Page 4 of The Player

I look at the parrot, who is nibbling affectionately on Joan’s ear. We got Hank Marvin when my husband accepted him from a rock star in lieu of payment for three guitars. David loved the bird and taught him to imitate an ice cream van, which has been less useful than you’d think and invariably makes small children cry. Conrad and I had been less enthusiastic because we’d needed that payment for the monthly wages.

Typically for him, David had no idea how to take care of a parrot. Luckily, Hank Marvin and Joan had fallen in love, and he now lives with her, travelling to work on her shoulder and occasionally scandalising the villagers by shouting “fuck off.” Another thing taught by my husband.

I wander into my office, which is at the side of the building looking down on the little car park and into the pretty gardens of a row of cottages. They remind me of Lucy, but I push the horrible thought away.Fiddle de dee, I think with strong overtones ofGone with the Wind. I bet Scarlett wouldn’t have been half as resilient if she’d lived in this village.

Joan follows me in and passes me my diary. “You’ve got the Armstrongs this morning, and then I’ve pencilled you in for a meeting with Mr Fitch’s people this afternoon.”

“Jimmy Fitch the pop star?” She nods, and I whistle. “I wasn’t aware he could walk and talk at the same time, let alone play the guitar.”

She chuckles. “He can’t play at all. Apparently, he’s going on tour, and he wants them to be the same colour as the set and his outfit. Then he’ll just hold them while he mimes.”

I shake my head. “Con’s going to love that.”

Con was my husband’s best friend. They were both born here and were founding members of a very successful pop-folk band. They came home when the band split up and started making custom-made guitars. Well, Con makes the guitars as David couldn’t operate a toaster properly. The instruments are things of beauty. Con was a highly talented musician, but he’s an even better craftsman, having a perfect ear. My husband was much better suited to sales and that only because he had the gift of the gab. Unfortunately, he was fucking awful with numbers, so when I came on the horizon, he swiftly left that side of the job to me and happily jaunted off all over the country, staying in posh hotels to sell the image and leaving me here.

It was lucky that I’d discovered an aptitude for figures because I inherited the Herculean task of getting the business finances back in the black after David’s extravagances.

I think of Jimmy Fitch, the non-singing pop star, and smile. “He’s worth a bloody fortune.”

Joan nods. “And very happy to pay our prices.”

“Even better.” I pause to think. “Let’s keep Con as far away from the initial process as is humanly possible. I don’t think he’s that in favour of creating a musical work of art that matches someone’s trousers.”

She laughs. “When is he back? Has he sorted out Gene’s guitars?”

Con has been away travelling with an old mate of his who’s a famous rock star. Gene doesn’t trust anyone else with his guitars apart from Con, so he’s been gone for a month, and I’ve missed him more than I can say. It’s the first time we’ve been separated since David died, and it’s felt like I’m missing an important limb.

At the thought of the man who has become the best friend I have in the world, I feel my mouth ticking up. “He’s home, according to Lucy Scrimshaw.”

“Well, she’d know,” Joan says sourly. “I bet her perimeter alarms went off the minute he rolled back into the village.” She studies me. “You look happy to have him back.”

“Of course I am. He’s my best friend.”

“Oh, okay,” she says with a note of disbelief in her voice. Joan has always harboured romantic notions about Con and me that our years of friendship have done nothing to dispel.

I hear the sound of a car engine and then the crunch of gravel and whip over to the window.

“He’s here,” I say, looking down as Con’s truck pulls up in a flurry of gravel.

Joan comes next to me, and we both peer out as Con exits his truck. He’s tall, being easily six foot four with golden-brown hair that’s cut short with a quiff. He has the perfect level of stubble to be sexy rather than slovenly, and his eyes are the warmest brown I’ve ever seen. The same brown as a bar of Galaxy chocolate.

I feel my heart pick up speed, galloping away in my chest. The silly organ has been malfunctioning around Con lately. Itpicks up speed, and my palms get sweaty whenever he stands close, and I’m endeavouring to ignore the implications of that.

I watch him, enjoying the freedom to stare. He’s dressed in his usual faded Levi’s that do wonderful things for his arse, a grey T-shirt, and battered work boots. My eyes skip across his muscled frame, and I lick my lips. Then my eyes narrow as Con’s passenger door opens and a young red-headed man steps out. He stretches idly, showing a slim body, and reaches up to kiss Con.

I don’t know why, but I expect Con to put him to one side and laugh. However, he doesn’t do that. Instead, he kisses him back.It’s a brief, light kiss, but they’re both smiling when they separate.

Joan and I take a simultaneous gasp of shocked air as if we’re synchronising for the Olympic swimming team. Then we stay frozen at the window as the two men make their way to the front door.

I bite my lip, feeling my stomach dip and twist as if I’m going to throw up.Maybe I’m coming down with something. Hopefully, it will come on very soon and I can go home. I suddenly have a desperate need to be curled up in my bed with the covers over my head.

“Well,” Joan finally says disapprovingly. “Who was that with Con? I’ve never seenhimbefore.”

I swallow hard. “I don’t know,” I finally say. “But I think Con has intimate knowledge of his tonsils.”

“Stabbed through the heart with a pencil,” Hank Marvin says mournfully.

“You can say that again,” Joan mutters.

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