Page 20 of The Player

“Maybe you should look closer to home.”

He nods over at Con, and I blanch. “Oh no, George,” I stammer. “You’ve got the wrong idea.”

He chuckles. “I think I’ve probably got the right one, Frankie.” He claps me on the shoulder again. “Isn’t it lovely getting advice?” he says serenely and walks away.

“Oh, you think you’re so clever,” I call, and he laughs again, wandering over to Joan, whose face immediately lights up when she sees him.

“Say no, my arse,” I whisper.

I look over at Con. It’s an instinctive gesture. Wherever I am, I’ve looked for Con since the day I first met him. He calms me and makes me happy. I frown as Mandy moves, and I see him and Tim. They don’t look happy. Tim is glaring and hissing something at Con while Con rubs the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. Tim says something else that makes Con frown and say something back that makes Tim flush an unbecoming red.

“Trouble in paradise,” Joan says, wandering over to me and handing me a cup of tea.

I jump. “Oh, I don’t know,” I say.

“I do.”

“You look far too happy about it.”

“I am,” she says cheerily.

“You don’t like him?”

“I don’t like what he’s standing between, Frankie.”

I shake my head. “No,” I say firmly. “We are not doing that. Con is a good friend of mine. I’m the widower of his best friend, and he wouldn’t look twice at me.” I pause. “Not to mention that I only see him as a friend,” I conclude heartily.

“Okay,” she says, giving me a suspiciously meek nod of her head. I narrow my eyes at her, and she brightens. “Oh, they’re definitely arguing now.”

“He hit them with an iron. Boom,” Hank Marvin says gloomily from his perch on a chair, where he’s eyeing the cake.

I’m in the kitchen that evening, hanging on my fridge door and once again contemplating the meaning of life when a knock comes at the door.

I look up nervously. If it’s Lucy Scrimshaw, I don’t think my nerves will take another inspection. It’s how I imagine the army to be if a five-foot-seven martinet ran it.

I creep closer to the window and try to peer through the shutters.

“It’s no use. I can see you,” comes a voice, and I instantly relax.

“What are you doing here?” I say, swinging the door open.

Con is leaning against the wall outside dressed in his customary jeans and an old striped shirt that has a rip in the side that offers an intriguing glance of his corded abdomen. I wipe my suddenly damp palms on my shorts.

With a rush, all the feelings from earlier come rushing back, and I find myself itemising the veins on his big hands, the broadness of his shoulders, the narrow hips, and the fresh scent of his cologne.

How did I miss you?I wonder. The thought is quickly followed byOh god, what am I going to do?

His hair is wet, and I wonder with a sharp pang whether he and Tim have had a shag and they’ve showered together afterwards. I dimly remember doing the same back in my datingdays, which currently seem like a millennium ago. My stomach twists and dives in a now-familiar motion.

He straightens up. “I’ve come to do the garden.”

“Oh, there’s no need,” I say nervously.

He raises one eyebrow. “Are you doing it yourself, then?”

I bite my lip. “Probably not,” I admit. “I was just thinking of emigrating to Antarctica instead.”

“It’s probably better. Not so many tourists,” he says, glaring at two women who are currently looking through my window without a shred of shame.

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