Death Watch (37 page)

‘Sorry?’ He was surprised.

‘For you. It’s been so awful for you. And I wasn’t here. Darling, it’s all over now.’

‘Not for her,’ he said.

The bath had to wait – his needs were too urgent. As soon as they got inside the door he took hold of her, and she put down her bags and received him into her arms, and then backed with him to the bedroom, understanding more than he was probably aware of. He made love with pent-up passion, and she with a tenderness so acute that afterwards when he lay panting against her like a spent rabbit, tears ran sideways out of her eye corners, and she let them, rather than sniff and let him know she was crying for him.

But then afterwards it was all right; afterwards he was just tired. She ran a bath and got in, and he sat on the floor beside her. Two tall gin and tonics sat in the soap dish, and the steam condensed prettily on the cold glass.

‘Well, anyway, it’s a good result, isn’t it? And you were right all along, and Head was wrong, and that’s something
to celebrate,’ she said, soaping an arm.

‘Absolutely,’ he said, his eyes fixed on her. How comfortable this was. Just looking at her fed something in him. She looked tired, too, he thought. There was a greyness about her skin, and the lines at her eye corners seemed more marked. She was no mere girl, of course. A vast surge of tenderness for her passed through him from the head downwards, and his penis stirred slightly like someone half asleep who thinks they’ve heard their name called. Not now, lad. Later. Plenty of time. He wasn’t going home tonight.

‘What would you like to do? Go out for a meal?’ he asked.

‘We’ll have to go out a bit, at least – there’s no food in the house,’ she said. ‘But we can get some stuff in and cook, if you’d prefer.’

‘Yes,’ he said, a nice idea blooming in his mind. How did it manage it, when he was so tired? Must be the gin. ‘How about we pop down to the shop on the corner and get the makings, and then I’ll cook you a huge pot of spaghetti bolognese.’

She smiled. Blackpool illuminations. ‘Terrific idea! And if we get one of their small French loaves, I can make garlic bread to go with it. And there’s that special bottle of chianti left from my Italy tour last year.’

‘You wouldn’t want to open that, would you?’

‘Why not? It’s a special occasion. You’ve solved your case, and you’re staying the night.’

Oh dear. He saw the thought come into her eyes at the words, and she saw him see it. Now they were both thinking about it, and it would have to be said, and maybe the evening would be spoiled.

‘Bill, you said when this case was over, you’d sort things out.’

‘Yes,’ he said.

She made a movement of irritation, not easy to do in a bath. ‘What does that mean, yes? Are you going to talk to Irene?’

‘Yes, I will, but the thing is – well, I don’t want to do it just now.’

An unlovely hardness came to the lines of her mouth. ‘And why not now? What’s the excuse this time?’

He was nettled. ‘It’s not an excuse, it’s a reason. Look, she’s doing this special thing at the moment – she’s involved with a gala charity performance at Eton, and she’s so happy about it all, I don’t want to spoil it for her. When it’s over, then I’ll talk to her. It’ll only be a few weeks.’

‘A gala charity performance,’ she said in a dead voice.

It sounded idiotic on the lips of an outsider, someone who didn’t know Irene. ‘Yes,’ he said defensively.

‘At Eton. And for that, you want me to go on waiting?’

‘It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to her, at least in her eyes. It would be cruel to ruin it for her, when just a few more . . .’

His voice trailed away. He looked at Joanna apprehensively. Her eyes were very bright, her lips were pressed together tightly, her tail was lashing. She was ready to spring. Now it would come, he thought miserably, the torrent of anger, fear, hurt, resentment – the ultimatum, the shutdown, maybe the tears.

Her shoulders started shaking. Tears then, he thought. That was the worst of all. He had never seen her cry, and the thought of it was terrifying.

Then her lips burst apart and she almost screamed with laughter.

‘Oh Bill! Oh God, you’re priceless!’

‘I don’t see what’s so funny,’ he said at last, crossly, as she went on laughing.

‘A gala charity performance!’ She was sinking dangerously back into the water now, hitching for breath, tears of laughter squeezing out between her eyelids.

‘It’s not funny,’ he said, half resentful, half shamefaced.

‘Not to you,’ she agreed, and then went off again. ‘Oh you are a lovely man!’ she whimpered. ‘If you didn’t exist, it would be impossible to invent you.’

‘Careful, you’re going to go under,’ he warned. And then, from sheer contagion really, he started to smirk too.