Walking Back to Happiness (7 page)

If he was going to attack me, he’d have done it by now, she thought. And Minton hadn’t gone for him.

She smiled quickly, and crouched down where he was indicating.

‘See this switch is down? It should be up.’ He flicked it and the lights came back on. ‘First place you check. Anything more complicated, call your electrician.’

Juliet nodded. Lorcan had a definitely male smell. Not unpleasant, just not . . . something she was used to smelling.

He straightened up and brushed the dust off his jeans. He was about to speak when her stomach let out an embarrassing gurgle, and he laughed.

‘I take it you’ve not eaten,’ he said. ‘Want to come next door for a bite to eat? Emer’s about to dish up a curry. She does a mean curry. Sal’s allowed to request what he wants, since it’s his special day, and he’s over-ordered.’

‘Um, no, it’s OK,’ said Juliet, automatically. She didn’t feel up to joining a birthday dinner table, let alone one that would be as boisterous as the Kellys’. She guessed Emer was the mother, and assumed Alec was their father, but there were so many of them she didn’t know, plus whatever guests they had. Hundreds, by the sound of it.

‘It’s no bother,’ insisted Lorcan. ‘She always makes too much. She forgets how many she’s cooking for most of the time, and everyone’s home. Alec flew back this morning.’ He winked. ‘Some dad he is. He’s skipping out of Sal’s actual party. Off-their-heads metallers, no problem; ten eleven-year-olds at the bowling alley, he’s outta there.’

‘What does Alec do?’ Juliet asked, curious.

‘He runs a road crew for rock bands. Used to be a roadie himself, but now he’s management. Gets flown all over the place. You didn’t know?’

‘I haven’t really . . . been around,’ she admitted. ‘Famous bands?’

‘Pretty famous.’ Lorcan grinned at her. ‘Come next door, have a chat. Let him tell you some stories – God knows Emer’s heard them enough times. He’ll be glad of some fresh ears.’

Juliet was tempted for a second, but something stopped her.

‘I . . .’ she began, but Lorcan seemed to know what she was about to say.

He rolled his eyes and nodded towards the thumping bass, which had started up again through the walls. ‘No need to bother with a polite excuse. I love the kids to death, but you’ve to build up your tolerance when it comes to the noise. Listen, what about if I nip back and get us a takeaway? To be honest, I wouldn’t mind an excuse to eat my tarka dhal without Florrie bending my ear about hamsters or what have you.’ Lorcan winked. ‘I can say your fuses are bollixed. You’d be doing me a favour.’

‘Um, it’s a bit of a mess here,’ said Juliet. She struggled to pinpoint the swirl of contradictory thoughts jamming her head; part of her wanted to hurry him out, so she could get back to her private misery, but a smaller part quite fancied hearing more about her rock star neighbours. Not to mention the curry. The smell of it had triggered a rare bout of appetite.

She glanced down at Minton, who was glaring at Lorcan. His feelings seemed pretty clear.

Lorcan’s smile broadened, reaching his blue eyes. They twinkled flirtatiously. ‘Mess? It doesn’t bother me. I’m used to it. When you’re on your own, who cares what the sink’s like? There are silver linings to every break-up, right? If you get us a bottle of wine opened and . . .’

Juliet froze. It was a throwaway remark but it felt like a slap.
When you’re on your own?
How did he know that? Had Emer next door told him Ben had
walked out
?

Her skin went cold as another thought struck her. Was Lorcan coming on to her? Was that what Minton picked up? Someone moving in on Ben’s patch?

God, how out of it was she?

‘No,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’s not a good idea.’ Her voice sounded stiff and uptight, more like Louise than her normal easy tone.

Lorcan seemed confused. ‘Sorry, did I say something wrong?’

‘I haven’t had a break-up.’ Juliet hugged herself. ‘My husband died. I’m a widow. My husband was called Ben. We were together for fifteen years. I wish I
had
been dumped, then there’d be some chance of getting him back.’

‘Oh, man, I didn’t . . .’

Juliet didn’t bother to see what was going across Lorcan’s face. She made straight for the door, and held it open for him.

‘Thanks for sorting out the fuses,’ she said, her eyes fixed on the crisply tessellating tiles. They were box-fresh Victorian, preserved by years of manky carpeting; one of the few parts of the house that didn’t make her heart sink.

Lorcan stepped outside, then turned back on the step. ‘Emer didn’t know,’ he apologised. ‘She just assumed . . .’

‘That I was too young? Or not sad enough?’ Juliet knew it was unfair to lash him with her bitterness when he’d been kind, but she couldn’t stop herself. She was churning inside.

‘Well, we know now,’ said Lorcan simply. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’ He started down the path, then turned and added, ‘You know you’re welcome to drop in any time. For a chat or tea, or whatever. I know Emer’d be glad of some grown-up company.’

‘I will,’ said Juliet, but she had no intention of doing it.

Chapter 5

Louise was aware that she got her thirst for qualifications from her father, but she hoped she hadn’t inherited her mother’s interfering genes.

Diane had called her on her mobile while she was on her way to knock out a morning’s worth of public disorder charges, fussing about Juliet’s still-unfinished bathroom.

‘We need to find Juliet a shower,’ she’d said. ‘It’s keeping me awake, thinking of her with just a bath. Anything can happen in a bath. Call me when you get in. We need to make a plan.’

Which was why, at ten to seven, Louise was sitting at her laptop still in her suit, Toby on her knee, surfing the Net for bathroom fittings while Diane worried in her ear about Juliet’s sanitation.

‘Ben mentioned that they were looking for something Victorian to fit in with the house,’ said Louise, clicking through some beautiful brass showerheads with chunky enamelled taps. ‘When he was here before . . . well, you know.’

‘But will it work? I don’t want her living in some kind of tatty antique shop where nothing works, just because it looks right.’

‘No, Mum, it’s all reproduction these days.’ Diane always talked about Juliet as if she were still a flaky teenager prone to henna disasters and lost bus fares. Louise stopped at a shower that was perfect for Juliet’s house; in fact, she had a feeling it was one of the ones Ben had pointed at when she’d shown him the brochure for their bathroom. ‘Ah! I think I’ve got it. Blimey. It’s not cheap.’

There was a muted exchange on the other end, and her father abruptly came on the phone.

‘Hello, love,’ said Eric. He didn’t have a lot of time for Diane’s machinations. Louise could almost hear him whipping his reading glasses off and rubbing his eyes with frustration after listening to the other side of their conversation for so long. ‘About this shower. Just get the right one and we’ll pay for it. Doesn’t matter what it costs.’

‘But Juliet won’t let you buy it for her. She’s really proud about things like that.’ Louise hesitated, remembering the last time she’d tried to help out, offering their old sofa. ‘She won’t like the idea of us sticking our noses in.’

‘I’ve a big enough nose to deal with that,’ said Eric, and recited his credit-card number.

An hour’s conversation dealt with in under a minute; Louise had to hand it to her dad, he knew how to get things done.

The kitchen had been a bombsite when Louise had dashed upstairs, but when she came down from putting Toby to bed, it was spotless. Three candles were flickering on the kitchen table and the good wine glasses were out.

She looked at them stupidly, trying to work out why Peter hadn’t just used the recycled ones that went into the machine. And why he’d put linen napkins on the plates. They never used napkins – they hadn’t used napkins even when they didn’t have the machine on seven hours a day cleaning up after Toby, the human laundry-maker.

Louise picked up the one on her plate. It still had the wedding-list crease in it. From Auntie Cathy, who’d actually said, ‘Well done, Louise, you’ll never be poor with a computer boffin!’ in the receiving line.

‘Is everything OK?’ she called into the utility room. She could hear the fridge opening and shutting.

‘That was quick.’ Peter reappeared looking flustered. He was wearing the stripy barbecue pinny over his suit, with his shirtsleeves rolled up underneath. In one hand was a bottle of wine; in the other was a chiller bucket. He smiled, showing his small white teeth, and waved at the table. ‘Sit down. Let me get you a drink – white wine OK?’

Louise pulled out a chair. She knew she should be bowled over by this display of attention, especially since Peter had been at some big software conference all day too, but an unwelcome knot of tension had begun to turn in the base of her stomach.

‘Should I go back upstairs and get changed?’ she joked uncomfortably. ‘I feel a bit underdressed.’

‘No, you’re fine,’ said Peter, but there was a second’s hesitation, and she knew he was taking in the saggy knees of her yoga pants. Louise had pulled on her old mummy uniform of black Lycra separates as soon as she’d got in; there was only really one office skirt that fitted, and she didn’t dare risk any accidents.

‘I’ll get changed,’ she said. It was silly, but she didn’t feel relaxed, him in his suit, her with VPL, probably. A bit of her died inside. She hadn’t given VPL a moment’s thought until today. That’s what being back in a pencil skirt did. ‘Give me a moment, I’ll nip upstairs and get—’

‘No, just sit down!’ Peter’s frustrated tone was too forceful, but he heard it and smiled, quickly, softening his voice. ‘No, there’s no need. You look great as you are. Just sit down and relax. Tell me how today went.’

‘Um, it went pretty well,’ she said, editing out her skipped lunch and sneaky ‘what phone call?’ dash to pick up Toby. ‘I’ve been in court most of the day, waiting for witnesses. Some of them really milk it, turning up in shades and everything. You’d think they were on
X Factor
, the way they keep us waiting. Douglas has given me a really boring set of cases to start off with, probably checking my brain’s still where I left it.’

‘’Course it is.’ He poured a glass of wine and handed it to her.

Louise eyed him. Was Peter actually listening? Didn’t he realise how genuinely worried she was, that she might not be able to pick it up again, especially with budget cuts?

‘How was your day?’ she asked politely, and Peter launched into a story about some approach from an ad agency in America who wanted them to write some viral game software for ‘a top secret client’, but who his co-director Jason reckoned might be some other company she hadn’t heard of either.

Louise tried to listen and keep her face alert and engaged, but it was tough. She was tired. And Peter never focused on the interesting bits, like what the viral game might be. Or how long after Techmate’s first big-league deal ex-stoner Jason had stopped wearing trainers to work and started buying handmade Italian shoes.

It had been exactly the same when Louise was at home: Peter would ask a few questions about Toby – the
last
thing she wanted to talk about after a whole day of nappies – then ramble on about work. He didn’t even sympathise with how knackered she was. He, on the other hand, was positively chirpy, as befitted someone who’d slept through Toby’s nocturnal operatics.

Louise let him talk. It was easier. While he explained about the new engine Jason was developing, he served up a Waitrose Dine at Home chicken supreme with some salad, which Louise ate instead of the potatoes, mindful of her skirt. Peter was still rhapsodising about the commercial possibilities when he brought out a pair of crème brûlées.

Louise let herself eat half, then pushed hers over to Peter. He tucked into it happily. He had the metabolism of a racehorse. It had been one of the things she’d fancied about him when they first met: his lanky arms sticking out of the hooded college sweatshirt. The archetypal cute geek.

‘Is there any reason for this?’ she asked, unable to stop herself as he topped up her wine glass. ‘I mean, the lovely meal and candlelight treatment?’

Peter raised his eyebrows. ‘I know you spend a lot of time with devious people, but does there have to be a reason to make my wife supper?’

‘No,’ said Louise. ‘It’s just . . . you’ve gone to so much trouble.’

‘Well, I know we can’t go out without a big military operation, so I thought I’d bring the date home.’ He topped up his own glass and raised it in a toast. ‘Saves on the taxi. And babysitter.’

‘So this is a date?’ Louise’s mouth twitched.

‘Of course. Table for two at Chez Peter, couple of glasses of Chardonnay, Classic FM – limited menu, I’ll grant you, but the service is better than at La Galette.’ He smiled across the table, and the candlelight caught the romantic look in his eye. ‘And no one’s going to hurry us out after dessert.’ Peter stretched out his hand and slid his fingers between hers. ‘Or object if we get a bit amorous at the table. Or under it, even.’

Louise squeezed his hand, then pointed her spoon over the crème brûlée she’d pushed over to him. ‘Or make me feel bad about helping myself to this last bit of pudding! Mmm!’

She was starting to sense where this was going, and she felt as if she was in a little boat heading towards Niagara Falls, paddling hopelessly against the current. Her foot curled itself round the leg of her chair, just as Peter’s foot sought hers and missed.

‘That sort of thing,’ said Peter, and Louise thought she detected a faint note of flatness in his voice.

Guilt flooded her. She should be grateful to have a husband who not only tried to seduce her over dinner, but actually heated up the dinner himself. Come on, Louise, she scolded herself. Get over this.

‘Well, it’s lovely. Really lovely. If I’d known, I’d have dressed up,’ she gabbled, wanting to tell him what he wanted to hear.

‘You don’t need to. You’re gorgeous as you are.’

‘I’m not, I’m all . . .’ Louise started, but Peter reached out and put a finger on her lips. She wondered if he expected her to bite it saucily.