Page 22 of The Player

I watch as he puts his spade into my shed. “Aren’t you taking that with you?”

“Nope. It’s more useful here.”

“I’ll say. Your garden is like the Amazonian rainforest. I’m sure we’ll find some new species in there if we look hard.”

He shrugs. “The difference between us is that I haven’t got Lucy Scrimshaw on my back.”

“Yes, and why is that?”

He taps me on the nose. “Because you, Frankie, are too nice.”

“I am not,” I say crossly.

“Oh yes. So, who was it who shopped for Mrs Tatler when she broke her ankle or listened to her collection of James Herbert audiobooks so she’d have someone to talk to about the plots?”

I slump. “Please don’t tell anyone.” I grimace. “Those audiobooks were seriously scary. I had to sleep with the light on for weeks.”

“Maybe I will keep your secret. Maybe I won’t.”

“It’s just that Lucy reminds me of my grandmother, which means I can’t say no to her.”

“She’s only in her late forties. I’m not sure she’d be flattered by the comparison.” He nudges me. “Which means you must, of course, tell her.”

I smile. “No, it’s just her way of getting things done. She reminds me of Grandma Cath.”

He looks at me curiously. “You were brought up by her, weren’t you?”

I nod, bending to pick up the bucket. “Yes. I never knew my dad, and my mum got bored of having a rather fabulous five-year-old, so she buggered off too, which left my grandma.”

“That’s terrible,” he says softly.

I shake my head immediately. “Terrible would have been being left with my mother. She’d have forgotten me on the underground or something one day, and I’d have been condemned to roam around raiding the bins.”

“You would never raid a bin.”

“Not unless it was behind a designer outlet store.”

He laughs and then cocks his head to one side. “So, your grandma was good to you? I can’t believe we’ve never spoken about this before.”

“We’ve had other things to do. Minor things to talk about like how to pay the staff and bills and stave off bankruptcy.”

“Not a problem now, so spill.”

“She was wonderful,” I say, her face in my memory for a second. “Very sharp and clever and didn’t take shit from anyone. When I was bullied, she sorted it out herself. This little old lady tore strips off these hulking twelve-year-olds. I think it’s safe to say they’re probably still shitting themselves, and they never spoke a word to me again.”

He smiles, and it’s far too tender for my pulse. “Like grandma, like grandson, then.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I say lightly, shutting the lid on the garden waste bin. “I’m not as fierce as her. I wouldn’t have put up with David for so long if I was.”

“Love makes us put up with a lot, and you’re exactly like her. You’re fierce whenever someone you care about is threatened. I should know that. When David died, you could have waltzed back to London without a backward glance, taking the life insurance money and starting a new life. I would never have begrudged you that because of what he put you through.” He shrugs, staring intently down at one finger that’s tracing along a rose petal. “But you stayed,” he says, looking up, his eyes dark. “And you invested in the business, and you fought side by side with me to keep it. I’ll never forget that.”

I swallow hard and push my hands into my back pockets, regretting the move when it forces my hips forwards, and his gaze seems to cling, so it almost feels like I can feel his touch on my sharp hipbones.

“I’m sure you’ve blocked the dating lectures I’ve given you over the years,” I say, laughing nervously.

He stares at me for a long second. “Of course I did,” he finally says. “You weren’t telling me what I wanted to hear.”

“And what was that?”

---