Page 11 of The Player

She waves a dismissive hand. “She thought you two were an item. Can youimagine?”

She gives a trill of laughter, but her eyes are avid, looking between the two of us. Con shifts position, and she jumps. “Time for me to go,” she cries. “My husband will be wondering where I am.”

She moves into the kitchen without a backward glance. “I bet Mr Scrimshaw is making a break for freedom even as we speak,” I mutter.

We trail after her, and Con leans in. “I think I recognise that shirt,” he whispers, his eyes twinkling.

“Oh really?” I say airily. “I’m sure there are a lot of them about. The university shop must be full of them.”

“I never knew that you went to Leeds University too. I’m amazed I never met you.”

“You’re far too old to have met me,” I say sourly, and he gives a disgusting snort of amusement.

“It’s really astonishing, though, Frankie. Yours has even got the same tear in the hem that mine had.” He puts his hands to his face in mock astonishment. “What anamazingcoincidence.”

I open my mouth to give him both barrels, but Lucy saves him as she stops at the door. “I’ll stop by after the summer hop and inspect your work, Frankie,” she says cheerfully. Well, as cheerful as a sergeant major can get.

The door shuts behind her, and I sigh. “Like she’s my fucking headmistress, and I haven’t done my homework.” Con laughs, and I turn to him, suddenly feeling awkward after the events of this morning.

“Where’s Tim?”

He shrugs. “Having a shower and then looking for takeaway options.”

“Well, you should be with him,” I say awkwardly. “I can do this myself.”

He examines my face, and I realise how close we’re standing in my lounge. The evening shadows play over his face, and I catch the woodsy scent of his cologne.

“I want to help,” he says, that stubborn edge to his voice.

“Well, at least it will make David’s mother happy. She made one of her royal visits yesterday and said how disappointed David would be with the garden.”

“The only use David had for a garden was somewhere to drink beer. Is she still sour with you?”

“The word ‘still’ implies there was a time in the mythical past when shewasn’tsour.”

He shakes his head. “I just wish she’d make a fucking effort to get to know you. She’d love you so much if she did.”

He stops and goes bright red, and I stare at him. “You alright?”

“Yes, fine. Why?” he snaps.

I raise my hands in surrender. “No reason. I suppose I console myself with the thought that if David had brought Brad Pitt home, she’d have still found fault. He’d have been too handsome, and the kids would definitely have been a stumbling block.”

He laughs, his eyes creased in humour, and I look at him standing in my lounge, so big and wonderful. “Garden centre, then? Seeing as you’re determined to reinvent yourself as Monty Don.”

“Hardly, and that’s going to be very evident when Lucy comes to inspect.”

“Oh, fuck her. I’ll do as I’m told, but she’ll have to put up with the garden as she finds it. Maybe she’ll fall into the buddleia and stop calling on me.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re rather passive-aggressive?”

“I really wish the aggressive side would come soon with Lucy. She just signed me up for a stand at the Christmas fair.”

I shake my head at his laughter.

An hour later, we stand in the huge garden centre outside Stow-on-the-Wold. It’s warm from the sun on the glass, and the air is heavily scented.

“So, what do you need?” he asks, leaning on his trolley as if he’s got all the time in the world.

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