Page 25 of The Player

“Somewhere you desperately need to be.”

“The pub isn’t open yet.”

“No, but the lavender farm is.”

“Ohfuck,” he groans. “No way. George needs me here.”

“I certainly do not,” George says. “I’m looking forward to some peace. I can listen to Pop Master without you jumping in with your ridiculous answers.”

“You know some people would say I might have a modicum of pop knowledge seeing as I was a genuine bona fide pop star myself.”

“Then those people didn’t hear you answer that Phil Collins played the tambourine in Genesis.”

“Even I know he played the recorder,” I say cheerfully. I look at Con. “Come on. That lavender won’t buy itself.”

“I wish it would,” he mutters. “I wish it would buy itself and move far away.”

I shake my head, opening the outside door and holding it for Con. Mandy cranes her head from the reception desk to see what we’re doing but then blanches and immediately looks industrious when Con turns.

“I’m so sorry, Mandy,” he calls to her. “Sorry for the mood this morning. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Well, some of it undoubtedly was,” I mumble, but he ignores me.

“Take the afternoon off, Mandy.”

I shake my head as she squeals in delight. “Therefore, shortening the workday in which she does no work, Con.”

He shrugs as we move out into the car park. The sun is bright and hot. “I shouldn’t have shouted.”

“I’m pretty sure someone should have done that ages ago. She’s terrible at her job. You doing it probably carried more weight.”

“Why?”

I stare at him over the roof of my car. “Because you so very rarely do, Con.” My eyes narrow. He’s still not looking properly at me and seems ill at ease. “You’re the easiest-tempered man I know. So, what’s happened?”

He looks up, and I frown in concern. His eyes are turbulent.

“Nothing,” he finally says. “I just had to let go of something I never really thought I’d get in the first place.”

“What is it?” I ask immediately. “I’ll try and get it for you. I can—” I stop as a harsh laugh escapes him. There is no humour in the sound at all. “Con?” I ask.

“You’re so bloody blind, Frankie. I—” He stops his outburst and looks over at the building intently. I look myself, but there’s nothing to see. He turns to me, and the old familiar smile slides across his face, but this one seems to take a lot of effort, and his eyes don’t echo it. Usually, they’re full of laughter and light and warmth. Now they’re shuttered like my windows when Lucy is outside.

“Never mind,” he says lightly. But then, he suddenly seems to become aware that we’re standing next to my car. “No,” he immediately says. “Please, not the clown car. We can go in my truck.”

I twirl the keys around my fingers, trying to find my own light tone of voice the way he is. If he wants lightness, I’ll give him that. I’d give him anything if only he wanted something from me. Something more than friendship.

“Nope,” I say. “I want to take Fabio out.”

He shakes his head, looking down at my Fiat 500. It’s bright red and gleams in the sunlight. “That’s such a big name for Noddy’s car.”

I roll my eyes. “Fabio is a tricky thing. He looks like a little twink, but he tops from the bottom.”

“Are we talking about you or the car?”

I bite my lip. “That would be telling,” I say in the flirtatious tone that usually raises a smile from him. But, instead, he stares at me, his eyes dark and mysterious, and I shift as the silence grows. Then he shakes himself and climbs into the car.

I watch, biting my lip. Con is six foot four, and my car is tiny. He squeezes himself in, and I bend down and look in the car and snort with laughter. He’s crushed into the corner with his knees high.

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