Page 14 of The Player

“She actually doesn’t like much of anything, but I’m definitely top of the list.”

“Surely she doesn’t hate you that much.”

“Oh, she does,” I say, and Con nods and then puts a hand to his head.

“Ouch,” he says plaintively. “How can I have a hangover when I haven’t even finished drinking yet?”

“It’s one of the seven wonders of the world,” Max says.

I flap my T-shirt, trying to get some air on my body. “Why is it so fucking hot?” I complain.

Max returns to his subject. “Why does she not like you, Frankie? You’re brilliant.”

“He is,” Con says loudly, grabbing me and hugging me. He’s hot and sweaty, and I want to climb him like a monkey, so I quickly disentangle myself.

“She blames me for David’s death,” I say, trying to pour some more wine and pouting when I discover that the bottle is empty.

“Frankie,” Con gasps. “What thefuck?”

“Why?” Max asks. I can see why he was a journalist because he’s incurably nosy.

“Because if I hadn’t thrown him out of the house, he wouldn’t have been on the road at that time when a drunk driver hit him.”

Con gapes at me, and then anger clouds his face. “Is that true? She actually said that?” I nod. “That is absolute and utter bollocks,” he says.

I grab his pint glass and take a swig and then grimace. “I hate beer,” I say plaintively. “Where’s the other bottle of wine? There were two a while ago.”

“You drank both bottles,” Max slurs. “Why did you throw him out?”

“Max,” Con warns.

I pat his arm. “It’s fine, Con. It was a long time ago, and I’m well over it.” I turn back to Max. “He was having an affair. I found out and threw him out.”

“And you were right to do so,” Con insists loyally. “Stupid sod. I still can’t believe he was such a twat. He had you at home. Why the fuck would he look elsewhere? Why wouldanyonelook elsewhere?”

His voice is impassioned, and I stare at him. Then I shake my head. “You should never have taken my side over that. It flabbergasted David.”

“I’d take your side over and over again, Frankie. Every single time.”

I smile at him. “I would stick up for you too,” I say expansively and then poke my face. “My cheeks are numb,” I say sadly. Max leans over and prods my face. “Ouch!” I say.

“Not that numb,” he says, settling back as Con slaps his hand away. “Would you have got back together with David?” he asks.

I study him, my mind slow with drink. “No,” I finally say. “Once he’d done that to me, I could never trust him again.” I hold up my finger. “But I’m pretty sure I’d have forgiven him in the end.”

“Really?” Con asks, and I smile.

“Yeah. It was really fucking hard to stay mad at David. He was like a small child. His mum never said no to him, and he expected life to follow suit. He wanted life to be fun and a laugh a minute and was so happy in pursuit of it. His apology would have been absolutely spectacular if he’d only had the chance.”

Con snorts. “Like the time he bought you that statue of Eros to apologise after you’d had a row. He put it in the lounge and then forgot and went to the pub.”

I groan. “I thought it was a fucking intruder. I hit it so hard with my Waterstones bag that I took its head clean off. David was not happy. However, it really reassured me about how I’d cope with a burglar.”

Con starts to laugh, and Max leans his head on his hand, staring at me in fascination. “You don’t seem mad about the affair?”

“Max, I am amazed that no one ever murdered you while you were a journalist,” Con observes, and I laugh.

“I’m not mad. Oh, I was mad and hurt at the time, but a part of me always knew that David wasn’t going to be my stopping place.”

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