‘Sorry about that,’ whispered Emily. ‘We were out with you know who.’ She shut the bedroom door. Ah, he’d been right. They were out with Olivia’s married man.
‘I guessed as much from the odd atmosphere when the two of you came in. I don’t get it though, she doesn’t seem happy.’ He wasn’t going to ask what the guy was like. Nothing to do with him and why should he care?
‘It’s difficult,’ said Emily, turning away fiddling with the hem of her dress. ‘You staying tonight? Thought you were playing cricket tomorrow.’ He detected the sharpness of her tone.
Cricket was still a sore point. He didn’t want to give it up — he’d played for the club since he was twelve. After a week at work he enjoyed getting out on the pitch, but he could appreciate it was a bit of a drag for Emily. They didn’t usually finish until seven or eight. Even the compromise of playing every other weekend didn’t seem to have placated her.
‘Yeah.’ He grinned and slid his arms around her, getting a noseful of a perfume so strong it almost made his eyes water. ‘But I don’t have to leave until eleven tomorrow.’
She pouted, her eyes sad and doleful. ‘It’s hardly worth you staying; you might as well go home now. You’d probably rather anyway.’
He immediately felt guilty and doused the temptation to call her bluff. He didn’t want to upset her. Something he seemed quite good at. Despite her outward confidence and bouncyattractiveness, he’d found quite quickly that she was desperately insecure, needing constant reassurance and although her fragility made him want to look after her, sometimes it could be wearing.
He shifted the pile of clothes on the chair, transferring them to the bed and pulled her down onto his lap. ‘Emily, I’m here now. I can stay tonight.’
Chapter Five
At the end of the speed-date we were supposed to pop our scorecards into a special post box at the bottom of the stairs on our way out. Amazingly, despite mine still being screwed up in my coat pocket, I received an email from Ned on Sunday evening. All my foreboding about Barney’s business ethics was borne out. Either that or he’d recruited a psychic speed-dater.
Apparently Ned had got his hands on a second-hand invisibility cloak and wondered if I fancied road-testing it with a trip to the pub. I was intrigued and after Friday night’s kitchen tête-à-tête, drastic measures were needed to show Daniel I wasn’t pining after him.
Emily was sprawled the length of the sofa half-heartedly watchingAntiques Roadshowand flicking throughHeatmagazine.
‘What are you smiling about?’ she asked lazily, stretching and yawning, already in her pyjamas.
Sunday nights were sacrosanct in the flat — ironing, followed by hair washing in readiness for the onslaught of a week at work. All of which was always rounded off with rubbish Sunday telly and a nice bottle of cold Pinot Grigio or whatever was cheapest in Tesco that week.
‘Barney and his underhand tactics. Have you heard from anyone?’
‘What underhand tactics?’
‘I... didn’t actually hand my scorecard in.’ I pulled a rueful face. ‘Chickened out. At the last minute. Didn’t put it in the slot.’
‘Olivia. You are hopeless!’ Emily tutted.
‘Didn’t make much difference. Barney’s still passed my details on. I’ve got an email. Have you had any?’
‘What?’ Her left eyelid flickered before she said quickly, ‘No, of course not.’
The minx. Her sudden absorption in the television didn’t fool me.
* * *
I hadn’t seen or spoken properly to Kate since the speed-date and when she phoned on Monday morning with her glib claim that she was in London that afternoon and could meet me after work for a drink, she didn’t fool me. She wanted gory details, I knew her too well. She and Barney were close so he was bound to have filled her in. In fact, she may have even put him up to giving Ned my email address.
I was still wondering, as I walked to the hip bar she’d chosen, whether I should go out with Ned. His email had made me laugh. I’d have to come up with an equally witty reply. I tried out various lines in my head. They were all way too corny.
As soon as I got to the wine bar, I spotted Kate perched on a high stool around an impossibly trendy stainless-steel pillar doubling as a table or a leaning post. She already had a bottle of wine at the ready with two glasses.
The cross-examination began before I’d even taken my first sip of wine.
‘How did Emily get on?’ asked Kate. ‘Has she had any emails?’
Since when the interest in my flatmate? What about me?
‘No . . . well, not that she’s admitting.’
‘I bet she has.’ My sister smirked, pausing dramatically and taking a large glug of wine before announcing, ‘She ticked three boxes.’
