A man stood at the sink and looked like he was struggling with several dishes, most of which seemed to be filled with various kinds of pasta.
“What are you doing? Back away.” Marion swatted the man and shooed him from the counter so she could look at the scene. He grinned at me and held his hands up in defeat as he took a place on the other side of the kitchen.
“Eleventy billion pasta bakes, and nowhere to put them,” Marion muttered. She remembered the rest of us. “George, you remember Nigella. And this is Arden.”
George gave Nigella a kiss on the cheek and then turned to me. “Arden! I feel like I know you already. Simon’s told us all about you. We even went and bought some of your books so we could know what he was talking about.”
He shook my hand and gave me a clap on the arm as he did so. George Anson was a burly, but slightly short man in his mid-sixties. He was bald but handsome with a roguish smile and bright eyes. His arms were like rocks, and his hands were callused. He wore a simple white shirt over practical trousers. Completely unassuming, but I bethe was as fit as an ox. I could see some of Simon’s face in his. The line of the jaw, the curve of the lip. But it seemed the red hair came from Marion’s side, as in the sunlight streaming through the kitchen windows, her freckled arms and a vague hint of strawberry blond in her hair were more apparent.
This pleasant middle-class couple that probably enjoyed National Trust properties and bought all their clothes from Marks and Spencer were not the sort of people I’d imagined raising a scowling wall of anger like Simon. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”
They beamed back. “Would’ve been nicer in different circumstances,” George said. We all nodded.
“How is he?” Nigella began divesting her bag of food onto the counter.
“He’s in the lounge,” said Marion. “And your guess is as good as ours. Barely two words since we got here.”
Nigella embraced her, while I stood there like a chump. I spotted some coffee cups and nabbed them. When in doubt, do the dishes. It’s how I got through everything.
I ran the tap and washed up the cups. Oh, good, there were some bowls over there. Ah! Jackpot, some empty plates from where Marion must’ve combined dishes to fit them all in the fridge. There was at least ten minutes of washing up to be done. I looked around and saw the others had departed for the living room. I finished up the remaining dishes and decided I, too, should go through to see the person I’d come to help. But first, the counter had some crumbs on it. I’d grab something to wipe it with. But also, the recycling needed tidying up. And when was the last time someone had run a cloth over this kitchen windowsill? There were some serious cobwebs in there.
Some half an hour later, with Simon’s kitchen noticeably tidier, I edged my way into the living room to find it full of people. The flat had been redecorated recently, judging by the décor. A charcoal L-shaped sofatook up the left-hand wall of the living/dining room with a TV on the wall opposite. At the front of the room was a small bistro-style dining table and chairs.
On the mantlepiece was a photo of Simon and what must be the rest of his family. They looked loving.
Simon sat on the sofa with his mum and Nigella on each side. George stood at the window speaking softly to Guy Frobisher.
They noticed me first. I gulped and made my way over.
“Arden,” said a voice from the sofa before I took a second step. I looked over to see Simon staring at me. His eyes were red, and he was as pale as a ghost. Worst day of his life.
After a second, he gave me a small smile. “Thanks for coming.”
I returned the smile. “Of course, and if there’s anything you need.”
He nodded and lowered his head again. I made my way over to George and Guy, who were glaring out the bay window at the front of the room.
“Vultures,” George said as I arrived beside him. In the street were several photographers, all sitting around various cars looking bored.
“Have they been there all morning?” Now I understood why we’d come around the back way. See, Arden, other people have problems too.
Guy nodded. “Luckily, Doris and Betty have been making their lives hell. A few have already left. And old Frank at number 37 has been out there banging on to them about the BBC licence fee, so I’m sure some are near the end of their tether.”
As we stood there, a car pulled up on the street and out got the woman from Honningtons. Riz’s campaign manager, Marina Holt. Instantly, the reporters mobbed her, despite Doris yelling at them that they were causing an obstruction.
“I shall call the council!” Doris said, giving a literal wave of her fist.
“What does she want?” Guy snarled, looking at Marina. His tone shocked both George and me, and we stared at him. “Sorry,” he said, composing himself. “Last week, she and I had a few words. Things got a bit heated. But it’s not the time.”
George clapped him on the back. “Nae worry, lad,” he said, sounding very Scottish. “I’ll go tell Simon she’s here.”
He departed over to the other side. Simon’s face fell when his dad told him who was outside. I looked down to where Marina was giving an impromptu press conference on the front step.
Guy nudged me. I looked up at the handsome face. “Hey,” I said softly.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “Sorry, I went AWOL last week. Everything … well, you know what happened. But I’m sorry I didn’t reach out and check in on you. I felt terrible, but I didn’t know what to say.”
Guy had been worried about me? “I was fine. I had people to help me.”
