Make Sadie smile – tick. Blitz Asda – tick. Clean loo – tick. World peace – tick. OK, she’d lied about the last bit. Bev gave a lopsided smile. Truth to tell she felt a bit of a smug-pants. Barely nine o’clock and she was in her onesie, feet up on the settee, large Pinot in one hand, baccy in the other and in the background, Ol’ Blue Eyes begging her to fly away with him. Baby steps maybe, but she was as near to normal, if not chilled, as she’d come in a while.
Might be the wine, of course. She curved a lip, took another sip. No. The mood was more down to getting the first week back at work under her belt. There’d been the odd hiccough, but on the whole getting stuck in again had been just the … job. Apart from grounding her and giving her something to focus on, in the last day or two she’d found herself going for as long as an hour without thinking about the big man. Soon, maybe, she’d be able to read another of his letters.
She stubbed the ciggie out in a tinfoil dish swimming with greasy red sauce and shoved the last chunk of naan in her mouth. Give her a break. She’d done the shopping, couldn’t be arsed to cook as well. At best, Bev was into low cuisine; she had a way to go before reaching her peak. She’d go upstairs soon, though, get that early night – once the bloating from the chicken vindaloo had gone down. Best clear away the mess first and spray some air freshener, or Frankie would have her guts for G-strings. Bev’s grin morphed into a grimace at the vision that prompted. Not one to hold.
Where was the wine bottle? The bread needed washing down. She raised her glass to Sinatra who was now on the sunny side of the street. ‘Cheers, Frank.’ She lay down, rested her head, hummed a few bars and closed her eyes for just …
‘Thanks a fucking bunch, friend.’
Bev shot up then so wished she hadn’t. Talk about a rude awakening. She swung her legs down from the settee. Not a dream, then. Frankie still stood there, hands on hips, metaphorical guns smoking, dark eyes blazing. ‘What the hell did you think you were playing at?’
‘Sorry, mate, I must’ve dropped off.’ And landed on her head? She rubbed her eyes. According to her watch she’d been out nigh on three hours.
‘Don’t “mate” me. The least you could’ve done—’
‘Hold it right there, buster. Anyone’d think this is your pad.’ She started stacking the dirty trays. ‘I fully intended clearing—’
‘D’you really think I give a flying fart about the mess you create?’ She knocked the trays out of Bev’s hands. ‘Daisy’s missing. I’m her godmother. Nat’s an old friend and I get to hear it on the news like everyone else. Why the hell didn’t you call me?’
Bev narrowed her eyes. ‘I guess I was too busy trying to find her.’ Still seething, she stood and more than matched Frankie’s glare. ‘And say I’d told you, what would you have done, sister?’
‘What I’ve been doing since I heard. Been at the house with Nat. I’ve just left him, he’s in pieces.’
She shrugged. Daisy got Bev’s sympathy vote. Especially after Rayne’s rash threat.
Frankie folded her arms. ‘You don’t give a toss about him, do you?’
‘Tell you what concerns me more?’ She took a step closer. ‘That when we get to Daisy she’ll still be in one piece.’
Frankie’s olive skin turned white. ‘You callous bitch.’
A step too far, then, but Bev had never known when to stop digging. ‘Sticks and stones, babe.’ Plus a stinging slap. Bev stroked her fingers down her left cheek. ‘That frigging hurt, Perlagio.’
‘Tough.’ Frankie’s eyes glistened with tears. ‘She’s a tiny baby. How could you say a thing like that? How do you live with yourself, Bev?’
‘Easy. Hop it. Now.’ She held out a palm. ‘And I’ll have the keys before you go.’
‘Too right.’ She dangled a keyring, then dropped it into Bev’s makeshift ashtray. ‘But don’t flatter yourself, honey. I only came back to grab a few things.’
‘Are you staying with Rayne?’ Could be useful, that.
Frankie snorted. ‘Don’t even go there. I’m not your sodding snout. Do your own dirty work.’ She tilted her head at the table. ‘It’s one thing you are good at.’ The Indian fallout spoke for itself.
‘Sorry. Are you still here?’
Frankie clomped round upstairs as Bev restacked the trays, then ferried the lot through to the kitchen. Lip curled, she scraped the remains into the bin. Said it all, really. She glanced at the ceiling: stomp, stomp, bang, slam – could the woman make more noise? Keep it down for Christ’s sake. Talk about overreacting. Maybe Bev could’ve phrased her concern about Daisy better, but at least she hadn’t flung out the stats on child murders: one a week in England and Wales; most at risk, nippers under twelve months. Abductions by strangers on the rise, getting on for three hundred a year at the last count. And it was people like Bev who had to deal with the aftermath. Stick that in your pipe, Perlagio.
She lit a baccy, leaned against the sink. From now on she’d smoke wherever she damn well pleased. Frankie could go nag some other sucker.
So how come Bev felt like shit? The Morriss mouth needed a restraining order, that’s why. No. Not this time. Frankie had started it, kicking off like that. And had the Italian expressed one word of sympathy for Sadie? Or asked Bev why she hadn’t come home last night? Had she thump. Actually, she had. Bev’s hand went to her cheek. It still felt tender.
She took a quick drag, doused the butt under the tap and flapped a hand round. Not that it had anything to do with twinkle-toes’ descent. The ostentatious sniff from the hall told Bev the wafting hadn’t worked anyway.
‘I’m off.’ Frankie appeared in the doorway with a rucksack the size of Wales. ‘I’ll get the rest when I can.’
‘Whatevs.’
‘I shouldn’t have slapped you. Sorry.’ She could try sounding it. ‘You asked for it, though.’
Bev stared at her phone. ‘Toodle-pip.’
‘Oh, by the way.’ She popped her head back. ‘I was supposed to give you a message.’
That perked her up a tad. ‘From Rayne?’
‘Nah. Oz Khan.’
‘Can go fornicate.’
‘Fair enough. Ciao.’
Hey! Bev caught up with her at the front door. ‘So, give.’
‘And?’ Frankie raised an eyebrow.
‘Please.’
‘Nothing heavy.’ She hefted the holdall, held out a scrap of paper. ‘He just wants to talk. With your gob, that should be right up your street.’
Sunny side? Maybe not.