‘And no more interaction with the creepy neighbour?’Gareth asked.
The lie rolled off my tongue more smoothly than I expected, likely thanks to the rehearsals I’d had with myself during the drive here.
‘Saw him struggling with his shopping yesterday actually, but that was about it. Just packed some stuff away and then watched a bit of crap TV, made dinner, and here I am.’
‘You helped him with his shopping? That’s awfully Christian of you.’
‘The man’s about seventy-nine, Gareth. I mean, I debated helping him for sure, before my conscience won out. Stupid conscience.’
‘Ah, I see, I see,’ Gareth said, nodding his head like one of those bobbing dogs you put in the back of your car.
‘However, Mr Donoghue, the real question is: when do you reckon you’ll finish tonight?’ I said, changing the subject as subtly and quietly as I could.
‘Got about two more hours. Isla is on me for an action plan for this GBH case next week, and of course, the DI from hell still wants Carl’s investigation logs done at some point, but then I’ll be finished.’
‘Okay, but then you come home and wake me up, all right?’ I instructed, motioning to my lower area. ‘It’speaktime.’
It took him a minute to register, bless him. I could almost hear the gears clunking and thudding in his brain as he tried to work it out.
‘Ooooh,’ he said as the penny dropped.
‘Yeah,’ I said, really extending and enunciating the vowels as I nodded so he would get the message.
‘Got you, already on it. I’ll have a black coffee before I come home,’ he said, hyping himself up.
‘No, no, you dummy, don’t have a black coffee before you come home, or you’ll be up all night, and you’ll barely sleep.’
‘I will have a green tea.’ He squinted his eyes and wiggled his body on his ergonomic office chair. ‘With extra matcha,’ he assibilated.
God, he was such an idiot. I loved him so much.
‘That’s better, okay? But just make sure that you wake me up, all right? Don’t you dare just come in and go to sleep.’
‘I won’t, I promise!’ he said emphatically. ‘You know me, I never break promises!’
I couldn’t believe I had to pester my husband for sex. How utterly depressing.
‘You seem happier today, my love. It’s… nice to see,’ Gareth said sincerely, beaming through his warm smile.
‘Just realised how lucky I am,’ I said, pressing my hand lightly against his cheek.
I left the station, said goodbye to Judith, got into the car, and headed back to the house. I still had the satnav on; even though I had done this journey more than twenty times now, I still wasn’t a hundred per cent on the way to get home. It still felt like we were on a holiday, spending time at this lovely guest house we were renting before we went back to our actual apartment, our actual home.
As I pulled up, I saw a familiar silhouette toddling towards me, waving her arms about madly to get my attention. I groaned as I braced every muscle in my face, trying to muster my absolute best fake smile.
‘Oh, Fran, hello, hello, hello!’ came her shrill banshee screams from across the street.
‘Hi, Beryl,’ I said, trying not to let any reluctance show as I got out of the car, and trotted over to meet her on the other side of the road.
Of course, it was nice to have friendly neighbours, but part of me wished that they were more like colleagues who work on a different floor. You’d smile, you’d say hello, but you’d never have to commit to the most grievous of all sins: chit-chat. Beryl was late sixties, and bless her, a lovely old woman who was losing her hearing and had told me her life story approximately forty seconds after I had exited the moving truck. Her husband had tripped, fallen down the stairs and died four years ago, and since then she had thrown herself – poor choice of words, I know – into her knitting. Knitting for homeless dogs, knitting for the neighbours, even knitting hats for children in Kenya to wear to school. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I didn’t think children in Kenya would really need thick woolly hats.
‘How’s it going? I guess you’re fully unpacked now?’ she asked.
‘Not yet, I’m afraid, we still have a lot to go,’ I replied.
‘Well, if you ever need a hand, you know exactly where I am – and how’s that hard-working husband of yours? I bet he’s solving lots of murders.’
God, people loved to ask that question whenever I mentioned my husband was a detective. Now, being on the receiving end of it, I could finally grasp how incredibly annoying it was.
