The Last Girl (60 page)

‘So soon?’

‘It couldn’t be soon enough. We’re moving on. Cutting our losses. Finding somewhere new to make a home. But together.’

‘Best of luck.’

‘Thanks for your time, boss.’

‘You’re welcome.’ He went over to the window and stared out, his shoulders hunched, a picture of misery. I felt sorry for him, but I felt more sorry that I’d been right.

The first thing I saw when I came out of Godley’s office was Derwent with his feet up on my desk, picking his nose and wiping it on the underside of my chair.

‘Do you mind?’ I picked up his feet and lowered them to the floor.

‘Ready to go?’

‘No.’ I picked up my bag. ‘Yes. But I’m not happy about it.’

‘I’m helping,’ he protested.

‘You’re curious.’

‘That too.’ He jumped up. ‘Will she make me a cup of tea?’

‘You won’t be staying.’

‘Come on, Kerrigan. I’ll be good.’

‘You don’t know the meaning of the word.’

‘Being around your mother makes you tense, doesn’t it?’

‘How can you tell?’ My shoulders were already up around my ears. ‘Come on, for God’s sake. If you’re driving me, drive. If you’re gearing up for some sub-Freudian psychoanalysis bullshit, think again.’

He grinned. ‘You know what I say. When you strike a nerve, that’s where you should hit again. Now tell me about your childhood.’

It was with some difficulty that I persuaded Derwent to leave once he had helped to carry in the last bag and he didn’t go until he had eaten a vast slab of home-made barm brack, and half a loaf of home-made soda bread, and two home-made scones, and had accepted a home-made apple pie for his freezer. His eyes were everywhere, noticing every embarrassing old photograph or memento my mother insisted on keeping in plain view.

‘I will never live this down,’ I hissed to Mum as she refilled the kettle. ‘Stop
talking
to him.’

‘But he seems like a nice lad. And he knew Dungannon, imagine. Your cousins live in Dungannon.’

‘He wouldn’t have come across them. He only knew Dungannon because he patrolled it. He was in the army.’

‘I thought so. You can always tell a soldier’s bearing.’ She carried the full teapot in as if she was carrying an offering; my mother, the Irish Nationalist par excellence, feeding a British soldier (retired). I found it baffling.

Eventually Derwent packed himself into his car and waved goodbye to me, and Rob, and my mother.

‘I could be hurt. I thought I was her blue-eyed boy,’ Rob said out of the corner of his mouth.

‘She’s a sucker for a job title and she knows DI trumps DS.’

‘Would she prefer him for you? Really?’

‘That would depend.’

‘On what?’

‘On whether you still have prospects in the Met or whether DS is as high as you’re going.’

‘Brutal.’

‘But clear. Achieve, and keep her on your side. Fail? Eff off.’

‘Maeve. Language.’ Mum passed by, her nose in the air.

‘Imagine if I’d said “fuck”.’ But I whispered it.

Rob stretched. ‘Where are we sleeping?’

‘
We
aren’t sleeping anywhere. Let me show you.’ I took him upstairs, pointing in through my bedroom door. ‘This is my bed.’ I kept walking. ‘And this is yours.’ His room was all the way at the other end of the landing.

‘Who sleeps here?’ Rob asked, pointing to the bedroom between ours.

‘Mum and Dad. And she has ears like a bat. And half the floorboards creak.’

‘Typical. No visits allowed, I take it?’

‘What an immoral suggestion. I blush for you.’ I shook my head. ‘It’s more than my life’s worth to attempt it. She’d skin you and slaughter me.’

‘Oh, well. I’ll miss you.’ He lay down on his bed with his hands under his head.

I sat on the edge of the mattress, pleating the coverlet in my fingers. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Go for it.’

‘Why do you stick around when I keep turning your life upside down?’

‘Because I love you.’

‘I remember you saying,’ I said, trying to keep my tone nonchalant.

‘Well. That, basically.’

From the bottom of the stairs, a voice floated up. ‘It’s shepherd’s pie for dinner. We’ll eat at six.’

Rob looked at his watch and groaned. ‘That’s only half an hour. We’ve only just had tea and cake.’

‘You’re a growing boy.’ I put my hand on his chest. ‘I haven’t said it back.’

‘I noticed.’

‘And minded?’

‘Nope.’ He grinned lazily. ‘You’ll say it at the right time, when you’re ready.’

‘Sure about that?’

‘As sure as I am that you’ll be in here paying me a visit after lights-out later, mother or no mother.’

‘Arrogant.’

‘Always.’ He tilted his head. ‘I do love you, you know.’

‘I know.’ I stood up and went to the door, then paused. ‘You know how half the floorboards on the landing creak?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, half of them don’t.’

He started to smile, a smile that matched the one on my face. ‘Your point is?’

‘I know which is which.’

‘It’s no wonder I think you’re wonderful.’

‘I am pretty great,’ I admitted. ‘You really are lucky to have me.’

‘This is what I keep telling you.’

I’d moved back in with my parents, yet again. I was doomed to sleep in a separate bed from my boyfriend for the duration, which just made it all the more urgent for us to find somewhere else to live. My stalker was back, and angry. I was seriously worried about my career prospects.

I still wouldn’t have changed a thing.

Acknowledgements

This book is the product of much hard work by many talented people. I owe thanks to them all, but particularly the fiction team at Ebury: my editor Gillian Green, Caroline Newbury, Hannah Robinson, Louise Jones, Jake Lingwood, Fiona MacIntyre, Susan Pegg, Hannah Grogan and Martin Higgins, and everyone in the sales department. They are very dedicated and it’s lovely to work with them. I am also indebted to Justine Taylor for her painstaking copy-editing.

I am incredibly lucky that Simon Trewin is my literary agent and that he has such a wonderful assistant, Ariella Feiner. They are a great team, infinitely supportive and understanding. Just as importantly, they have a good line in jokes. I am also very grateful to their colleagues at United Agents, particularly Jessica Craig and Zoe Ross.

The Last Girl
would never have been finished without the help and encouragement of my family, especially Frank and Alison Casey and Kerry Holland. Philippa and Simon Charles, and Michael and Bridget Norman, provided unstinting hospitality for many weeks while I was writing. I am also very grateful to my extended family and friends for their help and enthusiasm; it makes all the difference.

Since one of the main characters in
The Last Girl
is a criminal barrister, part of the book is set in his chambers. I must emphasise that all of the characters are complete inventions, as is Three Unicorn Court, though the Temple certainly exists.

I find one of the hardest things about writing a novel is to think up characters’ names. I am very pleased to have been allowed to borrow Caitriona Bennett’s name for a key character in this book. I am also grateful to Áine Holland – to whom the book is dedicated – for the use of her first name as Maeve’s middle name. I think it suits her.

Finally, I must thank Edward, Patrick and James for their very important contributions to the writing process – Edward for entertaining me, Patrick for turning up at the right moment, and James, as ever, for everything.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Version 1.0

Epub ISBN 9781446491997

www.randomhouse.co.uk

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Published in 2012 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing,
A Random House Group Company

Copyright © 2012 by Jane Casey

Jane Casey has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner

The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at:
www.randomhouse.co.uk/contact/contact-us

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Hardback ISBN 9780091948474
Trade paperback ISBN 9780091946777

To buy books by your favourite authors and register for offers visit:
www.rbooks.co.uk