Sorry

‘What are you doing here?’ Ian demanded as he pushed through the kitchen door.

‘What d’you think?’ Wilma retorted. ‘I’m making your dinner – liver and bacon, just how you like it.’ Impish grin. ‘Wi a puckle fried onions on the side.’

‘If you think you can soften me up,’ his face didn’t crack, ‘with a decent plate of food after months of dishing up shite, you can think again.’

‘Oh.’ She set down the fish slice and crossed to his side. ‘Don’t be like that.’

He shrugged out of his jacket. ‘Like what? If you think you can swan in here and sweet-talk me after all that’s been said, you’ve another think coming.’

‘I know.’ She hung her head in a show of submission. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry is as sorry does.’

Pig-headed bastard!

‘Truly I am.’

He sat down at the table.

‘And I have been thinking,’ she moved to stand alongside, ‘about lots of things, not just…’

‘That fucking detective agency,’ he supplied. ‘We were doing away fine – you and me – before you hooked up with that snotty bitch next door.’

‘I know,’ she soothed. ‘But you’ve got Maggie Laird all wrong. She doesn’t mean to look down her nose. It’s how she was brought up.’

‘Thought it was Methlick she was from.’ Ian cast a hungry glance towards the cooker.

‘It is.’

‘Well, then.’ He pursed his mouth. ‘She’s no better than you or me.’

‘Nobody ever said she was,’ Wilma began. Then, realising she was in dangerous territory, changed tack. ‘We thought we were doing good.’ She batted her eyelashes, to no avail.

‘Aye? Running around the country, neglecting your duties, out to all hours like a pair of…’

Hoors? Wilma stifled a chuckle.

‘…tarts.’

‘I’ll give you we’ve been putting in long hours. But that’s going to change. Once the money starts to come in regular from the corporate accounts, we…’

Ian raised a hand. ‘Spare me the explanations. Too little, too late, Wilma. Now, if we’re done…’

She swivelled on her heel and crossed to the cooker. ‘You’ll not be wanting your dinner, then,’ she challenged, her back to him. Surreptitiously, she turned up the gas under the frying-pan.

‘Well, I…’

The aroma of bacon and onions filled the room.

‘Sit down.’

Turning the dial to its lowest setting, Wilma did as she was bid.

‘I’m willing to give it another go,’ Ian offered, grim-faced.

She met his eye. ‘Thanks.’

‘Under certain conditions.’

You’re kidding!

‘Name them,’ she said.