A Mersey Mile (28 page)

Frank carried on laughing.

‘What’s up with you?’ she asked.

‘Rice Lane is as far as you’re going.’ He ordered two smoked salmon with avocado, to be followed by two portions of spaghetti bolognese. It was time to try something new.

She didn’t even know where she was. Liverpool was supposedly familiar territory, though there appeared to be bits of it that Elaine Lewis had never visited. The shoes
were killing her. She bought plasters in a chemist shop, and found a coffee house where she ordered coffee and a couple of items that imitated croissants, since she hadn’t eaten anything
today and couldn’t face much.

In the ladies’ room, she removed stockings and applied plasters. After replacing the stockings and shoes, she stared in the mirror for several minutes. Compared to her, Polly Kennedy was
very much an Eliza Doolittle.

She washed her hands and returned to the cafe to pick up her coffee and croissants. Frank didn’t want her, but Bob Laithwaite did. He was sitting at a table with two cups of coffee, that
couple of croissants, jam, butter, and an encouraging smile.

She sat opposite him. ‘Have you been following me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

He decided to speak plainly. ‘Because I want you.’

‘Oh, stop it.’

He leaned forward. ‘I have your measure, Elaine. You want him, but he’s already spoken for.’

Elaine frowned. ‘What are you talking about? I told you he had a fiancée. I left them to it, because Frank’s mother was taken ill this morning, and my mother is caring for
her. As soon as they’ve eaten, Frank and Polly are going to visit his mother. I didn’t want to play gooseberry, so I left, bought plasters for my heels, then remembered I’d had no
breakfast. When I’ve eaten these so-called croissants, I shall go and see my mother in case she needs help with Mrs Charleson, since I have no appointments until late afternoon.’

Bob leaned back in his seat. She was a seasoned liar, yet he remained fascinated. He had met many pretty women in his time, but this piece of physical perfection was unique. She was definitely a
natural blonde, as her hair was a mixture of many shades, much darker underneath where the sun’s paintbrush had failed to penetrate. Her eyes, clear and blue, were large and defined by dark
lashes, whose colour was probably achieved by the application of mascara. She had full lips, high cheekbones, wonderful skin and arched eyebrows plucked and helped along by pencil. So she was
definitely that rare thing – a true blonde.

‘Stop staring at me, Bob.’

‘I can’t. You’re too beautiful. But I saw straight away that this person, this Frank, was in your sights. Today, you came to the office looking like a princess, and I knew
you’d dressed for him. What do you want from him, Elaine? He’s bought a junk shop and you’re chasing him?’

Still ice cold inside, she continued with her untruths. ‘I told you, it was going to be a party, so I dressed up in something new. Then illness struck poor Mrs Charleson, who has diabetes,
high blood pressure and arthritis, so I left Frank and Polly to themselves, because it was no longer a party.’

‘I saw you when you came out,’ he said. ‘You try to keep your expression deadpan, though you never quite manage that. You were upset, angry, unable to walk properly and totally
unlike the Elaine Lewis I know and care about. Normally, you are under control.’ Was she ever normal, he asked himself.

She sipped her coffee and chewed on a bit of bread that bore no relationship to the croissants she’d eaten in Paris. ‘I was worried about our mothers,’ she said after
swallowing the dry, tasteless bap.

‘Then you should have returned to the office, picked up your car and driven home. I sometimes think you manage to lie even to yourself. It’s not a wasted tendency in a lawyer, but
you do have your limits. You hit a brick wall today, and you’re unused to that, right?’

She stared hard into his eyes. ‘In my village, there’s an old lady who uses a saying that always makes me smile. When a person talks rubbish, she tells him or her it’s all a
load of my eye and Betty Martin. I have no idea who Betty Martin is or was, but do you know her? Because you’re spouting a heap of waste material, Bob.’

Seconds slid by before he spoke again. ‘What’s wrong with you, Elaine? What are you searching for?’

She smiled, though her eyes remained chilled. ‘A new job,’ she replied.

‘Why?’

‘To get away from you, since you seem to be the one searching. Following me today is not part of your remit. In fact, I could probably lodge a complaint about it. As you are a junior
partner, I could go above your head and tell the seniors that you are harassing me.’

‘But you won’t.’

‘Won’t I?’

‘No. It’s a family firm and they’re both my uncles. My name’s different, because my mother is their sister, and her surname changed when she married.’

Elaine clicked back into brain-only mode. The Spencer brothers were both middle-aged bachelors, so there was a chance that Bob might inherit the firm when they died. She tried to calculate the
value of this man, but it wasn’t easy. A law firm was as good as its staff, and they had the best, since they had her.

‘Are you working out what I’m worth in the long term?’

‘No. I’m wondering whether to put another plaster on top of these.’

‘For extra padding?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then the shoes are too big.’

‘They didn’t have my size, but I loved them, so . . .’ She shrugged. ‘A girl has to suffer if she wants to look good.’

There were two sides to her, Bob thought. On the surface, she was calm, collected and stunningly lovely. But inside, a tiger waited to get out, and she was probably great in bed. A sensible and
educated man, he nevertheless had no idea of the true extent of Elaine Lewis’s faults. Blinded by her beauty and amused by the teenage tendency to lie her way out of trouble, he assumed that
she would settle and mature in her own time. After all, she was only twenty-three, a good seven years younger than he was.

He left her and brought his car to the front of the building. ‘Shall I take you home or to your friend’s mother’s house?’

‘Back to work,’ was her answer. ‘My car’s there.’

They sat in his vehicle. ‘You make life up as you go along, don’t you?’ he asked without waiting for a reply. ‘Like me, you’re a spoilt only child. Like me,
you’ve been indulged all your life. Am I right?’

‘Almost.’

‘And he’s one that got away.’

She recognized an equal. He knew her because he knew himself. ‘Yes.’

‘Why him?’

She counted to five before replying. ‘I needed him to be my first. There’s something about him. Smouldering eyes for a start. He has a gentle nature and a sense of humour. But a
woman could drown happily in those eyes.’

‘Why not me?’

‘I have absolutely no idea. Perhaps the familiarity breeding contempt applies to you, because we work together and you hang round like an unsavoury smell on the landing.’

‘And you’re a virgin.’

‘Oh, shut up, Bob.’

He drove. ‘You fascinate me,’ he said. ‘So beautiful a woman, yet such a naughty child.’

She didn’t answer. Her main need was to be alone, since she found it difficult to concentrate when in company. All this needed thinking through, so isolation was required.
‘Bob?’

‘What?’

‘Will you see to my appointment? It’s a Mr and Mrs Crompton, quarter past four, just a couple of codicils. I need to go home before I get too tired to drive.’

‘One condition. Dinner tomorrow night, and I’m cooking.’

She waited until they were parked outside the office before answering. ‘You want me to come to your house?’

‘Yes. I shall pick you up at your place at six o’clock so that Mrs Lewis can see I’m not a monster. Then I’ll take you away, feed you, ply you with good wine and, if you
wish, you may be my dessert.’

‘What about my pudding?’

‘That would be me. But only if you’re agreeable. I have no stomach for rape.’ He took keys from the ignition. ‘Or we could have baked Alaska instead.’

‘Then whip up your meringue, Bob, because you’re not going to be my first.’

‘Really?’

‘Absolutely.’

He lit a cigarette. ‘Pity, because I’m rather good at it. I can show you glowing letters of commendation, a gold medal from the Olympics, two first-class degrees, one second and one
third. But I was drunk at the time when I slipped to third, and she was wearing some terrible perfume that reminded me of bathroom cleaner.’

Elaine refused to be amused. She needed to think. She needed to be away from here so that she might sort out her mind, get her thoughts in order, sum up the day. Because this was how lawyers
worked. The facts must be laid out on paper with the possibilities in the next column. This man seated next to her must be analysed, good points and bad. And Frank . . . Frank didn’t want
her. Ways to get to him, ways to get to her, that Pygmalion character who was incapable of comprehensible speech, guttersnipe, servant in a greasy cafe patronized by others of her ilk.

‘Elaine?’

‘He could do so much better,’ she whispered, almost unaware that she had spoken.

‘You were considering him as a husband.’

Once more, she did not reply.

‘Why? He’s just a shopkeeper.’

‘I’m going home.’ She stepped out of his car and walked to her own.

He followed her, of course. ‘See you tomorrow morning, then,’ he said.

‘If I come back.’

He was about to tell her how silly it would be to leave without notice, but she jumped into the driver’s seat, turned the key and roared past in reverse, missing him by just a few inches.
‘Fiery,’ he said to himself. But he was worried. Both uncles were pleased with Miss Lewis. She was efficient, pleasant and decorative. If she complained to them about their
nephew’s behaviour, they might react badly.

He turned and walked towards the offices. This was not his finest hour. If Elaine made trouble for him, Spencer and Spencer would have Laithwaite by the throat. He prayed that she would return
tomorrow. Whatever else was wrong with her, she was excellent at her job. Bob Laithwaite would sleep badly tonight.

The first removals van arrived. Polly jumped up and down in the middle of a huge, empty shop and clapped her hands in glee. Their life was in that big vehicle outside, and she
had helped choose it. They had almost new dining furniture, an ex-display suite for the living room, a brand new bed and second-hand wardrobe, dressing table and tallboy. This was many, many
birthdays rolled into one. ‘I’m excited,’ she yelled.

‘Are you? I hadn’t noticed.’ They were both filthy. After scrubbing floors, cleaning cupboards, washing windows, laying carpets and chasing each other with wet mops for over
three hours, they looked as if nobody owned them.

He watched her. Even when she was in a state worse than Dusty Den Davenport’s cart, she was bloody gorgeous. ‘I wish you could move in here with me, Polly.’ She wouldn’t
leave Cal yet. He and Linda were head over heels, but Cal had vowed that he would walk into that blooming bungalow; he would, too. The twins were stubborn, pushy, determined people.

She went upstairs to supervise the removals men. Frank helped to carry some pieces, listening all the while to her changing her mind. ‘Try it under the window . . . put it at an angle . .
. be careful with that table; it needs a new hinge on one of the drop leaf thingies.’

‘Behave yourself,’ he whispered when passing close to her.

‘Shut up, you.’

‘And remember your promise.’

‘Excuse us,’ she said sweetly to the men. She drew her beloved to one side. ‘I am going nowhere near that fire-breathing dragon. You’re doing all that on your own, by
yourself, without me.’

‘I know. But it won’t be breathing fire when you get there.’

She waited until the men had left to fetch another lot of furniture. ‘What if it wakes up when we least expect it?’

‘It won’t.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Positive. As long as you don’t prod it.’

‘Have we got soap?’

‘And towels. Don’t you dare back out on me, Kennedy.’

She looked him up and down. ‘One grunt or grumble out of that monster, and I’ll be in Seaforth. You’ll recognize me, cos I’ll be stark naked with a new tattoo on my bum.
I got the freckles joined together and covered up.’ She stalked off, head held high, so high that she tripped over the edge of a carpet square. ‘Bugger,’ she snapped.

‘Which tattooist’s been meddling with my fiancée’s bum?’

‘None of your business.’

‘All right. I’ll hang these curtains.’ He fiddled with rings and looked almost absently into the road below. She was there. The bloody woman had followed him. Determined to
carry on no matter what, he hung the first curtain. She was getting out of her car. Damn and blast, would he ever be rid of her? A conversation was taking place between Elaine Lewis and Roy, the
chief removals man. She gave him a parcel, returned to her car and drove off, rubber screaming against the road’s surface. The Victorian dwellings and shops on Rice Lane might well lose the
will to live if people drove like that.

At five minutes to six, the job was completed. Roy wandered upstairs for the final time, received his money and a generous tip, and handed over the final item just before leaving. ‘A woman
passed this to me, said it’s a house-warming gift. Anyway, we’ll meet you tomorrow at nine o’clock and fetch your shop stuff. Thanks, boss.’ He touched the neb of his
obligatory cap and left.

When Polly entered the flat’s living room, she found Frank seated on the sofa with a package beside him. ‘Is it a bomb?’ she asked.

‘Something like that. My beautiful, sick lawyer was across the road in her car. She gave this to Roy, said it’s our house-warming present.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh indeed. It’s as if she wants me to give her attention, pay court, prostrate myself at her feet. I’m no doctor, but she has a mental problem of some kind. She frightens me
halfway to death.’

‘Don’t you dare die, or I’ll kill you.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Open it, Frank.’

He looked at her. ‘I do dragons, you do parcels.’