Page 17 of The Player

chapter

four

I rush upto the front door at work and let myself into the reception area.

“Sorry I’m running late,” I call, turning to shut the door behind me. Unfortunately, it doesn’t close, and I fiddle with the catch while still talking. “I was trying to do something with the plants that Lucy Scrimshaw demanded. And by that, I mean I stood in the garden drinking tea and staring at them. I even tutted a few times.”

I turn around and come to a dead stop. The reception area is deserted, and now that I notice it, the whole building has a hushed quality.

“Hello,” I say, taking off my sunglasses and wincing a little at the light. “Where is everyone?”

I walk behind reception and poke my head into the kitchen—nobody. My office and Joan’s office are the same. “Weird,” I say out loud. “Is it a bank holiday that nobody informed me about? Or has the world been taken over by zombies? Bagsy, they eat Lucy Scrimshaw first.”

I place the box from the bakery in the village on the kitchen work surface. “I’ve brought cakes,” I call. “As per the office rule that I had nothing to do with drafting. How is it fair thatthe person with the birthday has to buy cake for other people? Especially as I am suffering with a hangover that no mere mortal man should have to deal with.”

No one answers, and I make my way down the long glass corridor that links the reception and offices to the second barn at the back and Con’s huge workshop. Grabbing the big metal door, I slide it back on its runners and stop dead as an explosion of colourful confetti blinds me, and everyone who I now see is hiding in here breaks into a loud chorus of happy birthday.

I wince at the noise and then stand stock-still in shock, my hand held to my heart as if I’m a debutante about to faint. “What the fuck?” I breathe.

Hank Marvin gives a displeased squark and comes to rest on my shoulder. “She was a good-time girl who met a terrible end,” he mutters.

“As will whoever has done this,” I say as the chorus comes to a stop. I look around at everyone clustered in the workshop and open my mouth to mention that I don’t celebrate birthdays and haven’t done it for ages, and then something strange happens to my face. I smile widely instead.

“Oh my god,” I say, laughing as another boom sounds and confetti drifts over me in a sparkling cloud. “This is going to be fucking awful to get out.” I wave my hand. “But that is definitely not the birthday boy’s problem.”

Joan laughs, and my gaze tracks everyone who is clustered in the room. Joan is standing holding a huge carrot cake with candles blazing. Next to her is Evan, Con’s apprentice, and on his left is George, who works with Con, and Mandy. My smile widens as I see Con standing to one side wearing a jaunty party hat with a pink party blower hanging from his mouth. The smile dims slightly as I see Tim next to him, clinging to his arm as if he fears an imminent earthquake.

Con steps forwards, removing the blower from his mouth. “Did I hear right? Birthday boy? What happened to the man who hates birthdays and won’t celebrate them?”

I smile at him. “I had a bit of an epiphany this morning, and I realised that I am too damn fabulous not to celebrate that.”

He laughs before drawing me into a tight hug. “I’m glad,” he whispers into my ear. “You’re definitely right about the fabulous bit. And it’s about time.”

I inhale and hug him back, loving the feel of his arms and the familiar scent of his cologne.

“Are you feeling as terrible as me?” he mutters, and I laugh.

“I feel fucking appalling, but I’m sure that birthday boys should rise above such things.”

He laughs, and I almost make a sound of disappointment as he pulls back so everyone else can hug me. But luckily, I stop myself and then become aware that he’s staring at me.

“What?” I ask, putting my hand to my hair. “Is something wrong with my face?”

He shakes his head. “You’re wearing colour again.”

I look down at my outfit of red checked skinny trousers, white T-shirt, and red braces and feel myself flush. “I think it’s time,” I say. “Time to move on.”

A funny expression crosses his face. “You said that last night. Why now when I just?—?”

His words break off as Joan comes over to hug me, and I look over her shoulder at him.

“What were you going to say, Con?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, his usual smile pinned to his face.

The last one to offer birthday felicitations is Tim, who thankfully doesn’t hug me. I think we’re both glad of that fact. Instead, he offers me a lukewarm pat on the shoulder. “Happy birthday,” he says in a tone of voice that suggests he hopes I diehorribly. He looks around him. “Not exactly a placeI’dselect for a party,” he sniffs.

I shake my head. “Well then, you’d be wrong,” I say softly. “This is the best room in the building.”

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