Page 7 of The Player

“What the fuck?” Tim breathes.

“Here we go,” Joan says sweetly. “One coffee for you, Con.” Her smile dims as she turns to Tim. “And one for you,” she says in a chilly voice, proffering the chipped old mug that I’m sure I threw away last week.

“Not for me,” he says carelessly. “I only drink green tea. My body doesn’t do well with toxins.”

“Just your tongue, then, dear,” she says, her tone dripping with sweetness.

Con chokes on his coffee. “I think we’ll have a look at the workshop,” he says quickly. “And then we’ll get out of your hair.”

“Not working today?” I blurt out, and I’m aware of Tim’s smirk as Con turns to me.

“No, I’m going to show him over the house. He’s staying with me for a few days.”

“He’sstayingwith you?” I say in astonishment. Then I cough. “How lovely,” I say, swallowing hard. “A few days together.”

“I hope that’s not too long, dear,” Joan says as she takes Tim’s cup away. “When virtual strangers are stuck together fora protracted period of time, then extreme bouts of violence can occur. Just ask the couple who took a hammer to each other while on holiday in Abergavenny.”

“Forty whacks,” Hank intones and flutters to her shoulder as she sails out of the room.

There’s a long silence. “Lovely,” I finally say faintly. When I look up, I’m expecting Con to be angry. Instead, he’s staring after Joan with a face of barely concealed laughter. He looks back and catches my eye, and for a brief, precious second, we are in complete accord on the need to laugh.

Then the phone rings and breaks the moment. Tim stirs. “I’ll just nip to the loo,” he says. He shakes his head. “This is a weird place, Connie.”

I dig my nails into my palms as Con gives him directions. No one else calls him Connie apart from me. It’s always been something special between the two of us, and now this stranger is using it with a familiarity that says it’s not the first time. Did Con tell him to use it?

“You alright, Frankie?”

I jerk as I realise that Con is staring at me and that we’re alone. Well, alone apart from the parrot who just flew back in and our receptionist, who is managing to hold a conversation on the phone while itemising our every word, ready to disseminate it in the Red Lion later on.

“I’m fine,” I say. I look after Tim. “So, that’s a bit of a surprise. You bringing Tim home.”

“Why?”

The word is just sharp enough to make me blink, and I tense.

“No reason,” I say quickly. “He must have made an impression on you. Like an iron on a silk blouse,” I say under my breath.

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.”

“It didn’t sound like nothing.”

I go to move back in a huff, and he grabs my hand. It’s a gentle grip, but it manages to stay me because a tingle shoots down my arm, and I stop still. I stare at him. This sniping is completely unlike our usual relationship, and it feels horrible.

“Con?” I say, and his face clears slowly. Like he’s pushing clouds away with an effort. Then, finally, he straightens up and lets go of my hand.

“Never mind,” he says, his words containing a snap that’s alien to his customary lazy good nature.

There’s a brief silence that I rack my brains to fill. Of course, I don’t usually have to do it with Con as our conversation flows as naturally as the sun’s path.

I finally think of something. “We’ve got a big contract with Jimmy Fitch up for grabs,” I say, the words tumbling over themselves.

For a second, it looks like he’s struggling to follow me, and then he sighs, and the tumultuous emotions I’ve briefly glimpsed disappear like steam from a kettle. “That’s good.” Then his brow wrinkles. “But he can’t play the guitar.”

I shrug. “I know, but he has got a lot of outfits to match the right ones.”

“Fucking hell,” he groans, and I grin at him, so relieved to have a bit of normality back that I’d turn cartwheels if it wouldn’t ruin my hair.

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