Page 165 of The Black Trilogy

Luke struggled up into a sitting position. “I wanted a bit of ‘me’ time.”

“What are you? A flipping woman?”

“I just felt like taking a day off. I do own the company. What are you doing here, anyway?”

“We’re staging an intervention. You’re not lying there watching…” Rob squinted at the TV screen. “Watching Loose Women any longer. Now, get off your pasty backside and take a shower. We’ll wait.”

“I’m not watching…”

Oh. Mark was right. Bargain Hunt must have finished.

Luke toyed with the idea of telling the pair of them to get lost, but then he realised they were right—he couldn’t spend the rest of his life slumped in front of the television, even if it was a fifty-inch flat screen with voice control and surround sound. And he didn’t understand that program where a bunch of middle-aged women sat around chatting.

“Fine, I’ll shower.”

He dragged himself upstairs, reeling at the smell coming from his armpits. Nasty. Perhaps he should try bleach rather than a bottle of Lynx?

As Luke became reacquainted with his double-width shower stall, he couldn’t help thinking of the times Ash had shared it with him. Would he ever get over her? He tried—and failed—to block her pretty face from his mind as he pulled on a clean shirt and jeans.

When he got back downstairs, Rob was bent over the pool table, and he potted a red as Luke walked into the den.

“Lucky shot,” Mark said.

“That was pure skill, pal.” He threw a glance at Luke. “Give me two minutes to finish thrashing Mark, then we’re going to the pub.”

“Whatever.”

Anything to get out of this house and its constant reminders of Ash. One of her jumpers still lay draped over the back of the sofa, the faint scent of the Ralph Lauren perfume Luke had bought her still lingered in the air, and every time Luke moved something, he found another stray hair tie.

“Let’s head into London,” Mark suggested. “If we go to the pub in the village, everyone’ll want to know why Luke’s channelling a hobo.”

Not to mention asking where Ash was. No point in fuelling the local rumour mill—it did quite well enough without someone chucking a bucket of petrol over it.

“Fine.”

“All those millions and you couldn’t afford a razor? I’ll donate one if you’ll shave that scruff off your face.”

“Pack it in, would you?”

Losing the beard wouldn’t make much difference, anyway. Not when his eyes were bloodshot with dark circles underneath and his mouth had forgotten how to smile.

“This looks like a decent place,” Mark said

Luke trailed behind him into the sports bar, grimacing slightly when his shoes stuck to the floor. Still, the prices were reasonable by London standards, and the barmaids worked fast enough to keep the queue short. Chelsea vs. Manchester United played on the big screen, and as Chelsea were two goals up, the atmosphere was positively jovial.

“Your round,” Mark told Rob as they bagged a table with a good view of the screen. “Carlsberg for me.”

Luke slumped into his seat, half drunk already. A few minutes later, Rob came back with pints for everyone.

“So,” Mark started. “What happened with Ash, then?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, after venturing into your hovel, we deserve to know. So spill. We’ve heard about the kidnapping, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

Mark and Rob were both in the Metropolitan police, and although they hadn’t been present at the aftermath of Tia’s abduction, clearly the force’s grapevine rivalled that of the Lower Foxford Women’s Institute.

“I’m not dissecting my love life over drinks.” Despite Mark’s earlier suggestion, he wasn’t a flipping woman.

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