Page 17 of Crazy Spooky Love
Marina opens her handbag and drags out an apron to cover her immaculate outfit. “Come on, Arthur. Babs is not gonna paint herself.”
“Who’s Babs?”
Marina heads for the door. “I’ll introduce you.” She tips her head to one side and studies him. “Do you drive, Arthur?”
Sadness washes Arthur’s features clean of any trace of merriment. “My dad gave me a couple of lessons, before he…No, I don’t drive.”
She nods briskly. “I’ll take over your lessons.”
I don’t miss the naked fear that fills Arthur’s eyes at Marina’s offer.
“Or maybe we could pay for some lessons for you through the business when we’re a bit more on our feet,” I suggest. “It’d be useful for us if you had your license.”
“You’d do that?” he whispers, shiny-eyed.
I make a mental note to sign him up for some lessons as soon as we’re financially able. I wasn’t lying when I said it’d be helpful if hecould drive, although to be perfectly frank, lessons in a modern car will do little to prepare him for the behemoth that is Babs. More important though, it’s high time Arthur Elliott became someone who passed exams and has a place in the world where he is not surplus to requirements or making up the numbers. Up until now he’s somehow managed to fall through every crack and miss every party; he may not be a girl, but as of now he’s a valuable member of The Girls’ Ghost-Busting Agency and I intend to make sure he feelsit.
“Don’t let her go crazy on the van, Arthur. You’re officially in charge out there.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and blinks nervously, but I don’t miss the way his shoulders slide back and he stands a little taller. He follows Marina to the door and then pauses and clears his throat so we both look at him expectantly.
“It’d be all right if you called me ‘Art.’ ” The words rush from him all in one nervous breath.
I think of his dad, of Big Art, standing right here in the office making a case for his son, and I nod solemnly.
“Art it is.”
“I think I preferArtie,” Marina says, looking at him thoughtfully.
For a second, he looks taken aback. I think at first that he’s going to refuse her suggestion, and then I realize that the expression on his face isn’t disagreement. It’s shy pride at being given a nickname by someone other than his mother, for the first time in his life.
“Artie it is, then,” I say, concluding the conversation.
Marina whips the air with her hand, motioning for him to hurry out the door. “Quick smart, then, Artie,” she says. “You need to meet Babs, and then we’re off on a paint-buying mission.”
They disappear, and within a few minutes I hear the unmistakable sound of Babs backfiring and belching her way down High Street.
I’m nose-deep in making preliminarynotes about the Brimsdale Road case when someone knocks on the door again. I know straightaway that it’s not Marina and Artie back already; I’ve been shopping with Marina enough times to know that they won’t be back for a good couple of hours yet. Besides, this isn’t a meek “Is there anyone in there?” tap, it’s more of a “I know you’re in there so open up right now” rap.
Marina doesn’t knock, and Arthur,Artie,doesn’t rap, so I call out, “It’s open,” from my position behind my desk and wait.
The moment Leo flings the door wide and strides in I regret my open-door policy. If I’d known it was him I’d have hidden beneath the desk until he went away again. As it is, I take the only option available to me and brazen it out.
“I’ve been expecting you,” I say, for all the world like a breezy Bond villain.
“And as if by magic, here I am,” he drawls, throwing his arms out to the sides as he glances around. “No team, I see?”
“No cape or creepy twins, I see?”
He smirks, unrattled. Not that I expect him to be, his business is established and he has a weekly spot onMorning TV.Withdrawing my business card from his shirt pocket, he flicks it over and glances down as if to remind himself of the details.
“The Girls’ Ghost-Busting Agency. Seriously?”
I eye him steadily. “Your point?”
He rubs his hand thoughtfully over his clean-shaven chin. “It’s a bit…low rent?”
“I prefer to think of it as direct, clear, does-what-it-says-on-the-can,” I say, folding my arms. If I were Marina I’d probably prop my feet up on the desk at this point, but given that I’m in Converse sneakers rather than spike heels, I’d look more student-cheap than sassy-chic. “Have you come to wish us luck, Leo?”
