Page 16 of The Player

Tim inhales sharply. “Well, it’s time to go. Con?”

He holds out his hand for Con, and for a very long, uncomfortable few seconds, Con just stares at him. Then he looks at me and shrugs. “It isn’t the night to say things,” he says rather enigmatically. “Night,” he says, giving us a huge drunken smile.

We mumble goodnights and watch them walk out of the pub. It’s noticeable that they don’t hold hands or touch in any way.

“Hmm,” Max finally says as he gets up, and we walk out too. Con’s and Tim’s figures are already shadows in the distance.

“What does that mean?” I ask, taking out my keys as we come to my house. “Don’t you like Con’s man?”

“I like him very much, but that’s not what you mean.”

I blink in confusion. “What?”

“I mean that I’m looking at Con’s man right now.”

It takes me a few seconds, and then I get what he’s saying. I roll my eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. He goes for the pretty, arty types who like intense conversations about art and music. I’m the wine-drinking slob who has intense conversations aboutThe Only Way is Essex.I’m about as close to being Con’s type as Bernard Cribbins.”

“Well, I’m not denying that Bernard is very attractive, but even he couldn’t get Con to take his eyes off you.”

I open my door, bracing myself on the doorjamb when everything tilts. “Shit,” I gasp. “We’re having an earthquake.”

“I’ll save you,” he says fervently, and I laugh.

“Thank you, my drunken knight in armour.”

“Con wants you, Frankie,” he says, suddenly serious. “He’s always wanted you. I needed to get the two of you together tonight.” He gives a petulant shrug. “It’s a lot harder to matchmake than it looks in the films.”

“So, let me get this straight. Your version of matchmaking was to talk about my dead husband’s infidelity?”

He bites his lip. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” He gives me a wink and then forgets to open his eye fully again, so he’s now squinting. “But at least he now knows you’re looking to date again. You’rewelcome.”

“And you’re drunk.”

“Yes, and probably will be again tomorrow, but it doesn’t stop me seeing what’s in front of me.”

“Con thinks of me as a friend.”

“Bollocks.”

“Oh really?” I judge that the ground has stopped moving and I can let go of the door. “I’m not sure about taking advice from someone who is still desperately in love with his ex and does nothing about it.”

“A fact that I think I regret telling you about.” He bops me on the nose, which sends his balance further off, and I watch as he staggers back a few steps. He does a sort of drunken pirouette and then falls face first into the huge flower basket that’s been set in front of the lamppost by my door.

“Shit,” he mutters.

I reach down and pat his head. “You alright down there, Max?”

“Spiffing.”

“Do you want the good news or the bad?”

“I think I’d like the good first,” he mutters into the flowers.

“The good news is that the flowers’ life span was coming to an end anyway.”

“What’s the bad news?” he slurs, sitting up with a lonely scarlet begonia stuck to his forehead.

“That basket is Lucy Scrimshaw’s entry for the Cotswolds in Bloom contest.” I give him an affectionate slap on the back and stagger off to bed.

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