‘Just been doing a bit of cooking,’ he says quickly, wondering how many fibs he’ll manage to cram into their conversation.
‘You are good, cooking from scratch when you’re so busy. Did you manage to finish your book?’
‘Almost.’ He senses his cheeks flushing.
‘This is your second one, isn’t it? You’reamazing, being able to write them, on top of your gigs and everything...’
He shrugs, feigning bashfulness. He hasn’t actually had too many gigs lately. ‘It’s just stream-of-consciousness stuff really,’ he says.
‘Well, it seems to be working brilliantly. But here I am, babbling on, taking up your time! What I wanted to say is, d’you fancy coming over for dinner next Saturday night? Both of you, I mean...’
‘Next Saturday? Not this one?’ he barks in panic.
She looks at him strangely. ‘Yes, a week on Saturday. Just a casual supper. Not busy, are you?’
Vince makes a quick calculation: that’s ten days away. Surely Kate will be back by then, and they’ll have smoothed everything over and life will be normal again.
‘No, I’m pretty sure we don’t have anything on...’
‘Well, check with Kate, would you? Just so I know the numbers.’
‘I will,’ he says stiffly. ‘Erm, is it for anything special?’
‘Book festival planning committee,’ she explains. ‘I know you’re not on it but you’re an integral part of it now. I thought you’d have loads to offer, and we could get the ball rolling nice and early for next year...’
‘Sounds great,’ he enthuses, aware of the three-day-old sausage roll’s greasy residue still clagging the interior of his mouth. His phone trills from his study. That’ll be Kate saying she’s okay now – she’s over her ‘little wobble’ as he’s started to term it privately – and is on her way home. ‘Sorry, better get that,’ he says, dashing through and snatching his phone from his desk.
Not quick enough to take the call, though. And it’s an unknown number. It’s probably Tash or one of Kate’s other friends. Maybe Kate’s phone has run out of charge and she’s using theirs. He calls the number, and the recorded voice tells him it’s an energy supplier babbling on about something. Is it their one? Vince has no idea. Their gas could be piped in from Pluto for all he knows. Bills are Kate’s job.We’re busy helping other customers,the voice says,but please don’t hang up. Your call is very important—
Vince hangs up.
‘Well, I’ll leave you to crack on,’ Deborah says brightly, back in the kitchen.
‘Great! Well, good to see you,’ Vince says with a note of relief. He doesn’t want Deborah or anyone else hanging around right now, picking up on the fact that things aren’t quite right.
She stands up and jabs a finger towards the casserole dish on the workshop. ‘That’s delicious, by the way.’
‘What?’ He swivels and sees the fork lying beside it.
‘Hope you don’t mind but I had little try of your tagine. It’s so good, Vince. Did you make it, or Kate?’
‘Erm, I did,’ he squeaks, sweating now.
‘Well, it’sreallyflavoursome.’ She beams at him. ‘Hmm, yummy. You’ve given me inspiration for next Saturday night.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Kate
I’m good at the stuff no one notices but is actually pretty important. That’s what Vince always said. It never felt like much of a compliment. But Alice notices how well we fall into working together, and says we’re ‘a real team’ as we pack up her mother’s clothes.
There are sturdy waxed jackets, thick Aran sweaters and exquisitely beaded gowns. Bea was obviously a practical and hard-working woman who also loved a dash of glamour. Photos of her are dotted around the house; a beautiful but austere-looking woman, with flinty eyes and a mouth always set in a firm line. Alice’s father looked like more of a genial sort, and I’m struck by Alice’s timid expression – a fair-haired wisp of a girl – in the childhood photos arranged on the living room mantelpiece.
However, I’m still keenly aware that I’m an imposter who shouldn’t be here at all. As if to compensate, I fling myself into the sorting and packing, stopping only for brief cups of tea and a sandwich when Alice demands it. ‘You need a break, Kate,’ she insists. ‘You’ve been at it for hours!’
‘I’m fine, honestly,’ I say, showing her the colour-coded system I’ve devised, marking items with Post-it notes according to where they’ll go. Bric-a-brac – of which there is an enormous amount – will be packed up for charity, and collectables sent to auction in Perth, along with prized pieces of furniture.
‘So impressive,’ Alice observes. ‘I do remember the agency saying you were a bit of a miracle worker.’
