looked at him again. ‘In fact, you’re an extremely bad friend. You’ve practically cost me my career.’
And he looked at me and I looked back, and suddenly it was like we were connected again, just like we used to be. It was a strange sensation, and I tried to remind myself of all the black days, the violent rampages, the terrible despair, but –
Alex took my hand in his; the hard skin on his fingertips just as I remembered, the blister from where he held his pencil too tight when he drew, the scars and scratches from where he simply didn’t care enough. ‘Cold as ever,’ he muttered, turning my palm up. I felt most peculiar, like I was about to lose myself.
And then my dad walked in.
‘Maggie, love!’ His eyes found me, his long face all consternation, his anorak crackling damp from the fog and drizzle that had started outside. He suddenly looked old, and I felt a huge rush of guilt over all the stress and worry I kept putting my poor father through.
Alex stood up. ‘Hi, Bill.’ He shook my dad’s hand.
‘Alex. Thanks for looking after her.’
I snorted. ‘I’m not a child, you know.’ But the way they both looked at me then made me doubt my own words.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Alex asked my father, almost hopefully.
‘No, better not, thanks all the same. I’d like to get you home, Maggie. I’m double-parked outside.’ He patted Alex’s shoulder absently. ‘Another time, old chap. I’ll be in the car, Mag.’
My father returned to his car while Alex went to the loo and I finished up my drink. The stallholder with the folded hair was ranting now. ‘You can’t trust those middle-class prats,’ he informed his milder companion ferociously, wiping a beer-foam moustache away, ‘they always buy one poxy mackerel after you’ve just priced up lobster.’
Some middle-class prats soaking up the local atmosphere over half-pints of cider looked around rather nervously. The other man conceded.
‘I suppose so, though they spend more than the bloody Japs, thank God, and they don’t bleeding photograph you all the time. Got fifty pence for the machine, Fred?’ He slotted the money in, followed swiftly by the clank of winning coins.
I finished my own drink and picked up my bag. The handle was tangled round Alex’s portfolio; I shook the bag to release it until the case fell open on the faded velvet seat. Some glossy photos of an apartment complex in Chicago slid out, a batch of mathematical-type drawings that looked like lots of black lines to me with Alex’s little squiggles everywhere. A sketch, upside-down, that I peered at; that I thought for a funny moment might actually be me. And then, as I heard a rattle, another clank, Alex was behind me, pulling the portfolio roughly out of my hand, snatching up that sketch.
‘Ow! That hurt.’
It was too late, though, the set of keys tumbled out onto the table.
Keys that Alex had just told DI Fox he didn’t have in his possession any more; keys to my violated flat. Alex swiped them up as I stared at him, and then I grabbed Digby’s lead and ran.
‘You shouldn’t interfere with what’s not yours,’ Alex snarled behind me, and Digby barked in confusion, but I tugged him on.
My father’s car was waiting outside the shut-up fishmonger’s. I jumped in the passenger seat, and Digby, highly excited by all the running, flung himself onto my knee. ‘Can you just drive, Dad?’
He frowned, adjusting his mirror; he could see Alex standing in the doorway.
‘Dad, go – please!’ I implored. ‘I’ll explain later.’
‘Maggie, really, the poor boy is –’
‘Dad!’ I shouted, and my bewildered father, shaking his head, pulled off.
‘I can’t keep up with you, Maggie. You’re starting to seriously worry me, you know.’ He indicated to turn left onto the main road. ‘We don’t want to head down this path again, do we?’
I watched, utterly miserable, as Alex’s tall frame dwindled, as we picked up pace; and then we turned the corner towards London Bridge – and he was gone.
‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ I muttered. ‘I don’t mean to worry you, honestly. I’m fine.’
And it was only later I realised I’d left the shopping and my overnight bag under the pub table.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘Bel’s been trying to ring you from Thailand,’ Sally said, plonking a steaming cappuccino in front of me early the next morning. ‘She says your mobile number’s dead. It’s thirty-eight degrees in Bangkok apparently, the jammy cow!’
‘My phone went down the drain,’ I said flatly, glancing at the guest-list for the Dumped show tomorrow that lay on my office desk, my stomach churning unpleasantly at the very thought of the travesty that would ensue. ‘Literally.’
‘Ah, poor phone,’ Sally said. Then she looked at me properly. ‘Goodness, Maggie, are you all right? You look bloody awful. What’s happened to your head?’
Whichever way I’d tried to rearrange my short mop, it just wouldn’t cover the by-now aubergine-coloured bruise resplendent on my forehead.
‘That looks really painful.’ Sally peered at it. ‘Perhaps you should go home.’
‘I can’t,’ I muttered, ‘home’s out of bounds for now.’
‘What? Why?’ she frowned.
‘I’ve had a break-in. I’m back in Greenwich, at my dad’s.’
‘Oh God, Maggie, I’m sorry. What did they take? You didn’t disturb them, did you?’
Charlie sauntered in, his grey hair looking particularly bouffant today. ‘Nice to see you found the time to drop in, Ms Warren.’
I smiled feebly. ‘Sorry.’
He was about to lay into me when he looked at me properly. ‘What the hell’s happened to your head?’
‘I fell. Can you get someone to sort me out a work mobile, please, Sal?’ I chucked the Dumped list back at her. ‘This all looks fine.’
‘Really?’ She wrinkled her snub nose at me. ‘I thought you might be worried that Kevin bloke is a bit old hat.’
I’m absolutely beyond caring, I nearly said. I managed to restrain myself in time. ‘Why?’
‘He’s done Trisha and Jeremy Kyle. Oh, and the orange man.’
‘Lucky old Kevin,’ Charlie said dryly. ‘Let me see.’ He held out a manicured hand for the guest-list.
Sally and I exchanged glances. Charlie never looked at lists – it ballsed things up every time he got involved.
‘On second thoughts, Sal, I’ll recheck it now.’
‘You get on now, Sally dear. Go and whip up some enthusiasm from young Blake,’ Charlie said silkily as she passed me back the list. He pulled up a trouser leg creased sharp enough to cut yourself on and settled on the edge of my desk. Sally backed out nervously, her chest flushed with anxiety.
‘Sorry,’ she mouthed at me.
As the door shut, I pretended very hard that I was reading the l
ist, although the words kept swimming around like little black fish.
‘I get the feeling, Maggie darling, you’ve been avoiding me.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ I gave him a wan smile.
Charlie examined those perfect nails. ‘Not thinking of flying the coop, are we? A little bird told me you’ve been asking around.’
My mouth went dry. ‘Asking for what?’
‘Dispatches, no less. Very grown-up. Not really your thing, I would have said.’
How could he possibly know?
‘Could you really hack it, though, with your history? That’s what you need to ask yourself. Especially when you know I’d miss you, don’t you?’ Charlie placed his forefinger under my chin and forced me to meet his eye. ‘Let me take you out to lunch and explain exactly how much.’
‘I’ve got so much to catch up with,’ I mumbled, my smile frozen now. ‘Another time would be great.’
‘Leave it, darling. It can wait. I’ll get Monica to book a table at Le Caprice.’ Charlie brushed one finger along my forehead, grazing my bruise so I gasped in pain. Then he tucked my hair behind my ear as if the tender gesture had been his sole intention.
‘I can’t, Charlie. The girls need me here today.’
Our eyes locked for a moment until Charlie stood. He made a big show of brushing his trousers down, retying his Ralph Lauren jumper round his shoulders as he battled to control his temper. He so hated being told no. Strolling to the door, Charlie turned with his fingers on the handle.
‘Remind me – what exactly’s been wrong with you this time?’
I refused to let him rile me. ‘I just had a bit of a bug,’ I said mildly.
‘Oh, a bug! A bug like in the summer?’
I gazed at him calmly. ‘No, not like in the summer, Charlie. Thanks for asking, though.’
‘Right.’ Charlie plucked the door open. ‘Well, have your bloody bugs on your own time, please.’ He slammed the door behind him.
After I’d rung Seb and left him a message with my new mobile number, I sat and stared at the painting of Pendarlin on the wall for what seemed like hours. I’d spent the whole sleepless night at my father’s debating whether to shop Alex to the police. Every day, memories of the last fight, of his actions before the crash, became clearer … I didn’t know how long I could fight them any more.
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