“It must have only taken her about ten minutes.”
“Wow,” Libby said, remembering her own terrible attempt at drawing on the bus.
Frank sat down in a battered old armchair and signaled Libby toward what looked like a throne.
“From a production ofKing Learwith dear old Michael Gambon,” he said as she perched cautiously on the edge. “Now, where is that tea of ours? I hear you met Dylan on the way in.”
Libby didn’t answer, worried she might say something rude. Was that man a relation? Frank had mentioned only a daughter, but perhaps he had a grandson or a serial-killer nephew. Through the wall, Libby could hear sounds coming from what must have been the kitchen.
“I know he looks alarming, but he’s a pussycat really,” Frank continued when Libby didn’t say anything. “I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
“Is he a relative?”
“No. He’s my carer.”
“Carer!” Libby hadn’t meant the word to come out with quite such incredulity, but she couldn’t help herself. That man looked after people for a living?
“Not what you were expecting?” Frank said with a chuckle. “I’ll admit I had the same reaction the first time I saw him. He rang the doorbell and I thought he was here to murder me.”
“No, it’s just—” Libby stopped as she remembered the awful way he’d shouted at her on the bus.
“Ah, here’s the tea,” Frank said as the door opened and the punk walked in. He was carrying a tray that held a teapot under a knitted cozy and two floral teacups. The whole sight was utterly bizarre. “I was just telling Libby here what a sweetheart you are, Dylan.”
The man didn’t say anything as he placed the tray down on a table between them and retreated toward the door.
“Only two cups?” Frank said. “Come on, don’t be so antisocial. Join us.”
“I can’t hang about,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly. “I’ve got to get to my next job.”
“Oh, come on, you have time for a quick cuppa. And I’d like you to meet my friend.”
Dylan looked as if meeting Libby was absolutely the last thing he wanted to do, and he turned and left the room.
“Bring a chair from the kitchen too,” Frank called after him, and then sat back with satisfaction. “Now, when he comes back, you can tell us about this new idea you’ve come up with.”
Oh, bugger. It had felt like a good idea this morning, but now Libby was here it seemed ridiculous. Plus, Dylan would probably stab her with a teaspoon. He came back in, carrying a teacup and a kitchen chair.
“Right, I’ll be Mum, shall I?” Frank turned in his seat and picked up the teapot.
As he started to pour, Libby saw that his hand was shaking, sending half of the tea spilling onto the tray rather than into the cup. He seemed oblivious and carried on pouring. Libby glanced over at Dylan, who was watching Frank.
“Need a hand with that, boss?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Frank said, and there was a firm edge to his voice. He carried on until all three cups had some tea in, although there was more on the tray than anywhere else. “Milk, Libby?”
“Eh, no, thanks,” she said, not wanting to see that added to the mess.
Frank picked up a teacup, the china rattling as his hand shook. Libby held her breath as she watched his arm reach out toward her, but miraculously none of the hot tea spilled. She took the cup from him as quickly as she could.
“Oh, silly me, I forgot the cake,” Frank said.
“I’ll get it,” Dylan said, but Frank was already pushing himself up.
“No, Dylan, you’re a guest now. Sit down and I’ll fetch it.”
Libby saw Dylan open his mouth to argue, but Frank had started to move. She watched as he made his way slowly toward the door, the only sound the shuffle of his feet on the carpet. Once he was gone, the silence in the room was deafening. Libby glanced at Dylan but he was staring at the floor, clearly finding this as agonizing as she was. Her face felt hot again, and she closed her eyes, wishing Frank would hurry up.
“I’m—”
