Kate and Derek were walking past Lizzie’s half-open door, Kate trying not to tiptoe like a particularly guilty Pink Panther.
‘Is that you, Kate?’
They exchanged a look.
‘Gaffer?’
Lizzie pulled open the door. ‘Look – Kate. I’m … I was out of order there; well out. D’you fancy a jar? Oh, and you, Ben,’ she added, managing a grin in his direction.
‘Good idea,’ they said together.
‘Have you got an umbrella?’ Kate added. ‘Derek’s got this idea that it’ll rain any moment.’
That was the first laugh: embarrassed, stilted, but still a laugh. While Lizzie locked up, Derek risked a thumbs-up. Kate winked back. They both heaved silent sighs, however: fun evening this was not going to be.
The city centre bars and the pavements outside them were heaving.
‘Maybe somewhere further out?’ Derek suggested.
‘Forget Brindley Place: that’ll be solid,’ Lizzie said. ‘Let’s head towards that place in St Paul’s Square, and if we find anything with so much as a window-sill to park our glasses on, we stop there.’
‘Sounds good,’ agreed Kate, loathing the whole thing. Loud, laddish laughter seemed somehow even more unlovely in the street than in a bar. It was is if the hilarity had to be inflicted on the world, not just fellow drinkers, and if you were simply making your quiet way home, your very sobriety made you less of a person.
In the event, they found a pub in the business area where they could not only drink, but drink inside.
‘My shout,’ Lizzie announced, heading for the bar before either could argue or, indeed, say what they wanted. She turned, drawing a question mark in the air, and seemed unimpressed by the thought of two orange and lemonades.
But she bought one for herself, and crisps for them all. This was not going to be a one-drink evening, was it? And of course, as far as Kate was concerned, there was no reason why it should have been. There was nothing else on the agenda, after all. No need to visit Aunt Cassie, no point waiting in for a call from Graham. She could make a night of it, do a club: except that clubbing seemed so much more the province of the young, not the coming-up-to-thirties. And it was best done in gangs, and not as a loner. God, she’d better sort her social life soon, hadn’t she?
Derek’s was obviously more organised. He was already glancing at his watch. What if he sneaked off and left her tête-à-tête with Lizzie? Forgiving and forgetting this afternoon were not the same at all as enjoying a quiet drink with a friend.
The talk circled round the weather. It was agreed that Derek – still Ben, as far as Lizzie was concerned – was likely to need his rainwear this weekend, on the principle that it always rained at weekends. The gardens needed a drop, anyway.
‘Mine certainly does,’ Kate said. ‘All those poor little things struggling to put out roots, and what does the weather do? It starves them. I’m watering them every night.’
‘Haven’t you got a water-butt?’ Lizzie asked, almost accusingly, as if water would somehow transfer itself by osmosis from the butt to the earth.
‘Emptied that. And I’ve had the first crop from my worms.’
‘Worms! Did you say worms?’ Lizzie demanded.
‘Absolutely. I’ve got a little wormery. I thought it was time I had a pet, if only to get my revenge on my neighbours, for all their cats. So I bought my worms. They’re conversationally challenged, but at least what they do for the garden is useful, unlike the several tons of cat-crap I’ve been shovelling recently.’
‘You don’t like cats, then,’ Lizzie said.
Oh, God! She was probably a patron of the Cats’ Protection League!
‘Don’t get me wrong. I like cats. I love cats. In their homes and in their gardens. We always had a cat at home. There was one that never went outside, and another that insisted on using potted plants as litter-trays. And I loved each and every one. We had a little cats’ cemetery at the far end of the garden.’ If only she could stop talking.
‘I’m a dog man myself,’ Derek said. ‘Basset hounds.’
Of course! That explained the deep frown lines! He’d come to look like his pets!
‘Do you have animals, Lizzie?’
She drained her glass and leant forward. ‘Do you know,’ she began, ‘I’ve always had a yen for a pot-bellied pig …’
So it wasn’t so bad. They’d had only one more drink each, and simply gone their separate ways. Kate toyed with the idea of a barbecue, and was just setting off to get some meat when Zenia, her next-door neighbour, rang the doorbell. Joseph was just lighting theirs, and since Kate would get the smells, it was only fair she got the food too.
It turned out to be a party, organised just like that. And well organised: to get to the garden guests had to go through the kitchen, where they acquired a glass of Joseph’s special punch and a plate and fork. Once in the garden Kate found bowls of salad and rice and peas to accompany wonderful things from the barbecue. This was better than a Friday evening mope. As it got darker, the place was lit by fairy lights and anti-bug candles. There was even dancing indoors.
‘You men – you go and move the furniture,’ Zenia had said.
‘Why not out here?’ someone asked.
‘Because I have to live with my neighbours,’ she said. ‘OK?’
‘Oh, come on—’
‘Look at these houses, cheek by jowl: one person parties today, the rest party tomorrow or the next day. Think of the noise, sweetheart. No, indoors with you all.’
Expecting – well, perhaps the kids’ CDs – Kate got the Cole Porter songbook. And Zenia’s tall, handsome cousin Rafe to dance with, singing along with Ella Fitzgerald.
‘You OK, kid?’ he asked after a while, looking genuinely concerned.
‘I’m sorry. This always makes me want to cry. “I Love Paris” – all those dark minor chords.’
A slight pause. She’d forgotten that not everyone was an occasional church organist.
Rafe asked, ‘And is your love there? In Paris?’
‘He’s dead,’ she said briefly. ‘Car crash.’ What on earth was she thinking about? He was alive and down the road!
‘My girl – she went off,’ he said. ‘Seems to me we could cheer each other up a bit. Let’s find something less mournful.’
‘You’re on.’
‘No shouting, no slamming of doors, no revving, no burning rubber,’ said Zenia, as she kissed everyone goodnight. ‘You’re grown-ups, remember, not kids. And people round here are asleep in their beds. Now what do you think you’re doing, Kate?’
‘What does it look as if I’m doing?’ Kate gathered another clutch of glasses and carried them through into the kitchen.
‘You’re my guest!’
‘And you’re my friend. Many hands and all that.’
It didn’t take them long to get the place back into shape. Zenia pointed to the kettle. ‘You deserve a coffee. Or,’ she added, winking hugely, ‘what I’d prefer, this time of night. One of Joseph’s amazing mugs of cocoa. Which he will get us while you tell me how you’re going on. And that Aunt Cassie of yours …’
They were halfway down their cocoa when Zenia said, ‘Rafe would like to see you again. But I said I wasn’t sure if you were ready … Hello, what have I said? Hey, you’ve got yourself a man already!’
Kate shook her head. It would be such a relief to chew everything over with someone, especially someone not remotely connected with the police. Well, it could only be with someone not remotely connected with the police. But she’d had a lot of that punch, and couldn’t risk, even with Zenia, being indiscreet.
‘So if my Rafe asked you out, you might go?’ Zenia’s face lit up. ‘He’s a great guy, Kate. He’s – what – thirty-five next birthday. Solicitor. Own place out in Solihull. Plays tennis like Arthur Ashe. And cook – can that man cook! Shall I tell him, go ahead, ask you?’
Kate bit her lip.
Zenia looked her hard in the eye. ‘Come on, Kate, why not?’
‘It’s just that …’ She tailed off, shaking her head, at last looking away in embarrassment.
‘Kate, are you telling me you’ve got problems because he’s black?’
She shook her head again. ‘Can we talk about it in the morning Zenia? He’s really nice, really sexy. It’s not him and his blackness that worries me. It’s me.’ She heaved herself to her feet.
Zenia got up too, and hugged her. ‘You have got things on your mind, haven’t you? Well, I’d guess one of them is that guy I’ve seen at your place a couple of times. About forty – looks, for all he’s good-looking, a bit like my old headmaster. Like –’ she hunched her shoulders – ‘like he’s tired. Or stressed. No, I’ve said nothing to anyone, not even to Joseph. I’ll tell you for why: that man’s got “married” written all over him.’