“It was blinding, Donna,” says Ron. “Can I call you Donna, love?”
“You can call me Donna, but maybe don’t call me love,” says Donna.
“Quite right, darling,” agrees Ron. “Noted. That story about the Ukrainian with the parking ticket and the chainsaw, though? You should do after-dinner speaking; there’s money in it. I know someone, if you’d like a number?”
The salad is delicious, thinks Donna, and it’s not often she thinks that.
“I would have made a terrific heroin smuggler, I think.” This was Ibrahim, who earlier raised the point about Centrica. “It’s just logistics, isn’t it? There’s all the weighing too, which I would enjoy, very precise. And they have machines to count money. All the mod cons. Have you ever captured a heroin dealer, PC De Freitas?”
“No,” admits Donna. “It’s on my list, though.”
“But I’m right that they have machines to count money?” asks Ibrahim.
“They do, yes,” says Donna.
“Wonderful,” says Ibrahim, and downs his glass of wine.
“We bore easily,” adds Elizabeth, also polishing off a glass. “God save us from window locks, WPC De Freitas.”
“It’s just PC now,” says Donna.
“I see,” says Elizabeth, lips pursing. “And what happens if I still choose to say WPC? Will there be a warrant for my arrest?”
“No, but I’ll think a bit less of you,” says Donna. “Because it’s a really simple thing to do, and it’s more respectful to me.”
“Damn, checkmate, okay,” says Elizabeth, unpursing her lips.
“Thank you,” says Donna.
“Guess how old I am,” challenges Ibrahim.
Donna hesitates. Ibrahim has a nice suit, and he has great skin. He smells wonderful. A handkerchief is artfully folded in his breast pocket. Hair thinning but still there. No paunch, and just the one chin. And yet underneath it all? Hmmm. Donna looks at Ibrahim’s hands. Always the giveaway.
“Eighty?” she ventures.
She sees the wind depart Ibrahim’s sails. “Yes, spot-on, but I look younger. I look about seventy-four. Everyone agrees. The secret is Pilates.”
“And what’s your story, Joyce?” Donna asks the fourth member of the group, a small white-haired woman in a lavender blouse and mauve cardigan. She is sitting very happily, taking it all in. Mouth closed but eyes bright. Like a quiet bird, constantly on the lookout for something sparkling in the sunshine.
“Me?” says Joyce. “No story at all. I was a nurse, and then a mum, and then a nurse again. Nothing to see here, I’m afraid.”
Elizabeth gives a short snort. “Don’t be taken in by Joyce, PC De Freitas. She is the type who ‘gets things done.’”
“I’m just organized,” says Joyce. “It’s out of fashion. If I say I’m going toZumba, I go to Zumba. That’s just me. My daughter is the interesting one in the family. She runs a hedge fund, if you know what one is?”
“Not really,” admits Donna.
“No,” agrees Joyce.
“Zumba is before Pilates,” says Ibrahim. “I don’t like to do both. It’s counterintuitive to your major muscle groups.”
A question has been nagging at Donna throughout lunch. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, I know you all live at Coopers Chase, but how did the four of you become friends?”
“Friends?” Elizabeth seems amused. “Oh, we’re not friends, dear.”
Ron is chuckling. “Christ, love, no, we’re not friends. Do you need a top-up, Liz?”
Elizabeth nods and Ron pours. They are on a second bottle. It is twelve fifteen.
