Page 9 of The Player

It can’t be jealousy. There have been lots of men in Con’s past. I’ve even met a couple of them, and beyond disapproving of them as not worthy of Con, I’ve never felt any anger towards them. In fact, I went the other way and tried to befriend them during their usual short duration as Con’s boyfriend. Con was David’s best friend, and he’s now mine, and I’ve always wanted his happiness more than anything.

So, what’s changed. Why am I so bothered at seeing him with Tim?

A knock comes on the door, thankfully stopping my thoughts from going round and round like a hamster on a wheel.

“Mr Fitch’s people are here, Frankie,” Joan calls.

“Coming,” I shout. I straighten my T-shirt and try my best Tom Cruise impression. “Show me the money.” It doesn’t work. Probably because the only thing we have in common is our height.

chapter

three

It’searly evening by the time I make my way home. I manoeuvre down the high street, dodging the inevitable tourists, some of whom move slower than Britain’s economic growth. The sun is low, bathing everything with its golden glow. The village looks beautiful with the windows and paintwork of the cottages gleaming and flowers spilling in colourful abundance over the baskets dotted everywhere.

I look around in appreciation. I know that living here can sometimes be a nightmare when the tourist hordes descend, but I love everything about the place. I was born and brought up in London, and when David brought me here, it seemed like another world.However, I quickly grew to love the gossipy closeness of the residents, the way the village seemed to be given back to us in the winter when the snow came, and the sense of being known here.

I pull my keys from my pocket as I approach my front door. My home is an eighteenth-century terraced cottage built of Cotswold stone, and it’s tiny.

Letting myself in, I throw my keys into the purple glass bowl on the side table. The lounge is shady and cool and scented bythe pottery bowl of dried lavender on the coffee table. I look around in appreciation.

David bought the cottage on a whim when it came up for sale, and at first, he’d loved living in it with me and doing it up together. Then, like so much else in his life, it started to bore him. He grew tired of the decorating discussions, the villagers, and the tourism, and being so far from the bright lights of London. It came as a huge surprise to him that I disagreed with him. I was young, and I’d previously gone along with him over everything. But I loved this place passionately from the first moment I set foot in it. It felt in my tiny cottage that I’d finally found my place, and I refused to travel with him all the time. I wanted to stay put for the first time in my life.

I suppose it would have cost me my marriage eventually because the cottage was just the visual representation of how different we were. I’m a homebody and love cooking and reading. David thought he’d found a wild boy when he met me at the concert, but that’s far from who I really am. It’s redundant to theorise anyway because, in the end, I went the same way as the cottage in boring him.

I shake my head and dismiss the thoughts, climbing the steep winding stairs to my bedroom. This is a low-beamed room at the back of the house that looks over the garden. The big sleigh bed takes up most of the room, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’d splurged on an expensive mattress and the nicest bed linen, and now it’s like sleeping on a cloud. I love lying in it covered by the soft duvet and reading my book.

A year after David died, I overhauled the cottage. I got rid of his decorating choices that centred around the colour navy and made my skin itch. Instead, everything is now decorated in warm, light colours and filled with well-stuffed furniture that welcomes weary bodies. There’s rather a lot of fairy lights draped around pictures, but I’m the only one living here, so who cares?

After showering, I dress in a pair of old black shorts that hang from me and highlight my unfortunately skinny legs. I pair them with one of Con’s old Leeds University T-shirts that I pinched years ago and pad downstairs barefoot. I made a frittata yesterday, and there’s enough for supper tonight.

I wander into the kitchen and pull out the food, only to pause and stare at it. For the first time, it occurs to me that maybe there’s something sad in having frittata leftovers. Isn’t it a dish best served fresh with a partner who’ll eat all of it and never leave leftovers? I wonder what Con and Tim are doing and quickly push the thought away, but my appetite has gone, and I shove the food back in the fridge.

I pour myself a glass of wine instead and open the kitchen door to walk out into the garden. This is the one area I haven’t done anything to. I know bugger all about gardening, so it’s a bit of a wilderness that Mr Fitzroy, one of my neighbours, tuts in disapproval about.

“Lucy Scrimshaw is going to go fucking batshit crazy,” I say out loud, startling a pigeon who takes off with a heavy flutter of wings.

The doorbell rings, and my heart picks up speed.Is it Con?I race for the door, stubbing my toe in the process. I’m still swearing when I open it and find the devil on my doorstep. Or Lucy Scrimshaw, chairwoman of the village committee if you want to be more precise.

“Lucy,” I say and then gape as she steps neatly past me and into the house. “Oh, do come in,” I say, but it’s lost on her as she walks through the lounge.

“You’ve done such a lovely job with the house,” she says admiringly before walking into the kitchen. “And this is wonderful, Frankie. I don’t mind admitting I was a bit concerned when David brought you home.”

“I beg your pardon?”

She waves a careless hand. “I’m not being rude.”

“Really?” I’d like to say I said that out loud, but she scares me, so I whisper it, and she continues undeterred.

“Yes, you’re such a flamboyant dresser. I thought you’d be painting the cottage purple. But you’ve proved to be a real asset to the village, and you certainly cheered Con up after the death of his parents and David.” She pauses, obviously realising that she’s crossed a line a few miles back. “Sorry,” she says. “Sore subject.”

“Not at all,” I say coolly. “Did you want something?”

She rolls her eyes. “Silly me. I’ve got a head like a one-day-old chick.”And the hide of a crocodile,I think as she continues. “I wanted to see the garden.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” I say quickly, trying to step in front of her, but it’s too late, and she steps outside, and an appalled silence promptly falls.

“Oh, my goodness,” she breathes.

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