Page 131 of Every Silent Lie
I hurry up the pathway as fast as the ice will allow, stalling just shy of the door when I notice something odd. “Huh,” I breathe, inspecting the crater in the snow where Mr. Percival’s Christmas turkey’s been camping out for days. “Well, I hope Maureen didn’t munch her way through the tarpaulin,” I mutter, hauling the door open and stepping inside. I blow my cheeks out and pull off my hat and gloves, going straight to Mr. Percival’s door and knocking. I hear his walking frame bashing the floor when I push my ear up against the door.
“Is that you, Camryn?” he yells.
“Yes, it’s me. Is the door open?”
“Yes, it’s open.”
“Can I come in?”
“Yes, you can bloody come in. Why would I tell you the door’s open if I didn’t want you to come in? Come in, come in, come in.”
He’s halfway down the small hallway to the door when I push my way inside, meaning he’s practically at the door, given how small the hallway is. “I didn’t want to assume. It’s mostly wide open when you’re home. And actually, Mr. Percival, you shouldn’t leave your door open.”
He looks me up and down before his gaze lands on the bag in my hand. “Been shopping?”
“Oh, this?” I put the bag behind my back, and I’ve no idea why. “It’s just a dress.”
“A party dress?”
“No, not a party dress. Just a dress.”
“So you’re not wearing it and going to a party?”
“No, I’m wearing it and going for dinner.”
“Oooh, with the man?”
“You know his name, Mr. Percival.”
“Show me the dress.”
“What?”
“The dress. Let me see it.” He gives me grabbing hands, and I roll my eyes, relenting to his demand, if only to get him off my back. I pull it out and watch as a grin that could be described as roguish washes over his old, wrinkly face.
“What?” I ask. “Why are you looking like that?”
“That’s a party dress.”
I stuff it back in the bag. “A party dress is only a party dress if it’s worn to a party, and I’m not wearing this dress to a party, so it can’t be a party dress. It’s a, I don’t know . . . a dinner dress.”
He chuckles, clutching at his walking frame as he lifts and lowers it constantly, turning around, before heading back into his flat. “Don’t tell me I don’t know a party dress when I see one,” he mutters. “Okay, it’s a dinner dress.”
I roll my eyes. “I came to check on the turkey.”
“What’s that, dear?” he yells.
“The turkey,” I yell back, following him into the kitchen. “I was checking it’s—” The turkey greets me, taking up most of Mr. Percival’s table, the gnomes all pushed to the edge to make way for the giant bird, which has its guts in a bowl next to it. Jesus Christ, it looks like a bunch of gnomes have gone all cultish, sacrificed a bird, and are about to drink its blood. “Never mind,” I murmur.
“So you’re going on a dinner date.” Mr. Percival takes a meat hammer and whacks the turkey, and I jump so bloody high I’m sure my head skims the ceiling.
“I suppose so.” Is it a date?
Whack!
I jump again.
“You suppose so? Isn’t that what it’s called when a man takes a lady out for dinner?”
