by Jenni Keer
‘I am muchly sorry for any offence I caused.’ Adam placed his hands together in prayer and bowed.
Sonjit drank the last of her water, threw the cone in the bin and put her hands on her hips.
‘Do you want me to file a case of racial harassment?’ The expression on her face remained blank. It was a conversation they had on a regular basis, but it was a futile one. Sonjit would never make a fuss because, whatever unfortunate things spewed from Adam’s mouth, he’d been incredibly supportive when her mother had been terminally ill last year.
Adam weighed up the possibility of her carrying out her threat and decided to brave it out. ‘Do you want me to file a lack of humour report? Honestly, some people can’t take a joke.’
‘Some people work for one,’ said Sonjit, but Lucy noticed her gentle smile as she walked away.
‘I reckon it’s about time to lubricate the old tonsils,’ said Adam, sidling up to Lucy.
‘But I’m right in the middle of a complicated—’
‘Time and tide make the thirsty man dry.’ He tapped his watch. ‘Chop, chop. It’s nearly quarter past three and I’m as dry as a desert-bound sailor. And I’m sure I’m not the only one. It’s important to keep the troops fed and watered if you want them to go into battle.’
Sighing, Lucy slid her chair back.
‘I’m not busy at the moment if you want me to do it?’ offered Connor.
‘Don’t be silly. It’s more of a woman thing. Lucy never complains. And she does make a sterling cup of tea.’ When Sam finally started on those company policies, Daniel wasn’t the only one in for a shock, thought Lucy.
‘I tried.’ Connor shrugged, as Adam sauntered over to see whether Sonjit needed more highlighters. He was, Lucy noticed, very attentive to Sonjit’s stationery needs.
‘It’s okay,’ said Lucy. ‘I’m feeling sorry for him after the screen-saver incident, so I’ll let it go. Who did it? Even he can’t blame Daniel this time. He wasn’t in today.’
‘Wanna bet? Guess who Pat saw leaving the office car park as she pulled in first thing?’ said Connor.
At the end of a long week, Lucy reversed her bottom out of Brenda’s gate, having passed a pleasant hour knitting a twiddlemuff and supervising Brenda’s meal. Worried about her friend’s persistent memory muddles despite the infection clearing up, she’d been researching dementia online and come across these fabulous knitted muffs for sufferers – something to keep their hands busy and quieten their minds. Visiting the dementia ward at the hospital one evening earlier in the week had been an eye-opener, but she was keen to prepare herself for any eventuality. It wouldn’t make the clouds gathering above number twenty-two disperse, but it made Lucy feel she was doing something.
She waved at the young mum who lived opposite and watched her struggle to strap her sulky pigtailed daughter into her car seat. As she turned back to latch the gate, a striding George rammed into the back of her and nearly knocked her to the pavement.
‘Sorry. Sorry,’ she repeated, hoping he wasn’t about to shout at her.
He was staring into his iPhone and clearly hadn’t been looking where he was going.
‘Do you always apologise for things that aren’t your fault, Lisa? It’s an annoying habit of yours.’
‘Sorry.’ Her cheeks flushed hot.
He raised an eyebrow, pressed something on his phone and flipped the case shut, but it buzzed and he flipped it open again.
‘How is Brenda?’ He nodded at her front door but kept his eyes on the screen.
‘Okay, I think.’ Lucy told him about the UTI and the referral to the memory clinic. From the few details she had been able to prise from Brenda, she gathered there had been more memory-related questions and that Dr Hopgood would be contacted with the results. Brenda refused point blank to consider a CT scan or further blood tests, because she no longer needed proof of her condition.
‘They’ve indicated she’s displaying the very early signs of dementia and she’s not taken it very well.’
He took his eyes off the screen and looked at her. ‘Well, no one is going to greet that news with party poppers and balloons.’
Did the man have to be so consistently blunt? She changed the subject.
‘Brenda and I were wondering what happened to the stray. Someone must have taken it in. I’m sure I saw it with a collar on the other day,’ Lucy said.
George avoided her eyes and pretended to be engrossed in the message he was typing.
‘And then I saw you unload a cat activity centre…’
He pressed the screen and looked up.
‘Yes, well, it’s only temporary. A curious young lady I met recently reminded me that it’s not healthy to be alone and pointed out cats make great companions…’ Their eyes locked for a moment but both pairs darted in opposite directions as soon as contact had been made. Curious was as good an adjective as any, she decided. Gorgeous would have been preferable, but at least he hadn’t plumped for bonkers or unhinged. ‘Anyway, couldn’t bear his pitiful little eyes staring at me all the time. Worse than a demanding woman… Joke,’ he clarified.
‘His pitiful eyes?’
‘Took him to the vet. Scratbag is unequivocally a boy.’
‘Scratbag?’
‘The vet insisted on a name when I registered him and that was the first thing that came to mind. Which reminds me…’ He fished about in his pocket and dangled a door key in front of her face. ‘I was going to pop in on you later. Flying visit to sign some ridiculously important, have-to-be-signed-on-a-Saturday-because-the-Europeans-seem-to-work-all-week, type papers with a pulp and paper manufacturer in Germany tomorrow and realised I’d forgotten about Scratbag. Could you?’
There was a pause. There was also a tiny part of her that wanted to say no because he’d still failed to grasp that the word please on the end of a sentence was a real game changer.
He glanced at his watch and then back at her face.
‘Nice scarf,’ he added, noticing the colourful knitting in her hands as though a belated compliment might sway her decision.
‘It’s not a scarf. It’s a twiddlemuff.’
He managed to keep a straight face. ‘Right. Well. The food and all the bits he needs are in the utility. Had a local man fit a cat flap in the back door this week. Didn’t do that whole keeping him in thing as I figured he knows where he’s well off. I’ll feed him first thing, but if you could throw some food at him tomorrow night?’ There was a pause, which George clearly took as her agreeing to feed his cat. ‘I’ll be back early Sunday morning. My flight lands at three in the morning. Ridiculous really, I’ll be longer in the air than on German soil. Keep the utility door shut. I’ll be shattered enough as it is, without cat hair on my pillow keeping me up for what’s left of the night scratching and sneezing.’
She waited for the magic and highly elusive word. It didn’t appear.
‘No problem,’ she sighed.
‘Great. You may as well hold on to the key for future emergencies.’ He thrust the key ring at her and walked off.
Chapter 16
A spring clean was in order, even if spring was making way for her more sultry, and emotionally unpredictable, relative. Lucy spent Saturday morning cleaning and tidying, and by lunchtime she’d given the living room a good going-over; sorted out miscellaneous bags of wool, wobbly piles of books and a scattering of knitting magazines.
She grabbed a sandwich for lunch and settled down to a new book: The Duke’s Dangerous Secret. Goodness, how this taciturn duke reminded her of George, even more so than the duke from the last book. They both needed a good shake, but while the spirited Lady Eleanor might have taught this duke a lesson or two, Lucy hadn’t even been bold enough to correct George over her name. Her eyes darted to the locket on the mantelpiece – it still made her feel uncomfortable and the impending full moon wasn’t helping.
At seven o’clock, Lucy decided to feed George’s temporary lodger. Thinking he might like a bit of company, she tucked a book under
her arm with the idea of sitting with him for a while. Knitting, she decided, and more specifically the ball of wool, might be too much of a temptation for a cat.
As soon as she’d turned the key in the back door and pushed it open, Scratbag jumped down from the worktop and started to weave between her legs. He tried to meow a greeting but it was still a pathetic effort. Lucy looked around for the food.
‘All the bits he needs,’ she repeated to herself. Good grief, some serious money had been spent here. The plush igloo-type cat bed next to the radiator and the four-storey deluxe cat activity centre she’d seen George unload from the car the other day were just the start.
Lucy didn’t profess to be an expert, but as she opened a sachet of Gourmet Perle cat food, she felt certain Scratbag would have been just as content with a tin of supermarket own label. Surely gourmet cat food was for owners with more money than sense? But then George, whom she noticed also had a trouser press standing in the corner, probably fell into that category.
‘Would sir like to sample the salmon and whole shrimp?’ She bowed as she put the dish on the floor and swept a dramatic hand over the food.
Whilst he tucked into his meal, Lucy washed out the previous bowl, changed his water and wiped down the hair-covered worktop. She then sat on the floor next to Scratbag as he began his post-banquet ablutions.
‘The Duke’s Dangerous Secret,’ Lucy announced to the cat. ‘I’m on chapter five but you’ll soon pick up the gist of the story.’ She then proceeded to read chapters five through to nine to a contented Scratbag, who didn’t blush at the explicit sex or comment on the excessive use of adverbs. He sat curled in the middle of her crossed legs, quite a convert to romantic historical fiction.
‘George will be back to feed you in the morning,’ she reminded him, and then she locked up and returned home. She couldn’t put the locket off any longer.
Taking the locket from a wooden bowl on the mantelpiece (it was safer to return it to the same place because, whilst she didn’t want to wear it, she also didn’t want to misplace it), Lucy read the inscription again. She was relieved to find the words hadn’t changed. If it mattered to Brenda that she followed the spells, then follow the spells she would, even if she felt a total twit doing so. It wasn’t that she anticipated them having any effect, but there was a tiny part of her that suspected if she didn’t do them, Brenda would somehow know.
She peered out the kitchen window and saw the reflection of the full moon on the algae-speckled glass of the tiny shed window. Thank goodness it was a Saturday, as she didn’t fancy struggling through a day at work after a night-long vigil. She could sleep in tomorrow. Sundays were supposed to be lazy days.
Despite previously begging Jess to come and keep her company, her friend declined and made a vague comment about being busy. Lucy assumed she was referring to the not-so-mysterious boyfriend, and was peeved she was doing this alone as Jess had guilt-tripped her into doing it in the first place. However, it was simple enough; all she had to do was carve George Aberdour into the side of the candle and sit up with the silly thing until it had burned through.
Kneeling beside her low coffee table, she tipped her knitting bag upside down to look for her yarn needle.
Out fell the ball of double-knit brown wool and Poldark’s half-finished breeches, a recently completed twiddlemuff and the fluffy blue pencil case of scissors, knitting needles, pins and stitch holders. As she gave the bag a final shake, the sought-after yarn needle fell to the floor.
She bundled everything back in the bag, picked up the fat beeswax candle and scratched George’s name along the side. It was tricky as the candle kept rolling away from her, but when she’d finished the name was at least readable. She went into the kitchen to look for something heatproof to stand the candle on and to search for the matches, eventually finding a small saucer that had lost its matching cup. The matches took a while longer to locate until she remembered she’d used them in the bathroom to burn some oak bark incense sticks Brenda had thrust upon her last month to increase her feelings of power and inner strength. With no instructions about the locket itself, she put it on, feeling it somehow needed to be part of the process.
Her watch told her it was gone nine and Jess had said the candle should burn for at least eight hours, which would see her through until five o’clock. She flicked the match down the side of the matchbox. It gave a crackle and burst into flame. She lit the wick, blew out the match and sniffed the strangely intoxicating smell of the sulphur before resting it on the edge of the saucer.
Okay, now what? Sit and stare at it for eight hours? That was going to drag, especially as she wasn’t sleeping much since the changes at work. She gazed at the orange flame, dancing and flickering to its own music. A faint honey smell emanated from the hot wax, and she scrunched up her eyes to summon up a mental image of George, in case that somehow made the magic that she didn’t believe in more potent.
Hypnotised by the light, and repeating his name in her head, she hoped that Brenda’s instincts were right and he had a softer side, because if this ridiculous ritual worked she might find she’d let herself in for more than she could cope with. It wasn’t that he was unattractive – far from it. He had large, soft brown eyes and lips that had the potential to form a pleasant smile if he would only let them. He’d looked so scary and businesslike the first time she’d met him, but the recent addition of the glasses suited his features and softened that intimidating look, somehow making him slightly vulnerable and more human. She thought about all the money lavished on the little scrap of cat that he hadn’t wanted but that had wormed its way into his heart. Perhaps he was lonely. There didn’t seem to be evidence of a girlfriend, and there were still no visiting friends or family.
After a while, Lucy noticed the candle had burned down to the start of the G in George. Nearly three-quarters of an hour had passed. Perhaps the night wouldn’t be such a drag after all. She reached for her jumbled knitting bag and took out Poldark’s half-finished breeches and her needles started to click away to a backdrop of mindless television.
By three o’clock in the morning Poldark was finally complete; a resplendent two-foot-high topless figure in a tricorn hat and holding a knitted scythe. Once the breeches were finished, it hadn’t taken long to sew him up and stuff him. The candle was now down to the last bit of George’s surname but still had a couple of hours burning left.
Lucy was at the point where she was fighting to stay awake. The television had long since been turned off, as early-morning programming left a lot to be desired: 24 Hours in A&E and re-runs of Traffic Cops weren’t really her thing. She needed to focus on something or she’d be on the first train to Sleepy Town. It was too late to embark on another knitting project, so she decided to read for a bit. There were two back issues of Knitting and Crochet lying on the floor in front of her huge wool basket. She picked them up and flicked though them, but they’d been well and truly thumbed, so she tossed them onto the table, making a conscious effort not to treat the floor as a tabletop. They skidded across the wooden surface and landed too close to the candle for comfort, so she moved them to the middle of the table.
Feeling that she needed to be engaged in something that would hold her attention, she went on a hunt for The Duke’s Dangerous Secret but couldn’t remember where she’d put it, so grabbed a handful of books from the pile by the bed to flick through. The problem with being disorganised was that both the books she’d read and the books she was planning to read were randomly stacked together. What she ought to do was separate the ones she’d finished with to take over to Brenda. She carried all of them into the living room to go through the blurbs and find one she hadn’t read. Kneeling by the coffee table, she selected Her Benevolent Master from the pile; Lord Fullbroke offers refuge to the fleeing Cassandra but will her dark secret destroy them both? She pulled some cushions down from the sofa and put them behind her back, still preferring to sit crossed-legged on the floor.
After a while, Lord Fullbroke
and his bulging trousers were not really doing it for her. She found herself nodding off, and there were a couple of horrible moments when she felt like she was free-falling as sleep tried to grab her. She jolted herself awake and readjusted her position, sitting on her knees and resting the book on the edge of the table. The lights were dimmed after Poldark had been completed, but there was still enough light to read by. Her concentration was wandering and she found herself rereading lines and skipping words.
The candle looked close to burning out, so she only needed to stay awake for a little bit longer…
Chapter 17
There was a loud banging noise. In Lucy’s dream the errant Lord Fullbroke was risking all to prove his love for her, but he wouldn’t open up about his tragic past. If only he wasn’t so devilishly handsome. The castle was on fire and she realised the jealous Cassandra was trying to burn her alive in her bed.
Bang, bang, BANG.
Lucy forced her eyes open as her senses finally got through to her brain. There was a bitter, smoky smell and she realised the shouting and banging were both very real.
The room was filled with smoke and she could see a low, flickering flame on the coffee table. Her heart thudded. Her hands started to shake. The open book, which she must have nudged across table as she’d fallen asleep, had pushed the pile of discarded books and the magazines into the candle. They were on fire. Really on fire.
She screamed.
‘Lisa? LISA?’
Someone was kicking her front door.
Adrenaline pumped to every extremity of her panicked body. Should she deal with the fire or answer the door? Her flight instinct was considerably stronger than her fight instinct. She opened the living-room door, ran into the hall and took the safety chain off. As she pulled the door inwards, George came bolting through it and flattened her to the ground. He must have taken a run-up to shoulder the door, expecting to meet with solid wood, but instead met with a distraught Lucy. They landed with a clump together on the carpet. His enormous frame and weight constricted her chest and pinned her down like Wile E. Coyote under a boulder. Despite the drama of the situation, all she could focus on for that instant was the musky smell of his aftershave and an extreme close-up of his stubbly chin.