Page 30 of The Player

“What?” I say, and Con laughs.

“Not so funny now, is it, Frankie?”

“Why have I got to go, Joan? It’s about the guitars. We won’t be discussing money or arrangements at this point.”

“Well, you can kill two birds with one stone,” she says. “Jimmy asked whether you were going anyway. He seemed very insistent that you do.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t say, but it makes sense to me. You always put Con at ease, and you’ll do the same with him. You speak his language.”

“The language of the pop twink,” Con says triumphantly.

“Then it’s sorted,” Joan says. “I’ll book your accommodation.”

“Okay,” I say and then jerk. “Wait. What accommodation?”

“Well, it’s a bit far away, and I know pop stars. He’ll keep you there talking about himself for hours.”

“This just gets better and better,” Con says, but Joan continues undeterred.

“I’ll book you a hotel,” she says with that steely cheerfulness that older women seem to be genetically blessed with. It’s nature’s way of getting them what they want. “Then you won’t be driving late at night.”

I breathe in sharply. A night away with Con. Shit. I’m not equipped for this at the moment. “You’d better book with three people in mind,” I say huskily.

“Three, dear?” Joan says.

“Yes, for Con to take Tim.” Con stares at me, and I tumble into words. “You can’t leave him at home on his own.”

“Perfect place for him,” Joan says.

“It would be rude,” I say, quickly talking over her.

Con eyes me for a long, fraught second. “I’m not taking Tim,” he says firmly. “It’s just you and me.”

I’m pretty sure everyone in the lavender field can hear my gulp for air.

“Excellent,” Joan says with far too much satisfaction.

chapter

six

That afternoon,I walk down to Con’s house. The village is very busy, and I watch as two coaches pull up, unloading their store of pensioners onto the street.

Con’s house is set at the end of the village behind two huge black iron gates that today are wide open. Dodging two old ladies who are peering inquisitively in, I make my way up the rutted drive.

It’s a bit like walking into a jungle. Plants overhang the path as if trying to take it over, and I can’t see the brick walls that form the property’s perimeter. I often wonder if Tarzan is here lost and wandering amongst the hollyhocks while Jane is shopping at the deli in the village.

The drive widens, and the house comes into view. It’s huge and one of the oldest buildings in the village. It’s built of Cotswold stone and is a rambling old house that’s utterly charming. However, in keeping with the wild look, it’s seen better days, and those were years ago. Window frames are rotting, and the woodwork definitely needs new paint. Some tiles are missing from the roof.

I shake my head as I climb the stone steps to the huge front door. Even this shows its age, the paint pitted and peeling away.

I press the doorbell, and when that doesn’t work, I give up and open the door. “It’s me,” I call. “Con?”

Nobody answers, so I wander into the huge foyer from which an ornately carved wooden staircase rises to the upper storey. I put my overnight bag down and take a right by the staircase. Traipsing down a stone-flagged corridor, I stick my head around the kitchen door. This is a huge room that runs the length of the house, big enough to house a dining table and chairs if he had one. Instead, there’s a wide-open space in which is set a lonely packing case, on top of which is a mountain of unopened post. The sight makes me twitch.

The kitchen units are so old they were probably fashionable when Prince Charles was a child. Some of them have been torn out, leaving gaps like teeth in the run of units. It’s also missing a work surface as he’s torn out half of it, and it lies on the floor.

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