Page 3 of The Player

At the thought of him, I look at the little gravelled car park to the side of the building, but his old red truck isn’t there—just mysecretary Joan’s little Polo gleaming blue in the early morning sunshine.

I let myself into the foyer, inhaling the ever-present scent of wood shavings and linseed oil. It seems to permeate the building, giving it a warm feel echoed by the whitewashed walls and sandblasted beams. Mandy, our receptionist, doesn’t start until nine, so her desk is neat and empty. Not that she manages to do a huge amount of work when she’s actually here. Her morning begins with gossip, and then the day really gets into gear with a little online shopping and posting on social media. Sometimes she even answers the phone.

I hear the sound of chinking cutlery and follow the scent of fresh coffee to the tiny kitchen at the back, where I find Joan waiting for the coffee to finish, her mug outstretched in her hand like she’s begging for alms.

She’s been my secretary for about four years now, and she’s a sweet-faced lady with a grey-streaked bob and a kind smile. However, she’s got the personality of a sabre-toothed tiger if she hasn’t had her first coffee, so I maintain a wary distance until she pours the dark liquid into her mug, doctors it with milk and enough sugar to make jam set, and takes her first sip.

Then I step forwards. “Morning, Joan,” I say, smiling at her. “Busy morning.”

I put my travel cup down on the work surface and then become aware that she hasn’t answered me. I turn to find her gaping at me.“Alright?” I ask cautiously.

“You’re wearing red shoes,” she finally says.

I stare at her. “Is that a problem? Is there some sort of Cotswoldian law that says I can’t wear red on a Wednesday? For god’s sake, don’t tell Lucy Scrimshaw. She’s on the warpath already today over Molly Saunders’s new breasts.”

She seems to come out of her trance and gazes into her mug as if searching for the meaning of life. Then she looks up.“You haven’t worn any colour for three years, Frankie.”

I blink and then look down at my red suede brogues. I hadn’t even thought of that when I got up this morning. I’d just grabbed the shoes because they were a nice summery pop of colour.

“I didn’t think of that. I just woke up this morning and?—”

I stop, and she cocks her head to one side. “And what?”

I shrug. “I just woke up this morning.”

She gives me a brilliant smile. “Well, that’s just wonderful,” she says softly. Then she raises an eyebrow. “Do they not make trousers that come down to the ankles now?”

I look down at my outfit. “No. My ankles are my best feature.”

“Isn’t it usually someone’s bum?”

I wink at her. “Joan, I’m quite shocked. You’re obviously far more risqué than I ever imagined. Doesn’t a glimpse of ankles incite lust and depravity? I hope so. That was my main reason for wearing them.”

She rolls her eyes. “That was in the Victorian era. A time that you patently aren’t suited to.” She sighs. “You young people think you invented fun. In my day, we just had it rather than talk about it all the time.”

I laugh, and there’s a flurry of movement, a bright flash of colour, and then Hank Marvin lands on the counter, making her jerk and nearly spill her coffee. I should mention that this is Hank Marvin, the parrot, and not the country and western singer.

“Naughty Hank,” Joan says chidingly, but he gives his familiar little chirruping noise and sidles along the bench towards her, preening and cooing. Joan tickles his head, and he rubs against her fingers.

“He shot Alan three times. Stabbed to death with a carving knife,” he intones. “He lived for another five minutes.”

“Oh my god,” I say. “Joan.He’s been watching your true crime programmes again.”

“Oh dear,” she says. “He does like that documentary so much. He gets all excited every time I put it on. Hank, you mustn’t keep saying things like that. It upsets the customers.”

“Yes, like the couple buying a guitar for their ten-year-old last week. That was absolutelyepic.It took me half an hour to calm the mother and daughter down after Hank regaled them with the charming story of the chainsaw serial killer. He wouldn’t shut up.”

“It’s just that he’s so quiet I often don’t realise he’s in the room,” she says apologetically. “That was such an interesting programme, Frankie.”

“Interesting or disturbing? I’m amazed that you can sleep at night watching those programmes.”

“I sleep like a baby,” she scoffs.

“Why can’t you be addicted toThe Archerslike most of the people around here?”

“I’d rather pickle my vagina in Sarson’s vinegar.”

I blink. “Oh, metoo,” I say fervently. “We definitely can’t have that.”

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