We wait, only to hear her hit the paper-thin wall again with her stick.
The following afternoon Dan and I are eating lasagne in bed. My chocolate tart sadly didn’t make it. Burnt to a frazzle. Dan and I set off the smoke alarm. ‘You should have seen the effort I went to,’ I tell him. ‘Melting the chocolate and butter in a bain-marie.’
‘In a what?’
‘Exactly. The effort.’
He feeds me another comforting mouthful of tomatoey mince and cheese sauce. Suddenly I am ravenous, and by the looks of it, so is Dan. We practically lick the plates clean. I’m drawn to his hands again. ‘They look sore.’ I touch his skin.
‘Eczema. I’ve had it since I was a child. Mum used to find me sitting on the stairs in the middle of the night, scratching. It gets worse when I’m stressed.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He shrugs. ‘It’s no big deal. People have much worse problems. Anyway…’ he runs a hand through my hair. ‘Why are we talking about scratching and skin – it’s deeply unsexy.’
I laugh, jumping out of bed to draw the curtains. The sun streams in. I look down at the main road. ‘Morag’s off on her scooter,’ I say, watching her zoom down the street, her squat mongrel dog running alongside her on the pavement. I turn back to Dan. ‘What shall we do for the rest of the day?’
He puts our plates on to the floor, sits up and looks at me, that air of naughtiness back in his eyes. ‘Well, I don’t know about you, but if the old witch is out…’
I walk towards him, peeling off my T-shirt. Without words I push him down against the mattress, climb on to his lap, one leg either side of him. Already he’s hard. I hold on to his shoulders and lower myself down, slowly, teasingly. Soon he’s inside me, deeper and deeper.
I don’t hear the telephone ringing until I hear Granny’s loud, distinctive voice on the answerphone.
‘I’m sure you’re out and about as it’s such a lovely day. I’ve just been in the kitchen garden. The agapanthus is looking heavenly.’
‘Don’t stop,’ Dan murmurs, pulling me into him.
‘Anyway, I just wanted to hear how last night went with your nice young man. I hope it was fun and the chocolate tart was yummy.’
11
2014
As Ward kicks off the boardroom meeting I’m still thinking about Dan. It’s been a week since our fateful telephone conversation when I’d asked if his new girlfriend was CRB checked. No wonder Dan was angry. I called him last night to say I was sorry. If he was ready to introduce Isla to his girlfriend this weekend, then I was ready too. I promised him I’d talk to Isla. ‘You’ll like her,’ he’d said awkwardly. I didn’t reply.
My thoughts are interrupted when Graham enters the room. ‘It’s only six minutes past eight, Ward,’ he says as he dives into his seat. ‘Sorry, but I do have to get upsoearly.’
‘Well, there is the option of moving,’ Lucie suggests. Graham lives in Holyport, close to Maidenhead in Berkshire. Each morning he hops on a train from Reading to Paddington and don’t we know about it. Often there aren’t seats and his back is hurting, or there are leaves on the line, or the buffet cart has run out of flapjacks – I feel as if I’m on the train with him.
‘I can’t move to London,’ Graham points out. ‘There isn’t a real tennis club here.’
‘Queen’s Club,’ Ward says like a shot, keen not to waste any more time.
Twenty minutes into the meeting, after doing a round-up of the houses on the market, we run through last week’s pitches.
‘We didn’t get The Farmhouse,’ Ward says. ‘Barker & G bought the instruction.’
Spud barks. He’s downstairs. Ward has asked me if he could remain downstairs at all times from now on.
‘They won’t get three million for it,’ Ward states. ‘January, can you send Mrs Lewis some flowers?’
Mrs Lewis is the owner.
‘Why get her flowers?’ Graham asks, as puzzled as me.
‘Because when B & G fail to sell it I want Sherwoods to be the first company she comes back to. The Convent?’
‘B & G,’ says Lucie apologetically.
